In Which You May Giggle

Posted on 4/19/2006 by cheesefairy

This photo of Saint Aardvark makes me laugh hysterically. Perhaps it will do for you as well.

As well, here is my view from above these days:

“The [feet are] far away…

(About 93 million miles away, and that’s why [they] look[s] so small.)”

Posted in babby, funny | 3 Comments

It’s not All I Eat, Really.

Posted on 4/16/2006 by cheesefairy

Yesterday I ate the most spectacularly bad hot dog. I know – after Friday’s “What’s the Food in your Cupboard?/How Hungry Are you, Really?” Mash-Up, why would I need more compressed, nitrate-ridden edibles? Well, we went to Westminster Quay.

Yes, I know NOW that you shouldn’t go there.

In Vancouver, as a port city, we have waterfront markets. Granville Island, on the west side of Vancouver, is the most fleh one, despite the rats. It faces downtown and the west end, is a short Aquabus away from the English Bay beaches, it features an open-air marketplace full of fresh foods and good smells, as well as a lot of places to sit and drink coffee and eat pie. There are also many surrounding shops filled with artisanal goods and services, an art college and store and lots of buskers. And a theatre. And a pretty good bar.

Then there’s Lonsdale Quay, which is on the North Shore and faces Burrard Inlet. A short Seabus ride away from downtown and an equally short landbus ride away from the mountains. It’s the same sort of idea with the open-air market & good smells, but it’s all enclosed in a big 2-storey building.

Then we come to Westminster Quay, best described, perhaps, as The Nice Try That Time Forgot. Westminster Quay overlooks the mighty and fragrant Fraser River. It is a fairly long Skytrain ride from anywhere and then there is an overpass (featuring! many! stairs!) to cross that takes you over the train tracks and into the Quay Building. I had not been to WQ in years. Many many years. SA had never been there at all.

We entered by the upstairs door. First, of course, I peed. It’s how I greet all buildings these days.

On our way through the upstairs, we passed a scarf store (only $5!) and a bookstore, one of those ones that sells Books About Cooking and Books About Pets and Books About Golf and they are all made in the same factory by the people who know how to compile magazine articles into books? And they all cost $5! Across the hall, there was a “Clearance Section” for this non-book bookstore. We did not browse.

(however: great used bookstore on Columbia St. called Booktown where I bought a book called “Seed: A novel of Birth Control” published in 1930 and written by Charles G. Norris. From the jacket:
It is the story of Bart, who felt that he could not support any more children and of Peggy, the wife he loved, who did not believe in birth control and of their separation because they could not continue living together with that problem unsolved. It is the story of Father Francis, the saintly priest who observed gently: ” A better name for birth control would be birthless indulgence.” It is the story of Dr. Josh Carter who said: “Unless birth control is stopped among the upper classes, and its use legalized among the lower classes, the best part of okur population will die off and the country will be overrun by incompetents and morons.”)

On to downstairs, where one usually finds the food in a public market. The first shop that emerged from the dimness (is it ambience? did the quay not pay their bills? who knows) was Quay Quality Turkey. It was a display case full of turkey products, staffed by a woman who was sitting down on a stool, reading a book and talking on the phone at the same time. Then there was a chocolate place, doing a brisk business, then “More Cheese Please” or something, where the display case contained two or three pieces of all the same kinds of cheese you can get at the grocery store. And some sausage. Around the corner, there was a place that sold pies. And a florist and a “Taste of Africa” clothing store and a store with crystal spinning figurines.

All in all, depressing as hell.

What should have made us run for the exits, though, was a folding table right at the bottom of the staircase when we came down from up, where two men sat with some brochures. They were Scientologists, doing free energy readings. On our way out, there was a man actually having an e-reading done, with an e-meter! He clutched a tin can in each hand with wires that extended to somewhere (the e-meter reader I guess) and was talking earnestly to the Scientologist about his life. At least now they both have someone to talk to, I guess.

Despite all of this, I was hungry. There was a place selling breakfast, a pub (The Paddlewheeler, which apparently is not so horrible, and was where Cher the Psychic was taking her break according to the sign at Cher the Psychic’s table) and a place called Tugboat Annie’s where, the sign claimed, We Have Mexican! But We still Have Great Hot Dogs! So I ordered a Mexican Hot Dog. I think it was $3.

It was brown. It was a brown not found in nature. It looked like this. It rested on a bed of lettuce, under which the nice lady at Tugboat Annie’s had smeared some salsa. To recap: white bun, salsa, shredded lettuce, brown hot dog. The end.

I was very disappointed, but also very hungry. SA helpfully offered, “Some German hot dogs are that colour.” I was not convinced, as this was not a wurst. This was a hot dog. I am 32 years old and I know what hot dogs are supposed to look like. This monstrosity had no mustard, no ketchup, no relish, no NOTHING just lettuce and salsa. No cheese or even cheese sauce! To be fair, she had been about to douse it in sour cream when I stopped her. But – lettuce, salsa and sour cream does not make a Mexican hot dog. (bear with me – I know there’s no such thing as a Mexican hot dog.)

It tasted bad – not rotten, just bad. SA had a bite and said, “I’m sorry. That is the worst hot dog ever. I don’t think you should be able to do things like that to hot dogs.”

And he will eat anything.

On the bright side, it was very, very hot, so no fear of listeria (best pronounced like Def Leppard, “Lysteria! When you’re near!”) – the reason preggos are not supposed to eat hot dogs. (Wow I just learned that my immune system is suppressed now that I’m in the 3rd trimester. Holy crap I’m in the 3rd trimester!)

The best part was that 2, 10 and 20 minutes later I was still hungry, as though my body said, “Oh no you didn’t. That is NOT going to the stomach. We’re just going to put it over here for a while, maybe in the pancreas, till we figure out what to do with it.”

Incidentally, this is so wrong and I’m sorry I ever performed an image search for hot dog. I will never eat, search for or mention hot dogs ever again. Forever ever.

Posted in babby, food, outside | 3 Comments

Nothing is Perfect

Posted on 4/15/2006 by cheesefairy

A concerned reader sent me this email:

“I read this on your blog

“then make a mad dash to get dressed, dripping water through the house and collapsing, panting, on the bed because it’s a straight uphill climb to where my clothes are.”

Do you not have a shower in the ensuite bathroom?

curious on St. Joe”

Dear Curious:

I wasn’t going to tell the story of the ensuite bathroom shower because I wanted to choose carefully the things about which I whine and complain, lest I become known as one of those “whiny complainy” people. Because really: all things considered, life is pretty damn good. Babby on the way; jobs that pay well enough to buy a townhouse; townhouse; fairly smooth move that is now over.

But since you asked.

When I saw the townhouse the first and only time before moving in, I was entranced by the ensuite bathroom and its shower stall. It’s glass-walled and hexagonal, with a magnetic door closure. It had a lovely looking shower head as well; large and powerful looking. I held on to this idea of the shower for the 6 weeks between purchase and possession. I packed a special bag with showering supplies, to be the bag of first response on moving in, because showers are very important to me. I like them hot, hard and lengthy.

Ahem.

After we’d moved in, Saint Aardvark actually ended up taking the first shower. He had been helping the movers and was far sweatier than me, plus it had been raining all day. I had been in the kitchen, warming my toes at the under-sink heating vent (see? BLESSED we are) so I figured he could go first. He showered without comment and we ate our pizza and then, before collapsing into bed, I decided I would shower as well.

“Um, so,” said SA.
“Yessss,” I said, towel over arm, mid-step into the bathroom.
“The shower…it’s not ideal.”
I stopped in my tracks. “What do you mean?”
“Well, the shower head? First of all, he took the big shower head with him….”
I went into the bathroom and looked. Sure enough, there was a small, normal shower head where the previous one had been. Fair enough – probably this was the shower head that came with the place. I didn’t want previous-owner-asshat man’s shower head anyway.
“OK,” I said.
“So, the thing is,” hemmed SA, “the thing is that the shower head kind of points directly at the shower door?”
“Uh huh…”
“And so, it’s kind of tricky, to y’know, get in…”

The problem is two-fold.

Fold Number One: The water control is one lever, meaning you go from OFF to HOT in one big whirl around the dial. There is no tub, so there is no letting the water heat up while it runs from a tap and then pulling the little plug thingee to make it shower. It just showers cold until it warms up, which doesn’t happen immediately, nor should it.
however:
Fold Number Two: The non-adjustable shower head does, indeed, point directly at the shower door, or, as logic will have it, directly into the bathroom if the shower door is open. Which it will be if you are turning on the water. Because how else are you going to grab the lever? By putting your hand through the glass?

What ensues is a cold shower (perhaps while you are still clothed!) as a little treat before you actually get IN the shower.

Able to see this chain of events but unable to control myself, I opened the shower door and cranked the water up to HOT. It sprayed COLD right at me. I yelled and slammed the shower door shut, my toes in a puddle on the bathroom floor. I stared through the shower door at the water as it ran and became hotter. Steam began to form. I was paralyzed with indecision. I stood some more. I said, loudly, “This is the stupidest fucking thing I have EVER SEEN.” Saint Aardvark grunted his agreement from his position on the bed. I eventually took off my clothes, opened the door and jumped in the shower, all as quickly as I could, but still could not avoid having the shower baptize our bathroom.

Needless to say, this shower did not relax me. It did, however, get me and the bathroom clean.

The following day, on a big expedition in our rental car, we bought a shower head at this huge, modern Canadian Tire right on the highway. The shower head had a big, shiny silver effect and an adjustable arm. I didn’t care, though. I was not showering in that shower ever again. EVER! DO YOU HEAR ME? I sulkily moved all my bathroom whatnot down to the second floor bathroom. I had a lovely bath there (which I was able to get out of), then a shower to follow up & rinse off the grit. This is when I discovered the problem with the second shower. Also two-fold.

Fold Number One: Of course, this shower is above a bath so has the tap/shower option. But when you pull the switch to go from tap to shower, the shower makes a high-pitched squealing noise. Like Deliverance or the beginning of the Snoop Dogg song where he goes “sneeeeeooooooooooooooop!” Like that. You have to toggle the water control further towards cold for a minute, then back to hot, to sort of convince the shower that “hot” is not “bad,” that “hot” can be “good.” Do I have the time or inclination to coddle a shower? No, I do not.

Fold Number Two: Once you’ve settled with the shower on just what constitutes quiet and hot, you realize: the water coming out of the shower is obviously meant for someone who has no skin and who cries watching “Starting Over.” Because if it was meant for someone who wanted to say, GET CLEAN, then the force of the water would necessarily be stronger than your average 6 week Vancouver drizzle.

If a shower is hot, hard and lengthy, I will become clean, invigorated and relaxed. If a shower is the equivalent of someone tapping me on the shoulder and whispering, “hey? hey? how’s it going? hey?” then I will become ENRAGED.

We put the new Canadian Tire super shiny shower head on the second floor shower, which took care of the squealing but increased the surface area of the water even more so that the Vancouver drizzle effect turned into more of a person-who-spits-when-he-talks effect. Ask my co-workers how cranky I was.

On Tuesday after work I tried to buy a new shower head downtown. Sears, the Bay and London Drugs all laughed in my face.

On Wednesday during work I googled for shower heads. I liked this one the best
because life is too short for bad showers. I suspect it is also too long for me to spend $85 on a shower head by mail, but whatever. German engineering, etc.

On Thursday after work, because we have no car so cannot travel to the Home Depot or Rona or Superstore to properly select a shower head, I tried the Canadian Tire across from our house, which has a very old-school vibe to it; narrow isles crammed with stuff, only one till, the fabulous smell of motor oil and rubber. I didn’t have much hope for its shower head selection but miraculously, I found no fewer than 10 shower heads to choose from. New-school is not always better. I bought one for $6.99 and the squealing is now back, but there is an “ass pounding” setting (SA’s words), a wimpy drizzle setting and a normal, how-about-we-saturate-your-hair-with-water-in-less-than-30-minutes setting, so I’m happy.

If the worst thing that happens is I start the day -every day- with Snoop Dogg in my head? That’s not the worst thing that can happen.

And the ensuite shower and whoever designed it can bite my fat behind.

Love,
Cheesefairy.

Posted in | 6 Comments

A Good, Healthy Appetite. That’s what I’ve Got.

Posted on 4/14/2006 by cheesefairy

Day one of four-day weekend! Oh blifful, blifful days are these. Today I kicked things off with some laundry and some ‘net surfing. I had a long shower which didn’t have to be interrupted by the realization that I am now on a schedule where I have to catch a bus. (…then make a mad dash to get dressed, dripping water through the house and collapsing, panting, on the bed because it’s a straight uphill climb to where my clothes are. Though it turns out all those dashes were really just practice: the other day, we actually RAN FOR THE BUS. A full block. I intend to hold this as my get-out-of-exercise-free card for possibly the next 10 years.)

Then I had some rather crack-addled lunch. You go ahead and be the judge – is this crazy pregnant food or is this just creative-use-of-the-kind-of-food-I-had-in-the-house-on-a-statutory-holiday food:

Immersion d’haricot

1 can black eyed peas
1 fresh red chili pepper
1 onion
2 cloves garlic
1 tbsp tomato paste
some dribbles of olive oil
salt
1 weiner, sliced thickly.
several slices cheddar cheese

– preheat oven to 400 C
– blend 1st 7 ingredients with hand mixer until smooth.
– pour into small bread loaf pan (such as in previous post’s photo of bread loaves).
– stir in weiner slices.
– lay slices of cheese on top.
– bake uncovered for approximately 1/2 hour or until mixture begins to actually rise in pan with the excitement of it all.

Serve with tortilla chips (as a dip) or spread on whole wheat toast.

(I tried it both ways; my chips were stale so I went with the toast)

Very tasty and satisfying. Tomorrow we buy groceries. At the very least, fresh chips.

But for tonight I was searching the internet for delivery food in New Westminster. This website was quite helpful. It led me to the Royal Tandoori Restaurant which claims as its own one “Mango Butter Chicken.” Rest assured, this will be my dinner tonight. Well, assuming Saint Aardvark doesn’t feel like pizza.

Alas, there is no website for The Thirsty Duck pub at the corner of 6th ave and 12th street. But I go by every day on the bus, drawn drooling to its promise of beer and glow in the dark bowling.

Thanks, Clarke County Fair in Iowa.

The restaurant listing page also led me to The Old Bavaria Haus, where Schnitzel Wednesdays, apparently, continue! How can I have never considered schnitzel? Just look at this list of schnitzels! Oh Wednesday, you cannot come soon enough.

Posted in babby, food | 4 Comments

This is for Y’all with Styrofoam Phobias

Posted on 4/10/2006 by cheesefairy

Last week, as mentioned, SA had a terrible flu. Luckily, our new couch arrived on Monday so he could test it out and get it all germy. I got an email from him when I was at work, said something like:

“Ogod. Tomorrow on ‘Tyra Show’ – people who are afraid of clowns. I am totally recording this.”

I laughed, because surely he was feverish and would not do such a dirty, dirty thing.

Last night we watched the episode – one of a series about conquering phobias – where Tyra helped people face their fears of clowns, garden gnomes, ovens and styrofoam. Seems like in a previous show, Miss Tyra conquered her own dolphin fear and so wants to help America with the knowledge she has gained. The best part was when Tyra put prizes in the feared objects so that the people would be incented to dig on through their fears. (The psychologist consultant sat in the audience, gritting her teeth.)

The styrofoam lady had to dig through a closet full of styrofoam peanuts to get to a diamond necklace; (with a ruby on the other side of the pendant – for luck!) the garden gnome lady had to turn over a bunch of garden gnomes and find the one with the “Tyra” sticker to claim her trip to Ireland (too bad she had attributed her phobia to the trauma of watching ‘Leprechaun’ when she was 6 years old) and the girl afraid of ovens had to put cookies in an oven and take them out when they were done. Her reward was a trip to South Beach, which I’m told is the blingiest bling bling of it all. Bling.

There were two people afraid of clowns. Tyra went real in-depth with them. She brought out three clowns to do their things; unicycle, horn blowing, balloon twisting. Then she showed footage of one of the clowns (Laughy-pants. That was his name.) putting on his makeup, to show he was a real person, y’all. Then the clowns came back out and sat next to the phobic people on the couch and talked to them. Told them stories. Watched them twitch and sweat for a good 2 minutes.

And their prize? 4 tickets to the Barnum & Bailey Circus. Fuck you, Miss Tyra.

********

We got one of these on the weekend, for the cost of our returned damage deposit and the remains of a gift card, so basically, for free!:

and I made these with it.

And it was all deeply, deeply satisfying.

Posted in television | 3 Comments