The Christmas List

The following is a list of things which Husband has thrown forcibly off the back deck after declaring (and I'm paraphrasing here) that the airborne item in question was useless.

1. A sewing machine
2. The toaster (on fire)
3. The cooling fan from the fridge-freezer
4. Dog beds
5. A sledge hammer
6. The microwave (also on fire)
7. A canoe
8. Kawasaki KLX-250 motorcycle carburetor
9. A mitre saw
10. Monopoly
11. A pool pump
12.  Our Kirby Upright vacuum (not on fire but close)
13. The cordless phone ('It was beeping')
14. Cell phone ('I can't get it to beep')
15. A Christmas tree
16. His iPhone     

She's Right Behind Me, Isn't She?

Things Mother-in-Law Has Said To Me

 That Make Me Think 

She Might Be Messing With My Head

1. Reflecting on Husbands' tendency to utterly obliterate inanimate objects, trees, small outbuildings and bedrock when frustrated:  "He gets his temper from me."
2. After reading the rules for my 'Zombies!!!' game ("...be the first player to reach the center square of the helipad tile, kill the zombie there and escape the advancing zombie horde.") : "Sounds like Checkers."
3. "Welcome to the family."

Mother-in-Law is a lovely woman and I am not just saying that because she is standing right behind me with a frying pan.

You Can Really Taste The Spite

December 23, 2011.  4:00 PM.  ETA For The Big C: 32 hours and counting.

Pausing at the front entrance to the biggest grocery store in the valley, I took in the scene.  Every shelf had 'SALE!' blazoned across it.  Aggressively cheerful Christmas 'Muzak' was barely audible over the din of voices as crowds of people bustled about pushing shopping carts overflowing with Brussels sprouts, bags of chips and screaming children.  Ah, Christmas.

Normally I wouldn't dream of being anywhere near a shopping centre this close to a major food holiday but I had left it to the last minute to purchase my Christmas dinner supplies, namely the turkey.  I was expecting guests for dinner and they would likely expect to be fed.  So I gradually made my way to the poultry section at back of the store, only occasionally forced to employ my cart as battering ram when the crowds closed in around me.  

Staring into the bin of fresh birds, their naked little backs all goose-pimply (turkey-pimply?) and exposed, I was briefly struck with the urge to be a vegetarian again, if only to avoid having to touch turkey neck, the grossest part of the whole business.  Turkey neck is disgusting and only dads who like to trick their children out of choicer scraps while carving enjoy making a reversely psychological fuss about gristle and stringy tendons.

'...six, maybe eight people for dinner at 1/2 pound of uncooked bird per person plus extra for leftovers and soup...' I did turkey math in my head as I dug down through the embarrassingly naked pile of 'young, fresh turkeys.'  I wouldn't need a very big one so I rummaged for the best deal.  At the very bottom of the cooler I came across two of the biggest birds I had ever seen.  Think prehistoric.  Think ostrich.  Think too large for my small needs, unless I invited the rest of my street.  I turned the biggest of the pair around in my hands, it was very nearly the size of my oven.

It was a that point that the unnoticed woman next to me spoke up.

'Oh, you don't want that one.  That's too big.  You'd be better off with one or two of the smaller ones,' she said as she actually began reaching for the bird under my hands.

Our eyes met and narrowed as we each took in our enemy.  She was small, with perfect hair cut short in the no-nonsense style of a busy mom who is organized and on schedule and here I was, in her way and sipping a latte, while I was shopping.  And I was touching her  perfect Christmas dinner.

With a big cheery smile and a bit of a grunt I heaved that 24 pound dead carcass into my cart and wheeled it away as she seethed.  Over my shoulder I laughingly remarked that since there was only my hubby and I for dinner, we were sure going to get a lot of soup out of  it.  I like to think I made her swear but I couldn't hear her over the sound of my heartbeat ringing in my ears as I struggled to nonchalantly push my now ridiculously heavy cart.

I have never bought a turkey out of spite before.  It was wonderful and the five people I fed for dinner agreed.  We each ate about 1/2 pound of delicious, spiteful turkey.  That leaves 21 pounds of leftovers.  I am open to new recipe ideas and, incidentally, also looking to rent some freezer space if anyone has any to spare.

The Road To Hell

With the best of intentions... I went back to Costco.  I went there to purchase a specific item for a friend who needed to smile and this item could only be found.... at Costco.  I realise how ridiculous that sounds; that an item would only be available at Costco. Don't forget that I live on a tiny island on the edge of Canada so when it comes to huge box stores selling large quantities of mass-produced consumer goods, I only have one option.

I was in the store to buy one gift and get out as I wanted no repeats of The Muffin Incident.  I maintained a careful distance from all of the shiny Things and Stuff and went straight to the stack I needed.  Then, on the way out via the rest of the entire store, the friend upon who's card I was piggy-backing took me through the wretched cheese aisle and I felt my resolve begin to weaken.  Surely any corporation who understands how expensive dairy is here in BC, and can give it away for free to customers with no demand for purchase after sampling, surely such a corporation must have merit.  Must have a soul.  Maybe I was wrong.  Maybe I should give them another chance and truck loads of my money?

Wonderful items sang their beckoning songs from the mile-high shelves.  Magic Bullets and Android phones and cheap books.  Televisions and socks and speakers, oh my. I felt like Julie Andrews on a Swiss hilltop, twirling with joyous abandon through aisle upon aisle of natty Christmas ornaments and bulk bags of cotton balls.

Until once again I found myself at the check-out line, this time under the intense scrutiny of the Captain of the Costco Schutzstaffel,  Herr Creepy Von Floor Manager.


'No, you may not see my ID. No, I am not a member.  I am here with my very good friend who was simply dying to buy this small gift item but who seems to have forgotten her wallet which is a plausible explanation for why she seems to be paying with my bank card.  And may I just say thank you, Herr,  for helping me to reach a decision about a great moral dilemma with which I had been struggling.'

Snowshoes and The Sound Of Screams

I loved to snowshoe as a child, using the big round beaver tail shoes made of wood and sinew.  I remember tromping along behind Dad as he broke trail ahead, my little shoes leaving perfect waffle iron miniatures inside his larger prints, our tracks stretching out behind us over bright rolling fields sparkling in the winter sun.  Still, I wasn't very coordinated as a child, and our treks were never without a certain amount of time spent, on Dad's part, hiking back to where I was laying face down in the snow, unable to stand up or even flip over.  Dad likely recalls those trips very differently, probably with more whining and less idealism.


Husband and I went snowshoeing yesterday. It has changed quite a bit since I was a girl.  The snowshoes Husband brought with us were high-tech fabrications of polycarbonate and plastic, shaped more like an otter's tail than that of a beaver.   I had tried them out the year before and my disdain for their new-fangledness had faded the moment I took a step and did not immediately tread on my own feet, forcing a face plant into the ground.  Could it really be true? Was there actually a winter sport out there that involved strapping something to my feet and not dying?


I know what you're thinking and you are right to ask.  Where did Husband take me for the first snowshoe of the season?  

I looked up from the shiny, Tam-friendly snowshoes, to the trail ahead.  To the trail high ahead.  The mountain trail.  Forbidden Plateau, the abandoned ski hill with creepy burned out shacks and the forlorn chairlift frozen forever, mid cycle, it's empty seats swaying lonely and lost in the fog.  


Yes, fog. 


We hiked straight up for two hours past empty buildings, gutted and charred and totally not as thoroughly creepy as you would think due to the jolly snowman someone had constructed out front.  

Not creepy in any way

At the very top of the old ski run we climbed a rickety wooden Ramp To Nowhere to get a good look at the dense wall of fog completely obscuring the panoramic view.  It's okay, though because it was a wonderful day and the hike up on the fancy shoes was loads of fun.  


The hike down was an hour of hell and tumbling resulting in a pulled groin muscle, two lost ski skins, a broken ski pole, a slight concussion, my invention of the worlds first Snowshoe Toboggan and the discovery of nearly every tree pit and hidden gully on the mountain side. I can't wait to get back up there next weekend and do it all again!

The Never Ending Story

It will interest you all to note that Husband, the shine on my apple, the sprinkles on my coffee, the whiz in my cheeze, has once again... broken the iPhone screen.  
He swears this is what happened:

Spank Me If I'm Lying

I've been dedicated  to attending the gym and to not vomiting at the sight of my running shoes.  I have been taking a daily multivitamin which turns the 5 liters of water I rent from the good people at Dasani a vibrant and healthy green colour.  With Husband's support I am eating more like a cave person and less like Buddy the Elf.  I have even given up cream in my coffee.   I've trimmed, buffed, polished and agreed to something with wax that should be outlawed in every province. 


And despite all this and my insistence that I am doing it all for Future Tam and not for any body image related reasons which have nothing to do with the fact that Husband's work Christmas party is tomorrow...  


... I bought a pair of Spanx yesterday.  


If I'm going to fake delight at being in room filled with incredibly fit people who wouldn't know cellulite if it sat down and ate their dinner; if I am to lie about my hair colour, height, the length of my eyelashes and the colour of my fingernails and if I have to do it sober because Husband assures me that paleolithic people did not drink vodka water... then I am going to do whatever it takes to shimmy into the incredibly whore-y dress I bought for this very occasion.  


More to follow on a.) How I was able to get into the Spanx without a helper-monkey and b.) if I can find a Paleo-friendly shooter.  I suspect there has to be one out there, probably with rocks in it. (Ba dum-bump)