Here's my fair warning ... this entry is slightly more personal, centering around leg waxing (although there are no gory details per se). I would say it would be slightly more interesting to my female reader(s). Those not wanting to read further may stop here. See you next year!
Vacation prep...it always consumes my mind for about a month before we go. At least for the bigger trips. So this year, since my mind was not especially filled with exciting work things, I was really focused on the vacation planning. Well that and Christmas presents. But with nothing else consuming my mind I decided about a month ago (since we are going to sunnier climes), I would try leg waxing for the first time.
I am fairly new to the waxing fad that is currently consuming women. Let's just leave it at that. But I hate shaving every day or every other day when I'm on a vacation in which I am wearing a bathing suit every day. It's a pain... It seemed to just make perfect sense to get them waxed.
So back in early December I started growing out my leg hair to the acceptable waxing length. The first week went by without incident, and week 2 rolled around (and this will come as a real shocker to those who knew me in high school and college) and I COULD NOT stand it. The hair was long, itchy, etc... I'm not going to go into details here, but I used to pretty much wait from October until April to shave so this reaction of mine was a surprise even to me. I was very ready to abort the mission but I stayed the course.
Every day I would count down until my appointment (it was like my own personal Advent calendar). Clean, smooth, legs was all I could think about. And I was planning to get my whole legs done, not just stopping at the knee.
So yesterday was the day, I was so excited (well, as excited as you can be about getting hair ripped out of your body), and then I looked down at my legs. I thought to myself "in the context of leg waxing, my legs are kind of long." and I began to doubt my decision. It seemed like a whole lot of hair coming out.
So I set off for my appointment (after downing 800 mg of motrin), nervous, excited, nervous. I got there and pestered my waxer with questions about the painfulness of the leg waxing. She said that she'd do the lower half first and then I could stop if I wanted to.
I nearly cried the first time she ripped the wax off. And it's not like I've never gotten anything waxed before. Immediately the sweat began pouring from every pore in my body, I was happy I at least remembered that I reacted this way to waxing and wore a short sleeve shirt. 10 painful minutes later was go time on the full leg decision and I voted two very emphatic thumbs down to full leg waxing. I flipped over, and this is the disgusting part, I was sweating so much that the paper on the table was sticking to me. Talk about embarrassing. And I'm not even a person who sweats a lot, even at the gym.
I made it through the rest of the waxing and I cringed when I put my jeans back on. oww...
So, obviously the first thing I did when I got home was put shorts on. Which is when I realized that my legs weren't even smooth. They had that "day AFTER you shave" feeling! Not that "I just got them waxed" feeling I had expected. I'm sure if I were a "regular" then they would have felt great. But I wasn't. That's when I decided I never would be either. I had to go through 3 painful weeks of itchy dry long haired legs, one extremely painful appointment and I'm STILL going to have to shave on vacation (not to mention the money I blew on the appointment itself). Uh-huh, no way, this is one job that I will continue to do myself at my own leisure.
Talk about a crummy commercial.....never ever again. Someone, please point me to this entry when next year the same "good idea" pops into my head. Inevitably it will.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Sauce, good. Soup, bad.
What's better on a cold day (or on a spring-like day in December) than a good cup or bowl of soup? I would argue that there is nothing better. I like most soups, chicken noodle, tomato, chowders, stews, creamy, not so creamy, I'll go for most anything. You can even have cold soups in the summer, melon soup, gazpacho, etc.. It's also a secret way to get in more liquids if you're sick of trying to drink your 8 glasses of water a day for "feeling good, clear skin" and all the other BS. Love 'em all.
Jeff does not agree with this sentiment. After years and years of trying, I had given up on Jeff ever liking soup. I've tried all sorts of different recipes, always thinking that they just weren't tasty or spicy or chunky enough. But I had officially given up. I was done with the soups. I would still make them, but I wouldn't even attempt to serve them to Jeff. (I imagined that if I did put a bowl of soup in front of him, he would react much like Randy in "A Christmas Story" -- and it's just not funny to plan the "little piggy" game with a grown man)
About two months ago we were having a dinner guest over but it was a "school night" and I wouldn't have had enough time to cook dinner after getting home from work. So the only thing that I could think of to make was a stew, because supposedly those "get better if they sit overnight" and so I could make it Sunday night for Monday night dinner. I don't know if it's true, but it would certainly be easy. I didn't care at that point whether or not Jeff would eat it (it was his co-worker, so he could suffer for the cause). I figured he could pick the beef and potatoes out and eat them.
But, to my great surprise, he dug right in to the stew, broth and all. When questioned on this point, he said "this is not soup, this is stew." I understand that things are a bit chunkier in stews, but come on, same thing. So fine, stew was back on Jeff's list of "yes, I'll eat it."
So then, shortly before Thanksgiving I wanted to make my own mini-Thanksgiving dinner. I made a butternut squash soup because it just sounded so darn good and would go great with turkey and all the fixin's. I filled my bowl up to the top and brought Jeff out a salad. He sort of looked longingly at my bowl, as though he was missing out. Everyone knew he would not like it, but I put some in a small little bowl and watched him cringe a bit as he ate it (not because it wasn't good, it was delicious, I would argue one of the best soups I had ever made). He set it aside and filled his plate up with turkey, potatoes and all the good stuff.
I continued enjoying my soup and looked up just in time to see him dumping his entire bowl of soup all over the food on his plate. Classic.
I wasn't exactly sure how to react, but I think my puzzled, smiling, furrowing brow face said it all. To which he replied "soup...bad, but it's great as a sauce." What?! How can it be good on the top of mashed potatoes but not good with a few croutons floating in it? Curried butternut squash soup on top of green bean casserole? But not good on it's own?!
So I told this story to a friend of mine, we agreed that this was crazy and chuckled about it for awhile. She had us over for dinner a few weeks after later and she made us grilled cheese and tomato "sauce."
As long as we referred to it as tomato sauce throughout the dinner, Jeff would eat it. Someone please tell me how funny that is. He doesn't really have an explanation either, except the non-descript "It's a texture thing." Except that the texture doesn't change if you pour it over your turkey or dip your sandwich in it.
Anyways, I've learned to live within Jeff's definition of soup, I'm sorry, I mean sauce. In fact this morning I mentioned that I had asked my mom to send me the recipe for shrimp soup. To which he replied "it's a double whammy" (because he obviously doesn't like soup and he doesn't like shrimp). I quickly backtracked and said that I didn't need to put the shrimp in and that it was actually a chowder. He was relieved and it was then an acceptable menu item for Christmas Eve.
Semantics. It's not a texture thing, it's a semantics thing. I will now refer to anything he doesn't like as something else. You don't like shrimp, well, actually it's salmon that's rolled up to look like a shrimp. No, it's not broccoli, it's actually lettuce bunched up really tightly.
Here's where I want to put my mom's shrimp soup/non-shrimp chowder recipe (a classic in our household), but she hasn't sent it yet. MOM, I'm waiting!!
Jeff does not agree with this sentiment. After years and years of trying, I had given up on Jeff ever liking soup. I've tried all sorts of different recipes, always thinking that they just weren't tasty or spicy or chunky enough. But I had officially given up. I was done with the soups. I would still make them, but I wouldn't even attempt to serve them to Jeff. (I imagined that if I did put a bowl of soup in front of him, he would react much like Randy in "A Christmas Story" -- and it's just not funny to plan the "little piggy" game with a grown man)
About two months ago we were having a dinner guest over but it was a "school night" and I wouldn't have had enough time to cook dinner after getting home from work. So the only thing that I could think of to make was a stew, because supposedly those "get better if they sit overnight" and so I could make it Sunday night for Monday night dinner. I don't know if it's true, but it would certainly be easy. I didn't care at that point whether or not Jeff would eat it (it was his co-worker, so he could suffer for the cause). I figured he could pick the beef and potatoes out and eat them.
But, to my great surprise, he dug right in to the stew, broth and all. When questioned on this point, he said "this is not soup, this is stew." I understand that things are a bit chunkier in stews, but come on, same thing. So fine, stew was back on Jeff's list of "yes, I'll eat it."
So then, shortly before Thanksgiving I wanted to make my own mini-Thanksgiving dinner. I made a butternut squash soup because it just sounded so darn good and would go great with turkey and all the fixin's. I filled my bowl up to the top and brought Jeff out a salad. He sort of looked longingly at my bowl, as though he was missing out. Everyone knew he would not like it, but I put some in a small little bowl and watched him cringe a bit as he ate it (not because it wasn't good, it was delicious, I would argue one of the best soups I had ever made). He set it aside and filled his plate up with turkey, potatoes and all the good stuff.
I continued enjoying my soup and looked up just in time to see him dumping his entire bowl of soup all over the food on his plate. Classic.
I wasn't exactly sure how to react, but I think my puzzled, smiling, furrowing brow face said it all. To which he replied "soup...bad, but it's great as a sauce." What?! How can it be good on the top of mashed potatoes but not good with a few croutons floating in it? Curried butternut squash soup on top of green bean casserole? But not good on it's own?!
So I told this story to a friend of mine, we agreed that this was crazy and chuckled about it for awhile. She had us over for dinner a few weeks after later and she made us grilled cheese and tomato "sauce."
As long as we referred to it as tomato sauce throughout the dinner, Jeff would eat it. Someone please tell me how funny that is. He doesn't really have an explanation either, except the non-descript "It's a texture thing." Except that the texture doesn't change if you pour it over your turkey or dip your sandwich in it.
Anyways, I've learned to live within Jeff's definition of soup, I'm sorry, I mean sauce. In fact this morning I mentioned that I had asked my mom to send me the recipe for shrimp soup. To which he replied "it's a double whammy" (because he obviously doesn't like soup and he doesn't like shrimp). I quickly backtracked and said that I didn't need to put the shrimp in and that it was actually a chowder. He was relieved and it was then an acceptable menu item for Christmas Eve.
Semantics. It's not a texture thing, it's a semantics thing. I will now refer to anything he doesn't like as something else. You don't like shrimp, well, actually it's salmon that's rolled up to look like a shrimp. No, it's not broccoli, it's actually lettuce bunched up really tightly.
Here's where I want to put my mom's shrimp soup/non-shrimp chowder recipe (a classic in our household), but she hasn't sent it yet. MOM, I'm waiting!!
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Rule #1: Respect the imprints
Jeff and I have had numerous conversations in the past few weeks about the subway and commuting to work. The conversation usually goes something like this:
Jeff: It feels like I'm in a cattle car every morning, there's no space and I'm pressed up against strangers.
Me: I don't really notice, I put my headphones in and imagine that I'm in my own personal space.
Jeff: There's no reason to be crammed into small cars and the subway should run more cars more frequently!
Me: Yeah, well it's better than driving. It's not so bad. I can always find a seat after Times Square anyways. Plus there's such thing as a comfortable tightness on the train. It's going to be tight, but you just have to realize that sitting or standing shoulder to shoulder isn't that big of a deal.
Jeff: Hmph. I want my own space. I don't want to feel like an animal for no reason.
Or something to that effect...
So the other day I was going to work, and I'm in training so we start every day at 8:30. This is later than I usually go in, and happens to be the worst commuting time of the morning (or so it seems from my little experience). I leave the apartment at 7:45 and am therefore catching the train between 7:50 and 7:55 (depending on what shoes I'm wearing and how fast I walk to the station), which should normally get me to work by 8:15/8:20 (yes, I'm the big loser that gets to training early -- but there's free breakfast and all the good bagels will be gone quickly).
Being the worst time of the morning to try and catch a train I had to let one train go by because I simply could not get on the train, literally, the doors closed on one guy's coat...nothing else would have fit on that train. Typically though, when a train is that packed there is another one following close behind that usually has fewer people. That was the case on this fine morning. So I get on the next train, and got a seat at Times Square.
So I sit down and open my paper (always the joyous reward for being able to sit is that I can also read the paper). I was feeling most happy because I was on the lesser packed train, had a seat, and could read my paper. Even better was the fact that it was one of the trains with the seat imprints, so it's obvious where the seats are (as opposed to one big long bench). PLUS, the seat on my left was open because the guy two seats down was sitting such that his leg was hanging on the seat next to me. That meant that only an adventurous subway rider would take the seat next to me. I may have even had a smile on my face I was so pleased with my situation. Aah, how quickly the tables turn.
So we head to 34th street and on comes the aforementioned adventurous subway rider. So this particular subway rider would not have normally fit in the space allotted as a "seat" on the subway, and certainly not fit when the guy had his leg hanging over. So, what the adventurous rider does is proceed to sit on me. No, not on my lap, but essentially on my left leg. This prohibited my paper reading as my elbows were now pressed into my rib cage.
Now, as shown through my previous conversations with Jeff, I'd say I have a pretty high tolerance for loss of personal space on the subway, but when someone sits on me? That is where I draw the line. But I couldn't really get up and I didn't really want to either, I was there first. So I rode the next 4 stops with adventurous on top of me and I had to kind of shimmy out of my seat (well, not really, but it was weird getting up).
I am not judging, and adventurous rider probably needed the seat more than I did, and I probably should have gotten up (I usually do), but that's when I decided: Rule #1 on the subway: Respect the (seat) imprints and Rule #2: KNOW YOUR (size) LIMIT! If you don't respect the limits, I am not going to cede my space. If you're not going to fit in a seat without sitting on top of someone else, you're just going to have to wait. Please don't punish the innocent on the bottom of the pile.
Jeff: It feels like I'm in a cattle car every morning, there's no space and I'm pressed up against strangers.
Me: I don't really notice, I put my headphones in and imagine that I'm in my own personal space.
Jeff: There's no reason to be crammed into small cars and the subway should run more cars more frequently!
Me: Yeah, well it's better than driving. It's not so bad. I can always find a seat after Times Square anyways. Plus there's such thing as a comfortable tightness on the train. It's going to be tight, but you just have to realize that sitting or standing shoulder to shoulder isn't that big of a deal.
Jeff: Hmph. I want my own space. I don't want to feel like an animal for no reason.
Or something to that effect...
So the other day I was going to work, and I'm in training so we start every day at 8:30. This is later than I usually go in, and happens to be the worst commuting time of the morning (or so it seems from my little experience). I leave the apartment at 7:45 and am therefore catching the train between 7:50 and 7:55 (depending on what shoes I'm wearing and how fast I walk to the station), which should normally get me to work by 8:15/8:20 (yes, I'm the big loser that gets to training early -- but there's free breakfast and all the good bagels will be gone quickly).
Being the worst time of the morning to try and catch a train I had to let one train go by because I simply could not get on the train, literally, the doors closed on one guy's coat...nothing else would have fit on that train. Typically though, when a train is that packed there is another one following close behind that usually has fewer people. That was the case on this fine morning. So I get on the next train, and got a seat at Times Square.
So I sit down and open my paper (always the joyous reward for being able to sit is that I can also read the paper). I was feeling most happy because I was on the lesser packed train, had a seat, and could read my paper. Even better was the fact that it was one of the trains with the seat imprints, so it's obvious where the seats are (as opposed to one big long bench). PLUS, the seat on my left was open because the guy two seats down was sitting such that his leg was hanging on the seat next to me. That meant that only an adventurous subway rider would take the seat next to me. I may have even had a smile on my face I was so pleased with my situation. Aah, how quickly the tables turn.
So we head to 34th street and on comes the aforementioned adventurous subway rider. So this particular subway rider would not have normally fit in the space allotted as a "seat" on the subway, and certainly not fit when the guy had his leg hanging over. So, what the adventurous rider does is proceed to sit on me. No, not on my lap, but essentially on my left leg. This prohibited my paper reading as my elbows were now pressed into my rib cage.
Now, as shown through my previous conversations with Jeff, I'd say I have a pretty high tolerance for loss of personal space on the subway, but when someone sits on me? That is where I draw the line. But I couldn't really get up and I didn't really want to either, I was there first. So I rode the next 4 stops with adventurous on top of me and I had to kind of shimmy out of my seat (well, not really, but it was weird getting up).
I am not judging, and adventurous rider probably needed the seat more than I did, and I probably should have gotten up (I usually do), but that's when I decided: Rule #1 on the subway: Respect the (seat) imprints and Rule #2: KNOW YOUR (size) LIMIT! If you don't respect the limits, I am not going to cede my space. If you're not going to fit in a seat without sitting on top of someone else, you're just going to have to wait. Please don't punish the innocent on the bottom of the pile.
The best excuse ever to not workout
We all know how much I hate working out. I hate it. HATE IT. The workout machine wants to know my weight, my age, AND to add insult to injury it makes 50 minutes of my day purely miserable. I think there are many a blog entry on my hatred of it, so I won't belabor the point. So today, as most days, I headed to the gym after work. Jeff was working out by walking home (to supplement the workout he had earlier in the day - Dodge Ball, yes, while at work and yes, it was mandatory that he play) and we were going to meet at home for dinner.
Super. Working out is even worse when I have to go by myself. But I was ready for a good workout because my thoughtful employer provided a Holiday Lunch today which included delectable desserts and chocolate truffles which, unsurprisingly, I couldn't resist.
So - I stopped home, changed, and for a few minutes listened to the cat screaming about not having her litter scooped in an appropriate time frame or something, and headed to the gym. I hopped onto the elliptical machine which is my equipment of choice when I want to focus on the calorie burning and not so much on the getting in shape. I set it to my normal stupid workout and started at my usual stupid pace. The woman on the machine next to me was going at warp speed which added to my existing feelings of workout inadequacy.
At about 22 minutes into my workout the warp speed lady got off the machine and went over to grab another towel (given all the sweat being generated while going warp speed). When she got back on her machine she made some comment about some smell. I couldn't smell anything and dismissed her mysterious scents...I figured she was working out too hard so she was probably going to faint soon, and it was that "right before you faint" smell.
At about 25 minutes into the workout the firemen appeared.
Real firemen. With axes, hats and all the get-up. They indicated to me and my fellow tortured hamsters that we needed to go downstairs. Not evacuate...just go downstairs. So I grab my stuff and go down intent on finding another machine since I had eaten the chocolate goodness for lunch. I hop on another machine and about 5 minutes into my new workout the cleaning lady came over and told everyone they needed to evacuate.
No alarms, no lights, just the cleaning lady. Which was a little strange given the fact that everyone there had ear phones in their ears. But by then there were three fire trucks outside, the number of firemen had quadrupled, and they had hauled in the fire hose and completely blocked the main entrance. I figured there is really no better excuse to not working out than "my gym was on fire."
I really wanted to call Jeff and say "so the good news is...I'll be home early, the bad news is...the gym is burning" but he never answered his phone. Darn! It would have been hilarious.
Hopefully I never have to workout again because my gym burned down. That would be the best.
Super. Working out is even worse when I have to go by myself. But I was ready for a good workout because my thoughtful employer provided a Holiday Lunch today which included delectable desserts and chocolate truffles which, unsurprisingly, I couldn't resist.
So - I stopped home, changed, and for a few minutes listened to the cat screaming about not having her litter scooped in an appropriate time frame or something, and headed to the gym. I hopped onto the elliptical machine which is my equipment of choice when I want to focus on the calorie burning and not so much on the getting in shape. I set it to my normal stupid workout and started at my usual stupid pace. The woman on the machine next to me was going at warp speed which added to my existing feelings of workout inadequacy.
At about 22 minutes into my workout the warp speed lady got off the machine and went over to grab another towel (given all the sweat being generated while going warp speed). When she got back on her machine she made some comment about some smell. I couldn't smell anything and dismissed her mysterious scents...I figured she was working out too hard so she was probably going to faint soon, and it was that "right before you faint" smell.
At about 25 minutes into the workout the firemen appeared.
Real firemen. With axes, hats and all the get-up. They indicated to me and my fellow tortured hamsters that we needed to go downstairs. Not evacuate...just go downstairs. So I grab my stuff and go down intent on finding another machine since I had eaten the chocolate goodness for lunch. I hop on another machine and about 5 minutes into my new workout the cleaning lady came over and told everyone they needed to evacuate.
No alarms, no lights, just the cleaning lady. Which was a little strange given the fact that everyone there had ear phones in their ears. But by then there were three fire trucks outside, the number of firemen had quadrupled, and they had hauled in the fire hose and completely blocked the main entrance. I figured there is really no better excuse to not working out than "my gym was on fire."
I really wanted to call Jeff and say "so the good news is...I'll be home early, the bad news is...the gym is burning" but he never answered his phone. Darn! It would have been hilarious.
Hopefully I never have to workout again because my gym burned down. That would be the best.
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