It’s Not A Party Until Somebody Busts out an EpiPen

“Someone call 911!!” my Father shouted, “and for God’s sake would someone go calm down your mother??!”

It was Thanksgiving 2007, and I was standing in the upstairs bathroom of my childhood home, staring down at the (seemingly) lifeless body of my older sister Marija.

Just a few moments before, she had returned from her annual Thanksgiving 10k run and  gone upstairs to take a shower. The rest of my family and I were busying ourselves in the kitchen when suddenly, we heard a telltale “THUD” . We rushed upstairs to find my sister, passed out cold on the bathroom floor, sweatband and dry fit gear still firmly in place.

What she had neglected to tell any of us was that for the past four days, she had been subsisting on nothing but a cayenne pepper and maple syrup concoction (laced with speed, evidently) in an effort to pare down for the holidays. Apparently, this was a diet Beyonce swore by.

Right. So that makes it a good idea.

Unarmed with this essential information, we all feared the worst and launched into full-scale panic mode. My brother hit the floor, attempting to revive her like a scene from a bad Nicholas Cage film, while my mother screamed bloody murder in the background. I, in my usual helpful fashion, did nothing but stand there and sob uncontrollably. My father had just gone to send up an emergency flare in the backyard when my sister came to, staring into the faces of 6 crazed lunatics.

“Guys, I’m fine” she said. “But can someone get me a Gatorade or something?”

I wish I could say that this story was one of a kind; a blip on the radar of an otherwise unblemished Thanksgiving history. But sadly, this is just the tip of the iceberg. Growing up the youngest of 5, Thanksgiving, much like any other holiday, was basically a shit show. If someone wasn’t passing out, they were splitting their hand open with a carving knife, or arm-wrestling over the last drumstick. Just getting us all in one place was cause for celebration in and of itself.

Despite all of this calamity,  I continue to book the overpriced ticket and go home for Thanksgiving every year. Why? Because there’s always the distinct possibility of one of my siblings getting their head stuck inside a turkey. And if so, I’d really like to put sunglasses on it.

Another Thanksgiving debacle in our family is the annual debate over who will say grace. The pre-dinner prayer was a necessary precursor to every Thanksgiving meal growing up, and one my siblings and I avoided like the plague. My Father would take up his post at the head of the table and ask, “Now, whose turn is it to say grace this year?” And inevitably, 5 collective heads would lower, eager to escape this cruel and unusual punishment.

I’m not really sure why we hated it so much. You reference the grub, thank the Big Man upstairs and move on. I mean, sure, there are are some weird, Latin old-timey words in there, but it wasn’t like you had to announce that you still wet the bed or something. Regardless, it was an unwritten rule that the one who had to say it would be forced to carry around a lifetime of eternal shame.

As the youngest, I was often the scapegoat. My siblings would team up against me and insist “It’s Bree’s turn! It’s Bree’s turn!” conveniently “forgetting” that I had recited it the previous 5 years in a row. If I ever thought about objecting, I only had to look at my brothers to know that one peep would result in a year’s worth of Smurf bites and figure four leg locks. Inevitably, I relented, left to mumble “Bless us o lord, for these thy gifts…” into my mashed potatoes as my brothers snickered in the background.

Things only got worse for me when one year, I decided to make a Thanksgiving centrepiece. I was 11, and going through my short-lived “interior decorating phase”. I watched home decorating shows religiously, rearranged the furniture in my bedroom daily, and, if permitted, would have sponge-painted every available surface area in our home. I had seen an amazing centerpiece in a copy of Martha Stewart Living  and was hell-bent on making it, despite my mother’s objections about the mess it would cause and my brothers’ taunts that “no one cared about a stupid centrepiece anyway”. It consisted of fall leaves artfully arranged in a cornucopia made out of a single piece of birch bark: all sprinkled with a hefty dose of glitter. It was magnificent. I just knew having it on our table would make for the best Thanksgiving ever.

Determined, I set off  in search of the perfect fall foliage for my piece de resistance. What I neglected to consider, however, were my chronically severe seasonal allergies. About 20 minutes into rummaging through leaf piles, I was sneezing so hard I could barely see straight, hives popping up on every inch of exposed skin. Think McCauley Culkin in My Girl, minus the anaphylaxis. I was barely able to stumble back home and limply drop my leaves onto the table before my mom gave me a hefty dose of Benadryl and sent me to bed. This was not, as Martha had suggested, A Good Thing.

Luckily, I only had to wait one year for my embarrassing Thanksgiving moment to be eclipsed by my brother Kristin performing what was perhaps the most notoriously stupid act in our family’s history.

We were celebrating our first Thanksgiving in a brand new home, and my mom brought out her gold-plated wedding china for the occasion. We had all been served, and were just about to sit down to dinner when my brother decided to warm up his turkey dinner in the microwave.

Not being an idiot, I of course knew that the combination of gold plating and microwaves did not mix, but despite this did nothing to stop it. Why? Because the irony was much too sweet. My brother; the self-described “science prodigy”. Boaster of many a math and science accolade. Dropper of frequent and unsolicited periodic table-related puns. This was much, much too good.

Just as I (and every known law of physics) predicted, within seconds sparks began flying and the Microwave lit up like a fourth of July picnic. He quickly rushed to press “cancel”, but not before leaving a sizeable hole in the newly microwave and a strong sulphuric tinge in the air. I had never felt so validated.

Shockingly, the mayhem is showing no signs of slowing down, and year after year, our house continues to resemble another instalment in the National Lampoon series. Just this past Thanksgiving, my mother claimed to have taken an allergic reaction to my sister Sherene’s homemade preserves, and proceeded to fan her face and sneeze dramatically throughout the entire meal. She says it was because of the nutmeg. I say it’s because they sucked. Oh well, I guess the old adage is true: it’s not a party until somebody busts out an EpiPen!

           Question of the Day: Any Good Thanksgiving Fails to Share?

*Ok so I know it’s not technically Thanksgiving for me. But I thought I would share this one for all my Amurrican friends. Happy Thanksgiving, y’all!

Check Me Into the Betty Crocker Clinic

In one of my favourite scenes from Sex and the City, Miranda, unable to stop herself from eating a homemade chocolate cake, finally decides to throw the whole thing in the trash. But a moment later, her willpower fails her and she’s back in the kitchen picking discarded cake bits out of the garbage.

Realizing what she has done, Miranda calls Carrie and leaves her the following message:

“I know you’re probably busy having mind-blowing sex, but I feel you need to know that your good friend, Miranda Hobbes, has just taken a piece of cake out of the garbage and eaten it. You’ll probably need this information when you check me into the “Betty Crocker Clinic.”

But in the epic battle of Woman vs. Cake, it was Miranda who emerged the victor when she ultimately picked up a bottle of dish soap and dumped it all over the cake remains, rendering them unfit for human consumption.

Most of us ladies have had a “Miranda moment” at one point or another. Unable to control ourselves with “bad” foods, we do ridiculous things to sabotage ourselves, or the food, in order to put an end to the madness.

“Get these chips away from me!”

One of these such moments happened to me yesterday.

While I hasten to use the word “diet”, I guess that’s really the only term you would use to describe the satanic ritual I’ve been putting myself through lately. In an effort to look svelte and Facebook photo-ready for a few upcoming events, I’ve been watching what I eat and trying to cut out junk. You know, “carbs are the enemy” and all that noise. Anyway, yesterday, unable to face the prospect of one more apple, I took to the grocery store in search of healthy snack options. I perused the extensive collection of rice cakes and “100 calorie packs” before ultimately choosing an overpriced container of designer trail mix known as “Berry Blast”.  For $9.99, there better be a God Damn blast.  Maybe also some flecks of solid gold.

Guys, I kid you not, when I got back to my office and opened that thing I’m pretty sure rays of light and miniature angels flew out. This stuff was seriously addictive. Like a healthy crack.

But the problem with ”healthy”snacks is that they, too,become unhealthy when you eat, say, 15 servings of them. When I realized this stuff was disappearing faster than everybody else in the theatre with Fred Willard,  I shoved the container into my office drawer. Out of sight, out of mind.

Putting it within arm’s reach was my first mistake. Within 30 seconds I was again shovelling fistfuls of pecans and dried cranberries into my face. Next, I tried throwing it on top of the bookshelf across the room, confident there was no way I could reach it without a chair or other boosting device. And that would just be embarrassing, right?

You overestimate my pride. Within 5 minutes I was climbing up on my chair and using a file folder as a reaching device to bring the trail mix within my grasp.

After a couple more handfuls (and my self-esteem at an all-time low) I decided that the Berry Blast and I needed a third-party intervention. So I picked up the now half-empty container and marched it down the hall to the office of a trusted colleague.

“I need you to do me a favour.” I said.

“Ok… what is it?” she replied, tepidly.

“I need you to  hold this trail mix in trust for me until I regain enough self-control to have it in my presence.”

Stifling laughter, she pryed it from my cold dead hands  took the container from me.  “Should we develop a safeword?” She asked, “So that I’ll know you’re serious when you come back?”

This seemed prudent.

We settled on “Idaho”. (“Boston”, “California” and ”Nova Scotia” were also thrown out there, but all of those places made me hungry.) Then we drafted up a quick custodian agreement setting out the terms of the arrangement. (Just kidding. we’re not that bad).

Thinking that my trail mix troubles were behind me, I went back to work, free from the intrusive thoughts of macadamia nuts and pumpkin seeds.

But later that night, as I lie awake in bed, thoughts of my beloved Berry Blast returned to me. Images of cashews and blueberries danced in my head.

Like this. Only trail mix.

With sleep a distant possibility, I spent my waking hours mentally crafting each and every perfect handful.

The next morning, I marched into my colleague’s office and waved the proverbial white flag. “Idaho” I said,  resolutely.

“What’s that??” She asked, jokingly.

“Idaho. IdahoIdahoIda- oh just give me the god damn thing already”.

Should’ve gone with the soap.

Question of the Day: Have you ever had a Miranda moment?

If you Can’t Take the Heat…. Well, you should probably just get out of the kitchen anyway.

So after admitting to all 3 people who read this blog last week that my go-to meals on weeknights include either (a) cereal or (b) something you can unwrap and put in the microwave,  I decided it was probably time to get my act together. So I went grocery shopping on Saturday and picked up  some fresh salmon, veggies, and all the ingredients for a rice pilaf with the intention of making a lovely, romantic dinner for one on Sunday night.

But you know what they say about good intentions. Hell is papier mached with them… or something like that. Sunday came along, and after indulging in a few too many diet cokes the night before, I had no desire to cook whatsoever. But as I lied semi-comatose on the couch watching a marathon of Millionaire Matchmaker, my guilt about the $85 dime-sized piece of salmon sitting in my fridge (effing inland province) just kept increasing. I could almost hear it taunting me from the fridge…  “coook meeeee BreezyK” It said. “Coat me with your sweet sweet marinade and have your way with me”. It eventually got so bad that I couldn’t even focus on Patti’s sage advice (the penis DOES do the picking) so I pulled myself together and prepared to get my Rachel Ray on.

Slowly but surely, I preheated the oven, marinated the salmon and chopped up some vegetables… by all accounts, things were moving along. Granted, the only similarities between me and Rachel Ray were a muffin top and an incredibly annoying voice… but you take what you can get. The last step involved boiling some water for the pilaf. And this my friends, is where I made a grave, tactical error.  After nonchalantly flipping on the burner, I proceeded to immediately become distracted by the Disney movie Prom that had just come on the movie network. I know. I can’t  even handle how cool I am either. So engrossed was I in the fact that all of the prom decorations had just been destroyed in a random act of vandalism (what was Nova going to DO??) that it took a good few minutes before I noticed a funky smell emanating from the kitchen. Hmm… That smells like………. plastic, I thought. I looked up from my place on the couch to see that the room was slowly beginning to fill with a black, putrid smoke. I ran over to the stove to investigate and discovered that ( DUN DUN DUN…..) I had turned on the wrong element.

Yeah. This happened.

There sat my pot of water, undisturbed and cool as a cucumber on the front element… while on the back burner, what was once a plastic-handled steak knife, now sat a soupy mess of black plastic.  Immediately I rushed for an oven mit to scoop it up.. but it sort of felt like I was trying to pick up a melted marshmallow. (Cause I do that all the time) Just as I got hold of the remaining exoskeleton, the smoke alarm began to ring. And ring. And ring. I quickly opened my patio door and threw the remnants of the knife onto the cold concrete, next deciding what to do about the smoke alarm.

I tried fanning it with a dishtowel- to no avail. Next I took my fan out of my bedroom and positioned it on the floor right underneath it.  But still, the little white dome continued to shriek at an ear-blistering decibel. It would not rest, it seemed, until everyone within a 10 mile radius had been informed of my idiocy. Finally, I decided to open and close the front door of my apartment rapidly, attempting desperately to create some sort of cross-breeze. Of course as soon as I do this, my next door neighbour, who I HAVE NEVER SEEN BEFORE IN MY LIFE, decides to come out into the hallway to investigate. “Don’t worry!” I shouted, over the alarm. “There’s no fire! Nothing to see here!” You know, except for these incredibly sexual and glamorous (read: ratty, stained and oversized) pajamas I’m wearing. But whatever.. no time to be sexy. I just needed this death machine to STOP SCREAMING.

Finally, it turned off and I stepped back into my apartment to avail the situation. The thick black smoke still penetrated every corner… and the smell. Oh good god the smell. I would liken it to burning garbage meets a homeless convention. My counters were covered with sticky black tar like substance, and the sulphur lingering in the air had rendered everything that had been sitting out on my counter inedible- including the salmon that I had recently taken out of the oven.

Admitting defeat, I googled the nearest Thai delivery place. Ordering in, at least, was guaranteed not to burn my house down. I enjoyed my lovely MSG laden cashew tofu while watching Nova and Jesse rebuild  the prom decorations- and at the same time, their relationship- and  was making my way to the fridge to put my leftovers away when I felt a waft of heat. That’s right friends. I had left my god damn oven on.

I ‘m starting to think it’s more than culinary ineptness. Maybe I just have a death wish.

Question of the Day: Are you a good cook?

Have you had any misadventures in cooking lately?  

A Very Urban Long Weekend

While I would by no means consider myself a Monarchist, I will admit that the Royal Family has done a lot for society. Specifically, Queen Victoria.

Why Vicky? You might ask. Well, for starters, she:

• was the longest reigning Monarch in history, and ruled the British Empire  during its most glorious and powerful days:

(Just kidding, I bet it was more like this:)

• harnessed her baby making prowess to produce 9 offspring, which ultimately resulted in one Prince Hot Ginge:

• gave mad face all day, every day.. like in this photo:

Bitch is not amused, so you might as well just stop asking

• inspired really fancy and uncomfortable chairs like these ones:

• and- most importantly, gave us Canadians a brief reprieve from the soul-sucking power of The Man and an excuse to get Sunday-drunk each third Monday in May for the past 150 years. That’s right, my friends- I’m talkin about Victoria Day. Or, if you like to keep it kla$$y, the May 2-4 weekend.

So this past weekend, while pretty much every other pretentious urbanite and their Goldendoodle packed up their Tumi luggage and coordinated casual wear and headed to their million-dollar Muskoka “cottages”, I chose to stay here in Toronto, instead. Why? because I had work committments am a renegade. Yep. bet you couldn’t tell, but under my suit, I’m hiding my own drum.  And guess what? I march to the beat of that sh*t.

My best friend was here in the city too, and we decided to make the most of our long weekend by drinking excessively exploring everything Toronto had to offer.  We started out Friday night with drinks at Lee , a Toronto hotspot owned by famous foodie and Top Chef  alum Susur Lee.

I’m a big Top Chef fan, and have been to Lee a couple of times before, but have never actually caught a glimpse of Susur himself.. so this time, I was really hoping to.

I mean c’mon.. just look at that hair.

While we pretended to be fabulous and sipped on $20 cocktails, I told my friend Lia about an article I had read recently naming Susur’s undergrad-aged sons as two of Toronto’s 30 Most Eligible Men. The bartender I guess had overheard me, and looked up from the ginger he had been muddling with unbelievable precision, and said:  “there’s one of them right there“.

photo via National Post

I turned around to see the older of the two (with the shaved head, above) waiting on the table behind us, and almost choked on my Saketini. Think Taylor Lautner meets David Beckham, but in an attainable sort of way. So what if he was only 21? Don’t they always say there’s something sexy about an older woman? I was admiring his tattoo sleeve and daydreaming about us laughing over Japanese Margharitas and listening to Motown on vinyl as he taught me how to Julienne vegetables, when I heard a voice snap me back to reality:

“Hello”, it said.

I turned on my stool to see Susur standing beside me,  in all his ponytailed, chef-coated glory.

I was like:

Now, let me just preface this by saying that I am from a small town.. and up until this point, the biggest “celebrity” I had ever encountered was Bubbles from The Trailer Park Boys. And I didn’t even actually talk to him.. I just admired his bottle-cap glasses from across the room.

Anyway, I could feel my cheeks burning red, and after what felt like an eternity, managed to squeak out an awkward “hello” before burying my face in my drink and praying for the floor underneath my barstool to open up and swallow me.

I’d hate to see what happened if I ever met an actual celebrity. I’d probably throw up on their shoes.

Anyway, this post was really supposed to be a summary of my entire weekend.. but somewhere between the wing-backed Victorian furniture and that highly unflattering  John C. Reilly gif, I guess the wheels sort of fell off somewhere. (I blame the  tequila.  That shit’ll get you every time.)

I guess you’ll just have to wait until tomorrow to read about Part Two of my epic Victoria Day Weekend adventures… and after the quality piece of literature you’ve just read… well, I can’t see how you wouldn’t be dying to come back. Just don’t all come crashing the site at once now, ok?… my server can’t handle that sh*t.

Ok, I’m really done now.

Question of the Day:   Have you ever met a celebrity??

And if so, did you play it cool, or did you channel Captain Awkward of the Awkward Brigade like I did?

The Vegetarian’s Dilemma

Life can be hard when you don’t speak the language of meat.  I can attest to this- having been a vegetarian for the past three years now.

Given that I’m already left-handed, you’d think I would have learned my lesson by now, and not chosen to willingly submit myself to yet another subgroup of society who constantly get the shaft… but alas: I am a glutton for punishment… or I just flat-out hate myself. That’s also a possibility.

Anyway, living in a world built for meat eaters poses a number of difficulties- like finding an acceptable meal choice at a restaurant (specifically, one that’s not a roasted eggplant, stuffed with eggplant, garnished with aubergine shavings finished with a nice eggplant glaze),  or awkwardly having to defend my lifestyle/moral convictions to complete strangers, or being that guest who screws up the dinner party menu for everyone. Ruiner.  

Salad: You don't win friends with it

The thing that I struggle with most about being vegetarian, though, is not any of these things- it’s the prevailing, and completely unsubstantiated view, that vegetarians are stupid.

What makes me say this you ask? Simple really: it’s the endless parade of  vegetarian and vegan food options attempting to fool us by masquerading themselves as something else entirely. “Chik’n” fingers; Veggie burgers… Tofurkey… creatively titled as they may be- I’m here to tell you that the jig is up. I’ve tasted countless of these products- and have yet to be convinced. No portobello mushroom- no matter how succulent- will ever be a hamburger. Dehydrated Eggplant will never be bacon. Nutritional Yeast is some kind of freaky powder- it’s not cheese.  So please, for the love of God- STOP CALLING IT THAT. (Oh, and Amy – I’ve tasted your “pot pies”….. and I’m not really sure what’s going on there, but it sure as hell ain’t chicken).

I’m not really sure why companies and restaurants continue to do this. Why slap a fun-sounding title on it, instead of just calling it what it really is? A sh*tload of beans and tofu. Plus I find this whole designing veg foods to look like meat thing all a little Freudian, really- the unfounded assumption that all vegetarians have a chronic case of meat-envy. (Unless you’re talking about bacon. In which case- that’s absolutely accurate).

Just the other night actually I encountered a particularly bad case of food trickery. I was working late, and forced to order dinner from our online take-out system at work. Given that my obscure vegetarianism already severely limits my selection on this, I’ve long since given up hope of finding anything “good” , and instead generally just go for “edible”. But I was pleasantly surprised to see that one of the choices that night was a local all-vegetarian restaurant.  Like a kid in a candy shop, I excitedly perused the menu, ultimately settling on the “Pizza”- which also happened to be raw, and vegan. Bonus karma points.

I knew that this pizza was a tad unconventional, given the description that accompanied it:

Pizza (raw)
thin walnut crust, herb pesto, arugula, artichokes, mushrooms, cashew chevre

I decided to take my chances anyway- and was prepared for the challenge (“cashew chevre?” is that even english?)… but what I was not prepared for,  was this:

 

Ummmmm… hate to state the obvious but……..

THAT’S NOT PIZZA!!!!!!!!

I may have been born at night, but I wasn’t born last night, people.  Painfully familiar with loose definitions and the art of spin that my profession has made me-  I’m certain that by no stretch of the imagination could the above photo be considered “pizza”.  I would guess that it was more likely a few forgotten passed apps the delivery man stole from a vegan convention on his way to my office.   

In the interest of full disclosure- it didn’t actually taste that bad… and I might even have ordered it again- were I not inclined to stand on principle. This vegetarian, at least, has been fooled for the last time. 

To those out there determined to continue to try and pull the wool over our eyes- let this be a lesson to you all:  Animal loving, bleeding-hearted,  and chronically low in iron as we may be- we vegetarians are not naive. And if ever again you attempt to present me with a soy-based product dressed in carnivore’s clothing, then I will promptly tell you, on behalf of fed-up vegetarians everywhere, that you can take your ”Not-Dog“, and shove it.  

Question of the Day: Are you vegetarian? Have you tried vegetarian substitutes?

The Old Woman and the Jungle (or, what I’ve been up to this Holiday season)

So, you’ll all be pleased to know that I made it home safe- and only mildly scarred by the fact that my  Montreal to Halifax flight involved a loss of power; a one hour de-icing process on the tarmac; and a seatmate who had several full-on panic attacks during the flight (one even requiring the use of an air sickness bag for breathing). Air Canada, you are a de-light.  

Anyway- the sad thing is that after all of that excitement, I’ve spent the past couple of days largely doing nothing whatsoever. I know. I really should’ve spread that shit out. Well, I shouldn’t say nothing- I have been getting up to a few antics…. including:

• Hanging out with my niece, Lola.

Man I missed this kid. She’s always up for a good time. Yesterday, for example, we wrote and starred in an original play entitled “The Old Woman and the Jungle” (rumoured to be hitting broadway in late 2012). I don’t wanna give the whole thing away here- but I can tell you that it involves apple picking; a cat named Crumple Ears; and an unlikely friendship.  

• Watching a lot of daytime TV.  It is a sad but true reality, that just yesterday I watched about 8 hours in a row of television. I’ve decided that I find pretty much every presenter on tv either extremely offensive or annoying…. Rachel Ray, Anderson Cooper, Dr. Oz , almost every Chef on the Food Network, Jeremy Kyle-  I want to punch them all… but yet I can’t stop watching it. I feel far too compelled to find out how to make a decorative centrepiece fashioned entirely out of donut holes.. or a wreath made of toilet paper…. or that cancer cure I never knew existed right there in my cupboards.

*I don’t actually want to punch Jeremy Kyle. I want to give him an award for being the most badass TV personality of all time, and having the balls to say to his guests things like “GUESS WHAT?? Your wife’s a liar as well!!!”

• Not wearing anything but pajamas and/or sweatpants. Two words: aaawwww yeeeeeeeeaaa
• Eating. A lot. mostly chocolates, things involving cheese, and/or holiday baked goods. But I don’t really discriminate…. if it contains more than my recommended daily intake of calories- I’m interested.
• Arguing with my mother about our Christmas tree.  So, this year my mom decided that she was done with the nonsense of cleaning up needles, and decided to switch up our beautiful, regular live tree for an artificial one. Now, I don’t really have anything against artificial trees as a concept- what I do have a problem with though, is this artificial tree:

Shit looks like Charlie Brown’s pygmy reject that went on a hunger strike in protest of being its own damn self.  Needless (pun intended) to say, it has become my own personal mission to annex this tree from our home… which shouldn’t be hard, given that I clearly beat it in both physical stature and holiday cheer.

So that’s what’s been happening with BreezyK- stay tuned for more of these extremely high quality literary updates on my life.. or, do yourself a favour and don’t.  Hope you guys are all having a wonderful holiday season- and let me know:

What have you been up to??

When Carb Face Attacks

“You take it,” she said, looking down at the delicious, albeit calorie laden, chocolate croissant posited between us. “I’m going to L.A. this weekend, and I need to be in a bathing suit”.

*No croissants were harmed in the making of this post.

I gazed suspiciously at the innocuous-looking pastry. It was the end of our weekly breakfast meeting at work, and the one paltry croissant was all that remained of a tray once filled with tantalizing treats. One by one, we had watched as men  had approached the table, picked a breakfast item, and devoured it  without so much as a second thought.

And now here we were- the two lone females at the party-  painstakingly agonizing over this croissant, and guessing its exact calorie count like we were trying to win a raffle prize.

“I don’t know…” I finally replied. “I had pretty solid plans of emotionally eating a medium pizza later”.

“Just do it”, she said. “One of us might as well enjoy it”.

My rubber arm for baked goods is easily twisted, and before I knew it, I was placing the croissant on a napkin, looking both ways, and  fleeing  back downstairs to my office.  No sooner had the last morsel passed my lips, when an e-mail popped up in my inbox:

“How was it??”  she asked.  ”I’ve been thinking about it ever since you left”.

I took a moment to reflect on this. “It was ok,” I replied “But I kind of wish I hadn’t eaten it. I have total carb face right now”.

Her response?  ”Please write a blog post about carb face”.

Well, here you go, Linds- Merry Christmas. Not quite as good as Rob Ford hitting you in the face with a candy cane, but it’ll have to do.

“Carb face” is a concept I first learned from a friend in law school. It is a term used to describe the puffiness/swelling of your face, and the associated feelings of fatness and general malaise brought on by eating too many carbohydrate filled foods.  Think post- Thanksgiving family pictures. Or Britney Spears post Me Against the Music. Oh, and boys- don’t think you’re off the hook on this one either- I’ve got two words for you: Val Kilmer.

oh Batman- where did it all go so wrong??

The sister affliction to carbface is, of course, “Booze Face”- the facial rotundness that develops as a result of too much liquor consumption. If you need an example of what this looks like- I suggest you check out some old undergraduate pictures of yourself. You know the ones where you are posing provocatively with a 2L bottle of wine cooler, wearing hip hugger flares and an extra 15 lbs? Or the male equivalent- ironic t-shirts and playing/singing along to Dave Matthews? Yah, you’ve probably got booze face in those.  

Once you discover the concepts of carb face/ booze face, it’s all over for you. You will examine your face at length in the mirror,  in a desperate attempt to identify the genesis of the problem. You start  thinking you have carb face  even when you don’t.  Like a phantom limb, your chin begins to tickle in the spot you perceive fatness to be growing, and you imagine your face to look akin to Violet Beauregarde’s after chewing a piece of three-course-dinner gum.

There’s no point in going out during a flare-up of carb face. A form of social leprosy- it’s best to stay home, drink plenty of water, and put down the dinner rolls until that shit subsides.  I spent most of my university career trying to avoid all carbs  before any events where photos would be taken (sidenote: carbface can also be minimized by strategic posing. Chins down, ladies). It even got to the point where, while running on the treadmill, I would  actively shake my face from side to side in an effort to shrink its growing mass at a faster rate (spoiler alert: this doesn`t work). I even considered joining the carb face support group on facebook.

As if this weren’t enough- I have another friend who refers to the “sodium paws” and “feta feet” she gets when she eats too much salt. I find this idea hilarious (humans with paws? it’s just too much)… but also a little disheartening.  Must all of my favourite foods be sacrificed in the name of hotness??

Sigh. Guess its back to carrot sticks and ice pops for this chick.

Question of the Day: Have YOU been victimized by Carb Face?

P.S.  Thank you, thank you thank you to all of you who read, commented and liked my post “Twitter: The 21st Century Haiku?” which was Freshly Pressed on Monday. I love all of your thoughts on twitter, and keep em coming! A special thank you also goes out to all of my new followers- hope you bitches like the Kardashians and recycled jokes!!

They’re Magically Delicious!

If there’s one thing I’ve learned since starting this blog, it’s that you guys have some serious mad-ass love for cereal.

Honestly. “Cereal: A Love Story“  has become by far my most popular post to date; and the number of hits I get each day from people google searching the words “bowl of cereal”, or some combination thereof, is both pleasantly surprising, and somewhat concerning. Clearly we all need to go back to grade 7 and pay more attention during Home Economics classses. But I digress.

Recently, I learned that this relentless and undying love for cereal transcended blog readers and hungry google searchers, when it was featured on an episode of Glee.  

Damian McGinty – one of the two winners of Glee’s reality show The Glee Project – made his debut in this episode as Rory Flanagan, an Irish foreign exchange student staying with McKinley High cheerleader Brittany Pierce’s family.  If you’ve seen the show- then you know that  Brittany isn’t exactly the sharpest tool in the shed; and of course was convinced that, because of his accent, Rory was a leprechaun. She asks him to grant her three wishes (in exchange for which, she’ll give him her “Pot of Gold”, if you know what im sayin); one of which being a box of marshmallow-only lucky charms. He miraculously delivers. and everybody’s all happy and singy and dancy, until that bitch Santana goes and ruins it all by telling Brittney that there’s no such thing as leprechauns.

Damn it, Santana, you dream killer! I wanted one of those boxes of lucky charms!!  

Anyway, in  honor of the Lucky Charms debut on Glee this season, they are giving away “Pot O’ Gold” themed Lucky Charms gift baskets- and I was generously offered one to give away on my blog!

The basket contains “everything you need to enjoy a magically delicious breakfast”- including a box of Lucky Charms Cereal, a bowl, and a spoon- just add milk.

(While I know it’s hard- please try your best to ignore the leprechaun’s frighteningly maniacal expression in this pic).

There’s also a some Lucky Charms flavoured chapstick, and a cool t-shirt made by Junk Food:

*Disclaimer alert- the T-shirt is a size XL – so sorry in advance to all you skinny bitches out there. The world really is such a cruel, and unfair place.

So if you want a chance to win it- leave a comment below answering the following question, and I’ll pick the winner using Randomizer.org:

How do you feel about Marshmallows in cereal? 

 Love em? Hate em? leave ‘em all till the end? Make sure to get one with every bite?  

Personally, I like to mix it up… I like a little sweet treat at the end, but the milk is already usually sugarfied enough for my liking at that point.

** Oh- and two more buzz-kill disclaimers: this sweet-ass contest is only open to residents of Canada and the United States, and all entries must be received by Friday, November 11 at 5:00p.m. Eastern Standard Time.  Good luck, bitches!!

Cereal: A Love Story

I’ll be the first to admit it-  I have a slight (ok, major) obsession with cereal.

Not only do I eat it for breakfast every morning, I also have it for dinner far more often than is socially acceptable for a 25 year old woman. Frequently I’ll polish off a serving or two as a late night snack (true story: I am enjoying a nice, hearty bowl (or 4) of Kashi GoLean Crunch as I write this post), and the number of times I find myself running a dishwasher filled solely with bowls and spoons is much higher than I’d like to admit. 

There’s just something about it that always hits the spot- that perfect ratio of cereal to milk…  that feeling of complete euphoria when the spoon hits your lips… the taste of nostalgia- more powerful than any artificial sweetener- that cannot be replicated by any other food.

A few days ago, I somehow found myself having a discussion with a coworker about cereal (Ok, so it was because I was admitting I had no idea how to cook.. so what).  The conversation had already gone on for about 20 minutes, and I had no shortage of material left (we had only just begun touching on our favourite varieties. Next would come preferred level of  crunchiness), when I realized that, perhaps my love for cereal ran deeper than even I knew.

And so I began tracing it back to its roots…. (Cue the Flashback scene…. feel free to picture the rest of this post with a slight, sepia tone)

Our love story began not unlike so many others- Cereal and I were childhood sweethearts.  Hit by the arrow of the Breakfast Cupid, it was love at first bowl of Lucky Charms. We were inseparable- never spending a morning apart. Some of my fondest memories as a child even involved cereal. I remember waking up to the sound of spoons clanging against bowls, as my brothers made sure every last corn pop was sufficiently saturated with milk before consumption. (Because I was the baby, not only did I get to sleep in a bit later, my mom would also pour my cereal a few minutes before waking me up, because she knew I preferred it light on the crunch. Now THAT’s the love story right there… or a sad story. I’ll let you decide).   

Now, if you’ve ever seen an After School Special, you know that Childhood and adolescence are no walk in the park. Just getting through a day without being pressured into doing cocaine to perform better as a child gymnast, or  being kidnapped by your own mom was a cause for celebration.  But no matter what kind of day I had, knowing that I always had an after school snack of cereal waiting at home for me, served up by one of many potential loveable cartoon mascots (with the exception of Count Chocula…  cause let’s be honest, homeboy was downright creepy) made life seem a little more bearable.

As I grew older, my relationship with cereal changed. Suddenly my tastes had grown; expanded. I no longer craved the sugary goodness that seduced me as a child- now I longed for something more… sophisticated.

Luckily, cereal was changing too; it’s varieties becoming more plentiful; it’s milk choices now far more advanced than just 2% or skim. Soy? Almond? Coconut? POTATOE MILK? The world was becoming a crazy place, but cereal was my constant. We went through it all together; from Fruity Pebbles and Reese Peanut Butter Puffs, to Millet Rice and Spelt Flakes. And take it from someone who’s been there:  Potatoes? Should stick to being mashed (Or being used as stamps. I think Martha Stewart does that).

It wasn’t all marshmallows and sugar coating, though… like all good love stories, Cereal and I have had our fair share of ups and downs.  For a brief period, we even broke things off. It wasn’t cereal- it was me. I was too needy with my love; too clingy to its milky deliciousness; and it’s sweet, sweet, loving was having unwanted effects on me. Although I wanted desperately not to believe it, Fat Bastard’s astute observation that “carbs are the enemy” turned out to be true. I had to accept it when I could no longer button up my jeans- I had gained what they call the “honeymoon 15″.

Unable to control myself, I swore off cereal, and vowed to never touch the stuff again.

Well, anyone who’s been through a breakup knows how tough this can be. Thoughts of cereal consumed me.. I thought I saw cereal everywhere- at school… at the gym.. in my cupboards. It even infiltrated my dreams. Once, I dreamt that I was naked in public, save for a few strategically placed mini wheats.

 I searched in vain for a love like the one I had lost. I tried toast, oatmeal, eggs, even something called a “breakfast bake”-  all rendered inedible by the salty taste of my tears.

It was all together about a year we were apart, when I was staying at a friend’s house, and she offered me a bowl of cereal for breakfast. What seemed like a simple offer set off a complex web of feelings and anxiety deep within me. Oh how I wanted to say yes…to envelop myself in its carby goodness. But we’d been down this road before…….

What harm can one bowl do? I thought.

And there it was- our epic reunion- bathed in light, and set to the soundtrack of angels singing; even the household pets were crying tears of joy.  It was like the reunions of Ross & Rachel, Luke & Laura, and NKOTB all wrapped into one.

We were back, baby.

Since then, things have been better than ever before. We see each other most days; and slowly, we’re making up for lost time. Looking back, its funny that we would ever think we could deprive ourselves of being together when we are such a perfect match…. we’re so silly sometimes.

And so what if I still  indulge a little too much? Whoever says that a love this intense can’t last clearly hasn’t met us… or Sid & Nancy 

….. Wait… that didn’t end well??

Question of the Day: Do YOU love cereal?? And if so, what’s your favourite kind?  (basically, I’m just imploring you to make me feel a little less like a freak, here)