Saturday, November 13, 2004

When in doubt, write about food:-)

Well, after the NaNoWriMo party today (yes people came), I actually felt like writing when I got home. Unfortunately I became distracted for several hours by my computer games. [Check out "Wik and the Fables of Souls" from RealArcade... lots of fun. Does anyone else think he looks like Gollum?] Of course, as I went to shut down the computer and go to bed, I got the urge to type at least something and surpassed my expectations. I wanted to get to 5000, but didn't think I'd be able to stay awake that long. But I did. So here it is. The saga of Siobhan's Saturday breakfast. Maybe not fascinating reading for everyone, but I'm a foodie. And yes, that is how I make my French Toast. Though I've never tried the coffee that way. Something to do next Saturday:-)

Today's episode:

No point worrying about things while you can't do anything to fix them. So I determined to enjoy myself. I walked to the kitchen and started rummaging through the remains of my latest shopping trip a couple weeks ago. I had obviously been devasted by my breakup with 'Dick' as it wasn't often that I neglected my pantry. Grocery shopping was one of my guilty pleasures and skipping it was a big deal for me. I'd mostly been working late at the branch office though, avoiding 'him' and eating out, so I hadn't noticed until now the sorry state of my food supply. I had some coffee beans left, some stale bread, a couple eggs, and an entire litre of maple syrup.

While shopping at Costco can have its advantages, I also find myself buying insane quantities of items I hardly use like the four bottles of Windex, case of S.O.S. Pads, two bottles of a thousand daily vitamins each, and one litre of maple syrup that were stashed as space allowed throughout the apartment. Well, I wasn't going to waste my Saturday cleaning windows or pots, but I could certainly make a dent in the syrup supply. I took out the eggs and what remained of the milk from the fridge. Grabbing my favourite stainless bowl, the one with just the right depth for mixing and my magiwhisk I set myself up on the island. I tried one-handing the first egg, but after fishing half the shell from the bowl, decided that my daredevil leanings would have to be exorcised only in the meal's calorie count. I carefully cracked open the other egg and started to whisk furiously.

There's something very satisfying about seeing those yellow orbs whisk into a frothy sea. Some people workout, I cook. I get to bang around my food, then get to eat it. Not like my friend Leanna who spends every day at the gym, and convinces herself after that water and a soy bar is enough to satisfy her rumbling stomach. Whatever. Give me a good fry-up over treadmills and squats any day. Of course, it's obvious what my choice is, but I'd look stupid if I were rail thin anyway. Besides, she never has any problem eating my food when she visits either.

I sliced the stale parisienne loaf into thickish slices and imagined what Leanna would say. “All those carbs, Siobhan. Those aren't good for you. And don't you dare eat that bread with eggs. You know you can't mix carbs and proteins. It'll make you fat.” Yeah well, already there, dearie, and loving it. Besides, doesn't everyone know that food consumed on a Saturday before Noon is calorie free? That reminded me, if there was ever a time to be decadent, this was it. I strode over to my spice cupboard and located the cinnamon-sugar and the vanilla. (Despite my reservations about buying a litre of vanilla – how could I possibly use it all? -- there wasn't much left. Mental note, buy another litre next Costco run.) I sprinkled, no dumped, a liberal amount of cinnamon sugar into the eggs and whisked again. Then I stirred in the last couple glugs of the milk and a splosh of vanilla. Already the kitchen was smelling good. I put the bread slices in a baking pan, poured over the egg, turned the bread, and left it to sit.

My favourite frying pan was sitting in the sink. Ugh. Obviously I hadn't been in a mood to clean the last time I used it, so some elbow grease was in order. Well, maybe more like grease up to the elbow. I gave the pan a generous squirt of my apple-scented dishsoap (hey, horrible chores may as well smell nice), and filled it with hot water. I reached for the S.O.S. Pad that lived in the mouth of my kitchen frog. Rusty. Time for a new one, so I padded my way to the supply closet in the hall. I grabbed another pad--only 475 left to use—and returned to the sink.

After scrubbing the pan clean, I set it on the stove to dry/heat. Once it was dry and suitably hot, I added far too much butter then watched it melt and bubble. Once it liquified, I turned down the heat and carefully added the eggy, squidgy bread. While it fried slowly, I started on the coffee. I added the beans to the grinder and made enough noise for thirty seconds to wake the apartment block. The resulting smell of rich, slightly bitter, overroasted coffee started to wake me up. I filled the coffee maker with filtered water and set it to brew.

The french toast would need another couple of minutes before it needed flipped, so I decided to be good and get some excercise before consuming the million calories on the menu. I padded back out to the hall, tried to remember which way was East, and set about doing my Sun Salutations. While I really wasn't keen on 'working out', yoga was my one physical pursuit of choice. I loved the way that just holding a position and breathing could make me feel awake and alert, not to mention sexy. There's something very empowering about being able to flex in many different directions. For the last couple of weeks I hadn't wanted to feel very alert (or sexy), so I'd avoided my daily regime, but my body was telling me that had been a really bad idea. I creaked and cracked as I moved first from Mountain to forward bend, and again into lunge. My hamstrings screamed as I tried to stretch them out in Downward Dog. My breathing became more strained. But after a couple complete Salutations, everything loosened and started to flow. It even felt so good that I did twice as many as usual. Eight total. Not a lot. Certainly not the 108 that some yogis practise each morning, but enough for me.

I could smell the cinnamon and coffee wafting from the kitchen as I relaxed into Child's Pose and decided the toast needed a flip. I walked back to the stove, with a lighter step now, and carefully turned each slice. Next, I grabbed my favourite 'café au lait' bowl from the drying rack and started to walk to the fridge. Right, I already finished the milk. No 'au lait' today then. Okay, I can improvise. I dug my Haagen-Daas French Vanilla from the freezer and dropped a generous clomp into the mug. As I poured the hot coffee over the ice cream it melted into a beige lake of goodness with a ring of foam. Sip. Yum!

I took another sip and another waiting for that morning coffee buzz to kick in... then remembered that I only drink decaf. The allergy gods had cursed me again. At least I could still eat French Toast. I moved back to the pan and lifted a slice to check its progress. Deep, golden brown. Perfect. To the plate! I slid the slices onto my appetite-suppressing blue plate, wrenched open the new maple syrup jug, and drowned the toast in the beautiful liquid gold. I even added a slosh to my coffee, just for good measure. It is perishable after all. No time to use it like the present. I grabbed my plate and my 'café érable à Haagen-Daas' and made my way to the living room.

My living room was well used. It was TV room, office, and general storage facility. While my apartment lacked built in storage space, I compensated by lining every wall of the living room with full-height IKEA armoires. I had considered shelves, but decided that doors were important. While I wanted to be able to store all my possessions, I didn't want to have to look at them all the time. Even my computer and TV could be hidden if I wanted.

This morning the TV was required viewing, but the piles of bills on the computer desk did not need an audience. I pushed the doors shut with my elbow as I walked past. I settled myself into the well-worn spot in the corner of the chesterfield, balanced my plate on my crossed legs and set my bowl of coffee on its table. Next I switched on the TV. A man with a fake-sounding British accent yelled into the quiet of my home: “see? It's jus tha easy, luv. All y'ave ta doo is make two easy payments of”-- click. When did people decide that infomercials were appropriate Saturday viewing? When I was growing up, the only shows on Saturday mornings were cartoons. What ever happened to those? Right, too violent. Because every kid in America is going to perch a large boulder on a cliff in the futile hopes of crushing a fast little desert bird and end up crushing themselves. Nope, stop that. It's Saturday, no thinking allowed. Between bites of syrupy, eggy, cinnamony toast, I managed to turn the TV back on and switch it to the cartoon network. Ah, best invention ever. A little bit of Saturday solace any time, any day. I had switched just in time for the start of “Jacob Two-Two”. Yippee! My favourite Canadian cartoon. My favourite Canadian cartoon. Ooh, déjà vu. I'm such a geek. I watched Jacob's attempt to save the little old lady from across the street from the greedy, evil plans of this week's villain and ate my French Toast between gulps of coffee. For a Saturday, this was perfect.

The show ended and I finished my last bite of breakfast. I checked the clock. Eleven fifty-seven. Finished just in time. Homemade breakfast: five dollars. Finishing the meal during the 'no calorie' window: priceless. Nothing could ruin my day now. Well, of course something 'could', but I resolved that nothing 'would'. Regardless what had happened at work, I resolved to live for me that Saturday. I resolved that whatever I wanted to do, I would do with zeal and gusto. So, I leapt from the chesterfield, sashayed my dishes back to the kitchen, and poured myself another bowl of coffee... this time with two scoops of frozen vanilla.


Thursday, November 11, 2004

Slow Day

Well, I've been feeling horrible all day and so far have done nothing but make and eat soup and tweak the blog a bit. The comments have been updated, so now anyone can comment on the story, and I've added links to my NaNo buddies on my Blogroll. I don't feel inspired to write (or mark) right now, but maybe some tea will do the trick.

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

Slow progress, but at least I'm still writing

Well, it was Parent/Teacher interview night today, so I was working until 7pm and even though I often work until then, talking for that length of time really wears me out. I came home and did try to write, but had to stop (good TV break) and then just couldn't get motivated to start again. I bet I'm not alone in this either. According to my report card I'm now 7% finished and need to type 2332 words per remaining day to hit 50,000 by Nov. 30. I don't really think that'll happen -- report cards are due before then you know which always screws up my 'real life' schedule. I should, however, finish March 29, 2005. Yippee! Anyway, here's today's efforts.

The next morning was Saturday. Ah, blissful Saturday. No alarm clock. No rush hour traffic. No mail. No work. No, even better: no need to even think about work until Monday... when I would have to find a new job. Great. What fun! All I would need to do is find someone willing to hire a 30-year old woman with too many degrees to be useful and a propensity for falling for the boss. Face it, Siobhan, falling for the boss is one thing, but acting on it is quite another. Ugh. Why do I always do this? Why do I always fall for guys I work for? Why not a guy I just work with once in a while? Or a guy I don't work with at all?

No point worrying about things while you can't do anything to fix them. So I determined to enjoy myself.


Tuesday, November 09, 2004

Nobody loves me:-(

Okay, so I never thought I'd want a blog, let alone care if anyone read it, but now I'm so used to reading comments in my forum that I keep looking for comments here... but there aren't any:-( I'm not looking for any particular comment, though it would actually be nice to know what people think of my story, but sometimes I get addicted to mail of any kind. The fact that people send me information is often thrilling, even if the information isn't terribly useful. I guess that's the price I pay for being an info junkie... I can find use knowing even the dumbest stuff.... did you know that... wait I can't think of anything. Guess it'll have to wait for another post. ;-)

Hot bath, cold tea

As I reentered the bathroom, the phone rang. Damn! I had forgotten to turn of the speaker. I wouldn't be able to get there before the beep to silence it, and I certainly was in no mood to answer. I gave the door a good slam, dropped my robe to the floor and stepped to the tub but left the water running to drown out any message interference.

Turning to step into the steaming water, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I generally tried to avoid this, but I'd been careless. I was surprised, in fact, by how different I looked since the last time I'd caught a glimpse of my figure. I had never been slim. I'd been too muscular to be slim. But I'd never really looked 'athletic' either. Too rubenesque really. Normally this was not something I admired, but curves were suddenly back in vogue and I had them in droves. My recent adventures in yoga were apparently paying off too. I stepped my other foot into the 'hotter than medically recommended' water and caught sight of what my mother would call my 'derriere'. The amazing thing was that I had one. Well, at least one worth noticing. Guess all those horrid squats were paying off. I sank my recently lifted 'derriere' into the billowing bubbles and placed my tea and chocolate within easy reach.

The water washed over me, the warm citrus and mint bubbles tickling my chin. Too much water to be good for anything, but the environment be damned. I needed a good soak and that can't happen in 3 inches of water. I always found baths therapeutic. Like baptism for dummies. Soak a bit and emerge a new woman. The water cleansing me of all... but my worries. How could I possibly go back to work? Where could I find another job? How could I avoid my mother's inevitable prying questions? Why on earth did I ever fall for Richard? How could I have done that to his wife? He never claimed he was single. I just chose to ignore the picture on the bookshelf. But how could he have done that to her? Surely she didn't deserve such cruelty. Even more puzzling: what possessed her to take him back?

While I remembered Richard once seeming charming, handsome, even sexy, all I could see now was that stupid grin of his. When I first met him I thought the grin was odd, then I found it endearing as we shared secret jokes at work. Now it was just creepy. Like the Grinch when he lies to Cindy Lou, only Richard uses Whitestrips. I bet he practises that grin and imagines the little sparkle they use in cheesy toothpaste ads. Ugh. It made my skin crawl just thinking about it.

I submerged myself under the bubble layers to wash away my thoughts and resurfaced soapy-wet, but refreshed. I lay back against my fuzzy bath pillow and closed my eyes. I needed to refocus, so I'd try practising my yogic breathing. Slowly I deepened my breath, expanding my belly with each inhalation, listening only to the sound it made in my throat. I visualized the stress leaving my body with each exhalation, parting the sea of bubbles and breaking free. After a few minutes of internal warmth gradually spreading through my body, I felt the release I was longing. A wave of relaxation washed through me and all my muscles finally gave into the impulse to do nothing. I started to sink deeper into the water and briefly considered pressing my feet into the end of the tub to delay my descent, but wanted to relish the absolute freedom of floating instead. Soon enough, I stopped sinking and began to float, washed by the ripples caused by my own breath. I closed my eyes for a moment felt completely at peace, but I knew I couldn't stay in the tub forever. I wriggled my fingers and toes, trying to gain some momentum for movement, but instead became distracted by the texture of my wrinkled digits. Trying once again to reenter reality, I gently pushed my feet against the end of the tub and raised my head out of the water. The air on my head felt cool, but not cold. I took stock of the situation. The bathwater was only lukewarm, my tea had stopped steaming, and my chocolate sat unopened on the side of the tub. Mission accomplished: stress and calories both at zero. So I slowly pulled myself from the dying bubbles and decided to reward my self-control by eating the chocolate anyway. Rule number four: once out of the cupboard, chocolate may not be returned.

Sunday, November 07, 2004

Nano Nano so far

Siobhan's Solace


I live in an empty place. Though my abode is full of objects – bric-a-brac, kitsch, trinkets – it just doesn't feel complete anymore. Most of my 'objets d'art' as I refer to them, I have collected in only the last few years. I never planned to start collecting anything, it just happened.

One day as I was walking to the deli at lunch, I decided to walk through the market – you know, one of those farmers' and flea things with little kiosks that pop up in the oddest of locales. Usually I try to avoid the market. With only 40 minutes for lunch, heading towards 4 blocks of elbow-your-way-through traffic never seemed like such a good idea, but I guess time didn't really matter that day. As I wandered down the thoroughfare, I noticed it. Its golden wings glinted in the sunlight that filtered through the holes in the kiosk's barely tented roof. I couldn't tell what it was at first, but as I drew closer... no, as it drew me closer, for I really didn't have any say or so it felt... I noticed the fragilely gilt wings, the saucy pose, and the puckish grin all there for my benefit. All thoughts of hunger dissipated and I fumbled for my wallet.

How I found 40 dollars in my purse I have no idea. I never have that much cash with me. I'm strictly a plastic purchaser. Need to collect all those points. It would wasteful not to. Regardless, I had the cash, paid quickly and waited with anticipation as the old woman behind the table wrapped her up in tissue paper, then in newspaper, to place her in nothing more than a generic pink plastic bag. While she had been wrapping my purchase, all I could think about was where I could put her. She really didn't fit the decor in my flat. Why was I buying her anyway? I had no idea. I even began to tell the lady that I'd changed my mind. But just as I was about to speak, the tissue ripped slightly and that teeny upturned mouth stopped me in my tracks. So I resolved to take her home, but still had no clue what I would do with a statue of a golden fairy.

Fairies don't exactly fit into my art collection. Somehow I can't really picture Matisse, Dali, and _________ willingly displayed next to 'Oberon the Fairy King'. Actually, the statue couldn't have been Oberon; it was too effete, too androgynous. But it also looked too good-natured to be Puck. Maybe the statue was the embodiment of a changeling: innocent and childlike, but with hint of fairy mischief. Like the good kid who secretly relishes comic books, or the students in school who actually understand the ‘teacher jokes’ but just smile knowingly so the teacher can tell, but the other kids can't. Regardless, it still wouldn't fit in between my art prints and my IKEA furniture. It definitely wasn't a Nordic fairy. No clean lines here. And it would be a bugger to dust.

I hate dust! Life can really suck when you're allergic to the one ingredient in every room on earth. The reason I had IKEA furniture in the first place it that it's all flat, no nooks and crannies for dust to make bunnies. Easy to fit up that stupid staircase in flat boxes, and easy enough to clean. All that hard work for nothing. Amazing how one dust magnet can ruin your day. Except it didn't ruin my day. What ruined my day was that pink bag. It reminded me of the pink folder waiting for me on my desk, which reminded me of work, which reminded me of lunch, and time… and being late. So instead of deciding where to house my new golden fairy, I had to rush my way through the crowd to my office. The office where I was being awaited by my one o'clock appointment: my boss. The boss who had every reason to want me out of the firm. The boss who saw me run down the hall to his office, precious pink shopping bag clutched to my chest. Great! Late for performance review because I was shopping! Some days fairies can wreak havoc with your day.

I slinked into Richard’s office. I tried to hide the bag behind my back, but that cheap plastic kept wrinkling the way chip bags do when you least want to be caught eating. It was pointless anyway. He’d seen me run with it down the hall. What to do? Confess that I’d gone insane and blown my lunch hour, not to mention forty bucks, on a fairy statue? Give it to him as a gift of appreciation for all the ‘magic’ he works at the office? Claim my purse broke this morning and the bag was all I could find to use instead?

Just as I was scrounging up the courage to come clean – better to face his recriminations now than my own guilt later, especially given he can tell when I lie – he stopped me in my tracks.

I'm--” we both stammered as I reached the door. We paused, awkwardly waiting to see who would have the courage to begin again.

I’m glad you haven’t been waiting for me too –“

I’m really sorry, I –“

Nothing to be sorry for. I was worried that you had been waiting for me. I know you hate waiting, but I guess Ilene told you I got held up in the Board Meeting this morning.” I nodded my head in agreement, not knowing how to respond. “Some of the shareholders aren’t happy with the way the merger talks are going. Seem to think they know more about business than anyone else. They keep acting like they’ve employed incompetents, so I don’t know why they’re surprised they don’t like how we’re handling things. Some days I really hate being the 'boss'.”

Which leads me to why I’ve asked to see you. I know this is supposed to be your annual performance review, but there’s no point in talking about that.” Richard smiled and I felt my heart race. Whether it was because I was about to lose my job or I suddenly remembered why I'd fallen in love with him I couldn't be sure. Regardless I certainly couldn't afford to lose this job.

No point?” I squeaked. “I’ve improved my commissions twelve percent in the last six months alone, and you’re going to fire me? I can’t believe this.”

Well, that’s good,” Richard said with a mischievous grin. Why did he always have to smile?

Firing me is good? Tell that to the Human Rights Commission.” I shot back. Richard looked stunned for a moment. I never used to miss his jokes.

Uh... no,” he stuttered, “not good that you’re fired. Good that you can’t believe it. You’re not fired. God, Siobhan, I’d have to be an idiot to fire you. I know I've done some stupid things to you, but I'm not that dumb.”

Oh,” I said, despite the fact all I could think about was the last time I’d heard that. That’ s what he'd said when he dumped me too. I guess even idiots are allowed their moments of brilliance.

Firing is out of the question. I wanted to discuss the possibility of a sort of promotion.”

Okay, so this was going to be a very odd meeting. I already knew that. We hadn't spoken in two weeks. While we needed to work together closely, we'd been communicating exclusively via email since the company masquerade. Speech was just too difficult. Richard had tried setting up conference calls, but I felt my voice left me naked, and always found a way to miss them. My voice betrayed too much. I couldn't afford to give anything away. Certainly not to him. I could be much more guarded in my writing. So we emailed, and memoed, and left notes on each other's office doors. But this meeting had been scheduled for weeks, and even I knew that he couldn't postpone my review. But why bring up the issue of promotion. I was sure Richard would want me out of the office. After everything I'd done, I certainly didn't want to work there any more, but I couldn't afford to quit. If he promoted me, we'd have to work together even more. So he must have an alterior motive, but what? I was the only one of the floor who hadn’t applied for the open position last week. Did he want to persuade me to apply? Did it make him look bad if I was the lone holdout? What’s “sort of promotion” anyway?

A ‘sort of promotion’? What does that mean exactly?”

“Well, ________ and I...”

My eyes drifted to the picture of Richard's wife on the bookcase. It had never been on his desk. He always said that he didn't like to be “stared at” while he was working, so the picture had always lived on the shelves behind his desk. Where her stare could bore holes into the back of his head. Maybe that's what had 'impaired' his judgment so much. Now, she was staring directly at me, just like the night of the masquerade. I blinked and looked at Richard who had stopped talking.

“I'm sorry. I missed that. I must be microsleeping,” I grinned sheepishly.

“I was just saying that we're going on an extended honeymoon of sorts and that I can’t leave the office without someone in charge at this point in the merger. So, Simon’s agreed to take on my part in the merger talks, but I need someone to run the day to day office.”

Ahoneymoon “of sorts”... interesting way to put it. Still not very committed language, Richard. That'll get you in trouble. Besides isn't it kind of soon for a second honeymoon. I mean you just recanted your divorce “request” last week. Has she already forgiven you for our dalliance? I don't think so. Not yet anyway. Too quick. You still have clothes at my apartment for chrissakes.

“I see,” I said slowly, trying to suppress the anger rising in throat, “so I'm qualified to do your job, but only the 'day to day' stuff? Let me guess, the board doesn't want a woman dealing with the merger? Or is that just your bias?” I rose from my chair and strode to the door. “Well, you can take the promotion and 'sort of' shove it.”

As I stormed from his office, I could hear the buzz of the office come to a standstill. I could feel everyone's stares. I could feel Richard follow me through the maze of cubicles, but I kept walking, staring straight ahead as people moved out of my way. I could feel my heart sticking in my throat and the tears rising, but I had only ten more feet to freedom. I broke into a run near the foyer and heard Richard quicken to meet my pace. I couldn't bear to wait for the lift, so I ran for stairs. I threw open the door to the stairwell and darted through. Running down the first flight of stairs, I quickly glanced back to see the door closing on Richard and quickened my pace.

I didn't stop running until I reached my car. I fumbled with the door and climbed inside. As I started the car I could see Richard just approaching the door into the parkade. I revved the engine and briefly considered waiting and running him down, but decided all I really wanted to do was go home. I turned left and as I drove to the exit gate I spotted Richard in my rearview... waving a pink bag.


I'm not entirely sure how I got home. I don't even know how long it took me. The state of my mascara told me it hadn't been a dry commute. And I felt I hadn't breathed until I'd locked the door behind me. How could I have been so stupid? Now I couldn't possibly go back to work, but I could afford even less not to. Why did life have to be so complicated?

It was always times like these that I wished I liked alcohol. Or drugs. Or even cigarettes. Instead, I beelined to the cupboard above the fridge, pulled on the lock that I never really locked, and fished out my emergency chocolate. Skor!

I never felt I had much in common with other women, but I definitely fell victim to the chocolate gene. At least I didn't indulge with wild abandon, though that may have felt good at the time. I had rules about chocolate. Chocolate was for extreme emergencies only. This certainly qualified. Chocolate could only be enjoyed during a bath. If I finished my ration I would have to want another bar enough to towel off and freeze on my way back to the kitchen for a refill. And chocolate must never be eaten alone. Time for tea and sympathy then. Or at least tea and chocolate. I put on the kettle and went to draw my bath.

In the bathroom, I ran the hot water over my fingers until I couldn't bear it, then turned on the cold. I kicked off my sandals and stood staring in the mirror. My face was a mess. Mascara drained from my eyes and my “Raspberry Reputation” had been smeared from my lips. The corresponding stain was on my right sleeve. I grabbed a make-up remover pad and was all set to scrape the remains off my face when the words of my mother filled my ears. “Be gentle with the skin around the eyes. It's very delicate. Use soft, gentle strokes.” Too bad she'd never used the same advice to raise her children. I shook my head and silenced her. I finished removing all traces of ________ from my face, slid out of my blouse, and left it in the sink to soak. I rummaged through the wicker basket on the counter to find my favourite wallowing bath bubbles and added a generous splosh to the tub. Trading the rest of my clothes for my housecoat, I went back to the kitchen to make my tea and retrieve my chocolate. Only one element remained. I cranked the stereo on my way back to the bathroom and prepared myself for a long, wrinkly soak.