Fast Food Fraud

I am ashamed to admit that this Plantain has proven herself to be a fraud.
Where, not too long ago I boasted a bottomless pit of a stomach, ready to ingest french fries and stuffing galore from the Festive Special I found myself unable to live up to those assertions.

Last night, I am sad to say, I ordered the festive special.

Let me backtrack slightly and say that first of all, I am leaving on my beach vaca in 2 days- not exactly the time I want to be stuffing (pun.intended) my face with...stuffing right?
Secondly, we sit down to eat and are ready to order and I have just begun to rationalize how I need some oil in my meal and hey, potato is a vegetable too isn't it?
My father in law, who is sitting beside me, goes "I hear that the festive special has 3 times the calories of a Big Mac".

Well, that is a deterrent to my precious french fries if ever I heard one.

And so, regretfully I ordered the festive special, white meat, no skin, with steamed vegetables filling the void where heavenly fries would have occupied. I dipped into the chalet sauce cautiously, only just picked at the stuffing and cried on the inside that I have such food guilt that I would go ahead and deny myself these wonderful treats.

Anyways, I feel like I have cleared some air- I'm sorry for lying about my willingness to consume this dish- it really is my absolute favorite- which leads me to the topic of the day- food envy.

I would say that I experience food envy at least 90 percent of the time I eat out making my dining experience quite excruciating for my dining companions (this is usually my husband) who must relinquish their own well-chosen meal and give in to my stabbing fork awaiting bites of the meal I should have had.

Example:
This past weekend after getting physically abused by our travel doctor, we went to grab a quick brunch at Fire on the East Side. I love this place both because it serves amazing banana bread pre meal and the bathrooms are a full on gong show- they are connected to The Fly, a nightclub. I don't know if it is PC to say it is a gay nightclub and I would abso hate to offend anyone by labeling it as such, but it is and the bathroom walls- the only part of the club I have seen- are plastered with oiled up men in briefs and ads for safe sex. I always have thought this to be funny messaging to consider when enjoying your morning bacon hangover.

I digress.

So brunch, we go and first thing on the menu is a smoked turkey and sweet potato hash. This, to me, sounds like heaven on a plate- but of course, being perpetually concerned about "being healthy" I opt instead for the Poached eggs with salsa and salad.

This is the obvious wrong choice and I already know it- who the F can enjoy crappy poached eggs while breathing in the aromas of the melted cheddar, smokey hickory meat and perfectly mashed potato wafting over from the adjacent plate?

And so of course, I don't, and instead spend majority of my meal picking through my eggs and sneaking mouthfuls of savory turkey wonderfulness every time my husband turns his head- he wonders how is plate clears so fast- I giggle.

And this is just one of MANY times that I do this- why? It would seem so much more intelligent to just go ahead and eat what I want instead of stealing it from the mouths of my hungry co-diners right?

Either way, please don't read this and never want to eat with me again- I swear I won't eat of your plate or pick your scraps or force you to share with me*

*promise null and void upon ordering.

Scary doctors are scary

So, this past weekend was really fun- great Friday night, hilarious Saturday night, lovely Sunday- I could use a volume of positive adjectives to describe the weekend really.

However, every rose has its thorn, as they say (someone says that right??) and mine was in the form of Saturday morning at the travel doctor.

First of all, I hate going to the doctor with the explicit purpose of getting a needle. Call me a baby if you will but needles and me are not friends- not even distant acquaintances-  I only hate them and no lollypop makes them better.

But, alas, I knew I needed a Typhoid shot so feet-a-draggin I walked into the office at 9am ready to be pricked.

To my horror, I discovered that not only did I need Typhoid but also 2 other needles- that is 3 in total (I am good at math right?). 3!!!!!!!

So after the nurse gave our consultation aka. sentence to pain- we were asked to wait to meet the doctor. I spent that entire 10 minutes shitting bricks- could of built a small house yo. All the while of course with my husband hissing in my ear to stop being such a big poonany- thank.you.husband.

So, doctor calls us in and I am met with this giant man (not unlike Jabba the hut) sitting behind a huge desk, breathing heavy as if he is at Pancers eating an extra fatty corned beef tapping his sausage like fingers on our files while sweat begins to form small droplets on his half balding for-sure receding hairline. If you could picture a greasy accountant or private eye you would find in the classifieds, multiply by 100.

Never has a doctor been so appealing to me than one who looks like he would eat me for an appetizer.

This man just freaked us both right out- he basically didn't move at all in our "consultation" having his secretary write out the prescriptions which she then passed to him for his slovenly signature. He signed while the skin under his chins jiggled at the slight movement of the pen scrawling his name on the papers.

After a "thorough" 5 minutes we were dismissed and asked to wait for our shots- in the meantime, we got a bunch of prescriptions and the go ahead for 3 needles- 5 minutes, to me, doesn't seem like a sufficient amount of time to really be sure about the necessity of all said medicines- but, hey, if it says Doctor in front of your name, you must be right- right?

So about 3 seconds later we are being escorted by the original nurse to the back of the office for our shots. Enter Boris, the barely English speaking Russian shot administrator who guides us into the "examination room"- also known as the office in the back with a bookshelf of reading including Excel 2003 For Dummies. Nothing says needle safety like having your set of needles given to you while you sit on top of a desk next to a computer.

Now, bravery isn't my strong suit but I would say that me and my lollypop (oh ya, I still took one even though I am not 4- big whoop, wanna fight about it?) really held strong while my arm was violated over and over.

We finished up- bid our Russian torturer a thank you and ran out the door agreeing that this was by far one of the more odd places we had ever visited. Thank gosh for an afternoon of board games store and triple cream brie to numb the pain*

*pain was not actually numbed- I have slept like a mummy for the past 2 nights and quietly barf every time someone touches either arm- because, oh ya, he split them up into both arms- one would just not suffice this mad man.

Sketchy doctors- horray!

That's what friends are for

So, Happy Friday everyone,

The sun is shining, the super subway didn't super-suck this morning... everything is coming up plantains.

This weekend I am very much looking forward to a holiday get together with my favorite girls.
I have a really amazing group of friends that I have stayed consistently friends with since high school ish times- which doesn't sound like much except that by now it has been anywhere from 10- 15 years of friendship- which is a lot of time to really put up with someone.

I am lucky because these girls are not only wonderful, but we have allowed one another to grow up separately and yet still maintained a closeness that only really can exist between people who REALLY know one another.

No drama, no bullshit lots of laughing and lots of effort to do stuff together- just how I think a good friendship should be.... to me, once you have nothing to do with someone and you no longer laugh together, you may as well not really hang out. Who on earth has time for that?

And of course, having just gone through a tiny rough patch, I knew that these would be the girls to really be there for me, as they usually tend to be- they did not disappoint.

And the point of all of this is that I think a lot about relationships between people and how incredibly dynamic they are and how even more important they are. I think it is a strong testament to a person's character when you see their friends and lovers. I find myself weary of people who don't have long term friends- no matter how cool these people seem, there must be something weird about you if no one wants to stay your friend right?

I likewise find myself always drawn to people who have many close friends and value friendship in the same regard as I do- listen, truth be told, I was lucky enough to marry my best friend- there are VERY few people who know as much about me and my secrets as him BUT after a long week, during special times and then especially during the harder ones, I am damn lucky to have my best friends to celebrate/vent/cry/laugh with.

So, people, enjoy your friends, enjoy your days, and enjoy this weekend- last one before the holiday madness begins!!!

Holla,

I can hear you, cookies.

So, like a good 80 year old lady, this weekend, when under stress, I baked.

As I have mentioned, I am not the worlds best kitchen person and baking has always been an especially sore spot for my inability to make anything good.

But being that baking is ultra time consuming, and then you get cookies, I felt it the best remedy to my overabundance of adrenaline and uber anxiety. I was right.

Now the problem with baking is that my mom is a killer baker so I always aspire high with her in mind but without her patience and accuracy, don't quite meet the mark.

Growing up as a close relative to the cookie monster and having this full blown baker who lived with me I ate my fair share of sweets however always most memorable was gingerbread cookies with made-from-scratch icing.

yeeeeah buddy.

So with molasses on the brain, I sought out the ingredients to make the beloved cookies avec icing.

Dear grocery stores,
why must you be so hard to navigate sometimes? All I wanted was ground ginger...

Anyways since Saturday I have made 8 batches of cookies and eaten about 1 batch worth of cookie dough (thank you Toronto Life article for letting me know how detrimental to health dough can be- dear tapeworms to be...).

First of all, how on earth does one master the cookie- like an entity unto itself. I bake the first batch for 12 minutes as my mom's handwritten recipe suggests- too crispy, I bake the next round for 10 minutes- not crispy enough, 11 minutes- burnt, back to 10- raw in the middle. They are all cut in the same shape at around the same thickness- what. gives.

It's as if they get lined up on the baking sheet, get into the oven and then conspire with one another about how to fuck around. And yes, I realize that cookies don't talk- or do they? I mean, who is to say what goes on behind closed oven doors?
Perhaps the cookies think that if they work together to ruin the batch then they won't get eaten. Ha-ha my cookie friends- you are wrong.

Anyways, I have made about 6 successful cookies. total.

And then there is the delicate issue of the icing.

Dear icing,
you are not sweet- well, yes, you are sweet- you are made of 100% sugar for gosh sakes- but you are not nice- to me, when I frost, my shitty cookies.
Here is what I have learned.
Tye-Dye icing= bad/looks like someone barfed on your cookie
Icing faces= creepy, especially when the eyes drip
Purple Icing= as unappetizing as that purple ketchup that once came out which I thought was funny to buy and then made me ill every time I had to use it on my grilled cheeses.

It is all bad.

Fortunately, despite being under/over cooked and looking as though they were made by a 2 year old ADD child- nothing is quite as good as a homemade cookie and in between scraping icing off the ceiling and countertops, washing the cusinart over and again and dusting flour from every surface of the entire apartment I forgot to stress- so in the end..... winning.

Next up- I abandon gingerbread (for now) and move to savory shortbread for this weekends holiday fiesta- will it be melted cheese disaster or melt in your mouth goodness? Who can say folks. Who?

Going on a lion hunt....

So on Saturday I went with my mom and husband to MEC to get some gear for my upcoming honeymoon which inches closer every day (cant.wait.).

Mountain Equipment Coop is the most insane place ever.

So I needed a backpack having long lost whatever one I used on my last backpacking adventure some 5 years ago. I don't think I bought one for my last trip- I m sure I found or borrowed it so I have never really spent much time in the MEC backpack section (usually only hitting up the knife section for my hubby- don't ask, apparently he needs more than one size knife for his knifing needs- what are they? not sure but  will be grateful if we are ever trapped in the woods and he can rescue us via various knife sizes- boys are cute.)- wo-ha that section is massive.

How many different backpacks could one utilize? Apparently close to 100.
A lovely woman named Cheryl was my saviour and helped me to locate the bag for me- loaded it up with 25 pounds (yikes) and set me off around the store to see if I would tip over. I managed to stay upright- albeit hunched. Mission accomplished and backpack solved- and this thing is wicked- it has a fully detachable day bag, about a bazillion compartments (yes, people, a bazillion) and a foldy-over thing for the plane- foldy over- excuse my technical jargon.

Thank gosh for Cheryl in that dept because after I left her I was as lost as a person in a very dark room who just cant find the door.

How on earth would I know which level of hiking boot I would need? Um, the ones that look the best? That didn't bode well as an answer to the too-cool-to-care boy who got me a size in what I thought were the only pair that wouldn't make me look like a mountaineer asshole. Suffice to say, that was all the help he offered me after that.

But really, how would I know?

I opted to not even bother with hiking boots and go with my trusty running shoes- I hope they will get me by in the jungle.

When I finally tracked the boy down to inquire about the differences between the 6 models of fivefinger shoes (you know, those shoes with toe slots? like gloves?) he told me they were all the same. Um, obvi not. They wouldn't have 6 different types if they were all the same now would they? That is just stupid.

He failed to give me any useful information and I began to get irritable. I try and remove myself from irritating people when I get this way- no one needs to be told what a cock sucker they are just because I don't like them....

So fine, don't tell me about the different types of stupid toe shoes- you suck.

I chose the ones I saw my trainer wearing, since I am using them for training, seemed like a good idea. My husband is already embarrassed to be seen with me wearing them- they are pretty flagrant. Like frog-woman.

ribbit.

Anywho- thought I would also grab some more technical gear (yoga clothes) and was delighted to find a fairly good section of amazing prana clothing...however, in this department I was met with a girl who, when I asked about how the tops and sports bras fit- she said, one size fits all. I would say that would be the case if it actually fit once I bought it under her advisement and brought it home. Instead I had two hanging folds of fabric where my boobs would fit if I was a C cup. Liar.

Anyways- MEC, amazing store, super amazing gadgets and goods, but people, don't fucking judge me because I haven't done a jungle adventure trek before- it's like judging a fat person who starts at the gym- we all have to begin somewhere- so please, leave the pretension in the woods...

take that.

Food for thought

So last night after work, myself and 2 of my wicked co-workers walked down to College to check out the new Loblaws that opened at former Maple Leaf Gardens.

I admit in advance that I love grocery stores- the food, the classifying of the food, the touching, smelling- a full sensory experience that yields bags-o-plenty to come home with.

But oh-boy you should go to this Loblaws. So we will forget for a moment that the upstairs of this store houses a huge Joe Fresh (dear cheap and cheerful color coordinated clothing- le sigh) AND a ginormous LCBO and focus on main floor goodness beginning with the flower market that paves your entrance into the pre-made food and deli counter.

I would say, without exaggeration that there must have been over 100 different deli meats- there were like 30 kinds of salami. 30!!

There was a pre-made food in containers section, a pre-made food behind the counter section, and a pre-made food salad bar esque thing too.

Moving along to the produce... it was the brightest produce I have ever seen. Did the exceptional lighting and meticulously clean floors make the green peppers glow even greener? Perhaps.... perhaps.

I was looking for some side dishes to go with our chicken dinner and almost passed the fuck out when I came to a wall of baby food. I totally don't mean like mashed peas by Gerber either- I mean regular food in baby sizes- like carrots as long as my fingers, cauliflowers that fit in the palm of your hand, and brussel sprouts that were the size of a penny. I bought every baby thing I could find- you just can't say no to cute food. I freakin dare you to reject the brocollini.

I meandered past the Ace bakery counter and towards the candy counter which had caught my eye when  I passed the wall of cheese.

Oh yes people, the pictures and stories are true- this bitch has a full out wall of cheese that reaches up to ceiling and houses some rarer and more amazing cheeses within its glass doors. I shat myself.

They not only had a full out health food section but one that categorized the health foods into international distinctions. A whole section of Mexican health food.... woa-ha

I remembered about the candy and headed over to that section to find gourmet candy, cupcakes, tarts, pastries, gelato, coffee- basically anything sexy and desserty.

If my husband had not called at that moment waiting outside to pick me up on his way home from work I would have just tweaked out all over those blue menu boxes.

Anywho- realize this isn't such a biting and or sarcastic or really funny blog- I had a bad end of day- but wanted to seriously endorse this place. This puts all other grocery shops to shame- the Superman of groceries, some may say.... someone says that right??????

I feel it in my fingers....

Well holy moly, it is December 7th. Where does time go?
Don't get me wrong, not complaining one bit as I am off across the world on my almost-month-long honeymoon is just 2 weeks but still, time flies.

December through to New Years is my second favorite time of the year next to Halloween- I don't celebrate the holidays but I certainly enjoy them.

Holiday Season = best.stuff.
First and foremost, the Festive Special. If you find yourself stumped at this concept then you are a total weirdo because the Festive Special has been a go-to Holiday staple for the past 29 years of my life... ok, well probs not all 29 years as I am sure my mom wasn't pureeing baby food out of the quarter chicken dinner... but let's not nitpick ok??

Damn Swiss Chalet, you make one fine side of stuffing. Don't care if the nickname "dirty bird" is legit, don't care how much cellulite I will incur as a result of your oil drenched fries- only care about how delicious you are and how much I die for your dipping sauce.
Hot dang I love that stuff.

I will say that ever since they replaced Toblerone with Lindor I have been less excited by the dessert portion but still, chocolate in a paper house- how can you go that wrong- I endure*
(*shovel my face so fast that you would question whether I am or the speed of light is in fact faster)

Second, every single drink they have at Starbucks. Gingerbread latte? Yes please. Mint Chocolate Chritmas something something- yes to that too. Heck, if you poured regular coffee and called it the Christmas blend I would line up for that shit also (oh wait....)

Third, those super delicious chocolate orange balls- you know, the ones that you crack open and then eat in slices? B-yond.

Anyways, I could go on and on about the lights, the kitchy decorations, the mulled wine, the cookies, the festive feelings, the mall displays...

blah blah blah, holiday season is nice.

So? What is your favorite part of the holidays?
What are you looking forward to?

You in a sentence

So back to the weekend folks, because, as I mentioned, it was jam packed.
Saturday after a wicked day of shopping- hello new velvet shoes- My husband and I headed to an engagement party to celebrate the upcoming nuptials of a very close friend.

Now, I seriously love weddings and everything that goes with them but one thing I dread is the engagement party. Showers are girly and silly, Bachelorettes are drunk, weddings are dancing, drinking, eating hilarity- but engagement parties are civil, mingling events where long conversations spawn up way more than they do at their wedding counterpart (after-all, who is leaving the macarena to chat politics- am I right people? Ah, the macarena- I am so old... cotton eye joe anyone?)

Anyways, although much better with age, I am still pretty damn awkward and so subsequently, I cower in the face of a mingling event because it means I am going to be forced into long conversations with people I don't necessarily know.

Which brings me to the point of this post. So, I work in a creative hybrid agency where my day-to-day changes by the minute and I work on anything from one end of the spectrum to another. And so, how do I explain myself when asked the inevitable question of "So, what do you do?"

What do I do??? Can I say I am like Wonderwoman? A Jill of all trades?
Do I say where I work? My ambiguous job title? My department? A full-out description of my job? A general field in which I subscribe to as a professional?

It is hard yo.

So it got me thinking as to how people go about "selling" themselves. I watched a youtube video on the topic and sweat from my palms trying to figure out how to use this video and apply it to myself- the guy was an engineer- so totally relatable (not).

Google told me that I am not alone in this What-on-earth-do-I-say-to-all-these-people. Nice to feel like there is other life on this planet right?

So please please please- I emplore and challenge you to tell me what you do in one short sentence so that I may learn a thing or two from my valuable readers.

905 in the 416

Hi- how was your weekends readers?

Mine was.... good... felt really long which is always nice right?

Ok, so I think I must separate the topics I wish to address into 2 posts- but read both. ok?
Seriously, I am going to google stat you to make sure you read both- or do you think 1 is more boring than the other?

You think I am boring!!!???? No you don't.

Anyways,
So I guess we will go chronologically and begin with my Friday at that new (ish) bowling place at John and Richmond.

Dear patrons of the nightclubs and bars in "Clubland",
Ew.
Ew,ew,ew.
Oh, hey dudes- Jersey Shore is calling, wants the reeking smell of CKOne and the hair gel back.
Does nothing change?
It has been a long time since I set foot near Clubland- in fact, so long that I think the last time I was there, Fez Batik was a club and not a homeless shelter.
Did I date myself just now?

Anyways, once upon a time when I used a fake ID with a girl's name that I could not even pronounce, I used to LURVE clubbing. In my mind, along with being a Grammy calibre singer, I am a front backup dancer to JLO. That good. (In reality I think I usually look constipated- I always fucking look constipated when I try to look sexy- so know, if I look like I am shitting bricks, I am just trying to impress you?).

What I remember most- and I seem to remember a lot which is indicative of a night drinking peach schnapps- not quite the drunk level of vodka shots are they?- so I remember the guys at clubs. They all felt moist, they all had bad hair and gel dripping on their sideburns, they all stunk like cheap hooker men and they all wore those awful pumas. They would slink through the dance floor finding that opportune moment to grab at your behind and sort of thrust themselves into you. You were left with the option to either play along and pray they didn't get a boner on your back OR pretend to be in an exclusive relationship with one of the girls you came in.

Either way, shit hasn't changed much- same dudes, different year. Sorry ladies.

But the Ladies- you are just as bad come to think of it.
Dear girls,
I can see your vaginas.
No, seriously, I can see your vaginas.
Girls, some of you are cute, no need to show your whole sundae to these dudes. Ever heard the expression less is more? It is not just something your mom says. Ever heard the one about the cow and the milk? That one holds true too.
What more than a boner in the back can you possibly expect when you wear shoes you can't walk in and a skirt that is too short for a prostitute?

Just saying.

Either way, Clubland= gross. Between the odor of barf, the cheap cigarettes and the underages lingering in parking lots drinking out of plastic bottles, I could never go there agin and be contented.

Getting old, makes shit so much less glam.

Bowling for Bananas and Birthdays- and Bubbles

Oh hi. Happy Friday y'all.

Got weekend plans?
I am celebrating my fabulous friend's dirty 30 with a bowling night.

Oh man, do I love bowling.

Like most things requiring the slightest of athletic ability, I suck at it- mind you, since training so hard these last few months- who knows, maybe my newfound strength will amount to my being a fabulous bowler (didn't help me much in dodgeball, but you never know)....

I have this really longstanding love for bowling and when it reappears in my life, as it often does, I revel in it.

A million years ago when I worked at a small resort in butfuck Michigan, my "days off" were limited to going into "town". I put town in quotations not because it wasn't a town, it was- not like we were in some crazy alterna-town or anything, but it consisted of a fireworks/gun/convenience store (all in one!), a bar/a seafood restaurant (combi-what), a community center, and a bowling alley.

To say I became a bowling pro during that summer away would be an understatement. I was balling (hahah- get it, with balls, like in bowling?)

But my summer ended and with it the popularity of bowling as a recreational option. Sure, over the years, as I mentioned, bowling has popped up here and there- usually as a hack date idea or something kind of ironic you do with friends at one of the shitty bowling alleys up north (and by shitty I mean amazing as they only play Dance Mix '92 and have neon glo lights that serve only to show you how unbelievably dirty their floors are while you drink warm American beer- a-maze-balls).

I would say about 2 years ago we started bowling again- it began as something funny to do while semi drunk on a Saturday night after dinner with a whole bunch of friends and turned into a desired activity of choice that we did more than a few times since.

I can't say that it is a direct result of this resurgence in the love for the pins among my friends that inspired someone to open a retro themed alley in the heart of downtown Toronto making bowling THE cool thing to do among the downtown sceney crowd- but, ya, what the fuck, I will. I think it no coincidence that our bowling adventure spawned into this rage- because, thats how we roll- inspiring trends all over the world.

Anyways- I digress. So, now I find myself attending the birthday of one of my more savvy and trendy friends and, voila, we are bowling.

Only now, years after my glory days- I really do suck. I tend to do the following;

      Trip/slip on the actual alley

      Throw my all into an adjacent alley- just to make sure that whoever is beside us hates immediately

      Throw my ball into the gutter about 50 times in a row

      Throw a tantrum

      Rage internally as my husband tries to give me expert pointers 

      Rage externally when, after being yelled at to "aim to the right" I do so and end up throwing my ball  onto that sides alley- nothing like 2 neighbors who are counting down the minutes until you leave

      Throw the ball backwards and almost kill someone

      Get a strike late in the game and spend the rest of my time there gloating about how I used to be a great bowler.

Anywho- can't wait to play with those waxed balls- big and heavy- just how I like them

Have a great weekend everyone- see you Monday.

Volume Control

co- workers conversations can be funny
#iamalwayslistening.