Thursday, September 29, 2005
the world's most ethnically diverse city just added two more scoops of plain old vanilla.
So there you have it. Jason and I will be officially installed in Toronto by Saturday afternoon, and I shall be back up and posting regularly soon after that.
Until then, we are currently recovering from a gruelling 20 hours on the road to hunt for apartments, from which we came home much poorer, but with a set of keys to the world's smallest apartment in what was perversely referred to as a "basement suite."
Thursday: pack like a mofo
Friday: load trucks like packing mules
Saturday: fake an injury to get out of unloading truck
Sunday: greet hunky cable hookup guy in my flimsiest peignoir
Monday: recover from claustrophobia induced from world's smallest apartment
Tuesday: tell you guys all about it in detail you never knew you needed to know!
Wish us luck.
This just in: no internet or cable until October 9th. Yikes. Same with the phone. Someone will come to install between 8am and 11am for the first; 2pm to 5pm for the second. Sorry Jason, guess you can't have your Chucky Cheese birthday party after all.
Monday, September 26, 2005
2. So, we're hoarding boxes. Okay? That's just a premise you'll have to accept for this next bit to make sense. Jason and I went for an evening walk, and we stopped by the grocery store to get Jason a 50cent Kit Kat because somehow he just knew that his blood sugar was dangerously low. So anyway, for the last month or so it has been my policy not to give the grocery store my business unless I could bring my food home in boxes, and there are several times during the week when there's slim pickins as far as boxes are concerned. But there was an abundance of boxes on this particular night, so I took 2. Yes, 2 boxes to carry home Jason's chocolate bar, which he actually ate before we even reached the sidewalk. Whatever. But then we had to carry these suckers home. So I fiddled annoyingly with mine until Jason offered to take it too (it was small enough to fit inside of his). But on the last leg of the walk, Jason was exasperated by its awkward size, so I took them back. And almost instantly, like half a dozen cars drove by, where none had been before. And Jason just couldn't deal with all these people seeing me carry home a box (which, I'm sure most people would assume was not empty), so his pride made him take them back. Heh. I love male pride!
3. My grandparents are dealers. Their current stash is large enough to get them busted not just for possession, but for trafficking, even though they're very careful and "only sell to people they know." But the law is tightening its belt, and the simple precautions of yore just aren't enough these days. Just last week, a total stranger knocked on their door to inquire as to how good a take they had on them. My grandparents denied knowing anything about it, and got rid of him quickly. Still, they're getting a bit too old for these shenanigans. My grandfather is thinking about selling off his equipment and giving up the business altogether. This is unfortunate, because they were never in it for the selling; they just enjoyed it recreationally. And not to be selfish, but man, I really loved being able to get the stuff for free! And I'll miss all the paraphenalia around their house, and the cute set-up they had for packaging the stuff themselves, and the scales for measuring, and the mysterious packages in the freezer. Good times. When I was a kid, I even went on runs with my grandfather. Those were some of the best times we had together. Even my grandmother, who often complained about the dangers of his going out by himself, will end up missing it in the end. And I think that we all took comfort in the fact that old fishermen never die, they just smell that way.
4. If the bible was really meant to be read, I think that:
a) they would have hired editors - at least 85% of it could have been cut, no problem.
b) they would have taken out the awkward phrasings, particularly the 'thou didsts' and the 'thou mayest nots'.
c) they would have planned for a happy ending. No one likes a downer. Bonus points if you leave some wiggle room for a sequel.
5. Jason has this thing where rims really bother him, and it seems that there are more and more cars with really ridiculous rims. I mean, if you drive a car that costs less than a good bottle of wine, you don't need rims. No, scratch that. You don't need rims no matter what kind of car you drive. Especially the twirly kind. You look like a goof. And what's even more annoying, is that Jason cannot stop himself from pointing out and mocking each and every specimen of this. EVERY one, and believe me, we live in a town of goofs. They may be on welfare, relying on other people's charity to clothe their kids, and getting evicted 3 times a month from roach-infested holes in the wall, but they have money for 3 things: fast food, beer, and pimping out their 1986 Ford Tempo. Classy.
6. Jason's grandparents recently had a trip out East, and they took the route that goes through Maine, and took some sort of high-speed catamaran to save them 6 hours of driving time. They had to drive like mad to make the boat on time, which left at 4pm and required them to be checked in by 3. But after a series of unfortunate events, they did not arrive until 3:59 which would mean losing their money, having to stay in a hotel, and losing a whole day of vacation. But for some odd reason, they were allowed to board the boat. Why? Well, it seems that on that very boat sat the elusive Richard Hatch, Mister "Oops I forgot to pay the taxes on my million dollar Survivor prize" and just then, the law had finally caught up with him. So, as he was arrested and led away, the boat was delayed, and Jason's grandparents now owe a debt to the fat naked guy that America loved to hate.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Uldukis has lived more than nine decades and though she is small and withered, only common sense indicates that this will be her last one. Her mind is sharp, her body is still a vehicle, if a slow-moving one. Her room in the nursing home is small and cramped with 93 years worth of accumulated stuff: photographs of a husband who has been dead nearly thirty years; knick-knacks from dozens of mother's days; primitive preschool paintings, yellowed and curling around the edges, done by grandchildren now in high school; books so numerous that her 6 shelves don't hold them all, so they line the walls at least waist-high, an awkward kind of wainscoting.
It is painful for Uldukis to tie her shoelaces because her knuckles are swollen from arthritis, but she is meticulous about her appearance. She never leaves the confines of her room without a brooch, a silk scarf tied around her neck, and at least 2 barrettes holding back her thin white hair. She is among the oldest residents of her nursing home, but also among the liveliest. She has made many friends during her 25-year stay, and has since watched most of them die. Thank goodness for these friends, though, because despite having 2 sons, 1 daughter, 6 grandchildren and 1 great-grandchild all living within 100 km, she rarely has a visitor.
On this frigid November day, Uldukis is going out. She bundles up in a long coat the colour of an eggplant, and tiny gray boots that you would have otherwise suspected belonged to a child. The senior's van drops her alone at a department store and she gets herself a shopping cart more for its support and aid in walking than for its intended purpose.
Uldukis has shopping to do; Christmas is fast approaching. She wields the cart around the store, the creaky wheel crying only slightly louder than her creaking bones. Every step is an effort, but she works hard to hide it. Uldukis is a proud woman. She is conscious of her decrepit appearance, and even more conscious of the disparity it has with the way she feels. Inside, she is still the caring mother, devoted wife, beloved school teacher, determined cancer survivor (twice), and strong matriarch which defined her all these years. But when death approaches, no matter how subtly, it wipes away all that has come before. Uldukis knows that she has no place in the world. Uldukis knows that she has hardly even a place in the very family that she founded. Uldukis knows she is forgotten.
Forgotten, yes, but Uldukis does not forget. And so she is shopping for a family that she rarely sees. A picture of her great-grandchild burns inside her wallet. She loves him fiercely even if she hasn't met him yet. He's almost 2.
She selects a gift for him first: a conservative woman, her instinct is always towards the practical. She picks out an outfit for him, and closes her eyes to remember how big a 22 month child would be. The clothing is of the sturdy, every-day kind, the kind that will withstand wear, and washing, and life. To balance out the gift, she guides her wobbly cart to the toy section, where she is instantly overwhelmed. Of the many, many things that line the shelves, she recognizes almost none of them as actual toys. And so she goes for what she knows best, a book.
Uldukis teeters around the store thoughtfully picking up gifts for all her family members. Several hours into her shopping, she spots a store employee who is setting up a display of sale merchandise. Uldukis trudges over to her, and asks for her help. She has several blouses in her cart, and she is trying to read the care labels in each one. Her failing eyesight is helped by the giant magnifying glass that she has brought with her for this very purpose, but it's not enough. The employee greets the tiny old woman with a smile, but she works in merchandise, behind the scenes, and this isn't her job. But there are no sales associates around, and so she does her best. Uldukis has several questions stored up: which colour do Âthe young peopleÂ prefer? Is it probable that her grandson would want a movie on the disc, rather than the tape? Where can she find the tea towels?
The store employee spends the next 3 hours following Uldukis around. Uldukis is so delighted with the company that she invents questions just to keep the shop girl from leaving. She boasts of her family members, and wants the girl's honest opinion on whether her grandson's girlfriend would like particular set of earrings. Even the young girl is exhausted by the time every person has been crossed off Uldukis' list, and her shift has ended long ago.
The girl waits with Uldukis in line at the cash, afraid that Uldukis's short arms won't reach to the bottom of the cart, and aware that she should probably be saved from all the bending and lifting anyway. Before she can get away, Uldukis asks for a favour: will she call the nursing home to let them know that she needs to be picked up now?
The girl calls, and the nurse who answers is gruff. She seems angry at the hassle. The girl aches for her little shopping companion, and the life she must lead, always feeling like an imposition even after such a formidable life.
Uldukis and the girl wait together at the entrance for the nursing home van to arrive. During the long wait, Uldukis shyly hands the girl a gift- a box of chocolates that she has purchased to say thank you for all her help. The girl feels the prickle of tears behind her eyes as she refuses the gift, and tells Uldukis that the pleasure of her company has been reward enough. Uldukis likes this answer so much, she grabs the girl around the waist, and holds on tight.
Finally, the van arrives. The driver is a somewhat friendly man, though he has the annoying habit of talking about Uldukis as though she isn't there.
ÂUldukis sure is a generous gift-giverÂ he notes, as he loads the packages. ÂLast year all the presents sat wrapped in her room well past Christmas because her family never took her home for the holidays. They sat there until the end of March, when we had to call her son because she had a minor stroke.Â
When Uldukis is ready to go, she reaches up to the girl, a virtual stranger, for a hug. The girl hugs her as fiercely as she dares embrace such brittle bones, surprised at her feeling. Uldukis waves at her friend-for-an-afternoon as the van pulls out of the parking lot.
The girl is so moved by this woman that she makes a point of visiting Uldukis before Christmas, and the visit is so well-received it is repeated several times that winter and spring. In fact, when Uldukis quietly passes away in her sleep that June, the department store employee has been her sole visitor that year. The Christmas gifts, so lovingly bought and wrapped brilliantly, are still piled in the room where Uldukis took her last breath.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
First, as a woman, let me just say this: it is perfectly okay to have a body part (or 2, or 3) that is reserved just for pleasure. As a matter of fact, it's great. It's 2 chocolate brownie sundaes, the kind with french vanilla ice cream that's just beginning to melt, and fresh homemade whipped cream, all covered in gooey hot fudge sauce. Oh yes, it's that good.
So if your nipples serve no other purpose than "oh my...oh my...oh yessss", then you should be okay with that.
However, if you must search for a higher meaning for your nipples, then look no further. If you want an answer, then I'll give you an answer, even if I have to make one up (which I am in no way doing, just to set the record straight).
Like other body parts that seemingly have no real function (the appendix for one, and ah...the um, earlobe, for another), many people believe that male nipples may simply be leftover from a time when we did need them. Evidence of evolution, you might say. For example, many yorn ago (and this is purely conjecture), appendixes (appendi?) served as homing devices. As you know, our hairy ancestors (and no, I am not referring to Jason's uncle Ned, although...whoa buddy, keep your shirt on) were nomads. Burger Kings were spaced really far apart back then, so they'd have to pack up their animal pelts (again, not referring to uncle Ned, although yes, I did call him that one Christmas after too much egg nog) and follow the meat. And unfortunately, no one had invented those yellow-tinted snow goggles that all the hottie snowboarders wear, and we all know that cavemen are much too manly to hold hands, and so the nomads got separated, but every spring their appendixes would put out silent homing signals so the people could meet up and fuck like rabbits.
So yeah. In conclusion, appendixes once were useful. Now all they do is cause trouble. Other useless appendages located on the outside of the body are usually pierced. If they can't be useful, they might as well be pretty (much like me).
However, it is my belief that nipples are not leftover from some prior use. I believe that man-nipples have only "recently" evolved and are in fact destined for some future use. That's right folks, you heard it here first: man-nipples may be dormant right now, but some day soon, maybe as soon as next Tuesday, they could suddenly come to life and take over the world!!!!!
Or, serve some less hostile function, other than world domination.
Possible future uses for man-nipples:
1. Podcasts. Don't ask me how; I can't reveal everything.
2. Portable paprika and saffron shakers. Trust me on this: salt and pepper are on their way out.
3. An identification system that replaces fingerprints or eye-scans or codes to your bank card that everyone forgets as soon as they choose them.
4. Ambient temperature gauge.
5. Really personal secret handshakes, perfect for the modern polygamous marriage.
6. Reference point for a highly-tuned Global Positioning System.
7. Home to entire (albeit tiny) universes populated by subatomic men named Alfred.
8. Using each nipple as a point plotted in star constellations, men will finally be able to "discover" that elusive passageway to China.
9. System of superior measurement - tossing aside both the yard and meter, human beings worldwide will now measure things in terms of the 'nippola', the distance between one nipple and the other.
10. After discovering that the male nipple will indeed produce (after being milked repeatedly for about a month's duration) a viscous green substance unfit for human consumption, it will be found to be perfect for gassing up cars, thus solving the oil crisis, restoring world peace, and causing George W. Bush to repent of his evil ways while suctioning up his teats.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Cappy says: Love your dogs, just don't love your dogs.
2. You've ever seen an episode of Dr. Phil.
Dr. Phil: as helpful as he is handsome.
3. You eat meat for breakfast.
4. Your favourite author is Stephen King. Or John Grisham.
Try instead: Margaret Atwood, Saul Bellow, John Cheever, Charles Dickens, Thomas Hardy, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Henry James, Ian McEwan, Toni Morrison, Alice Munro, Michael Ondaatje, Ayn Rand, Mordecai Richler, John Steinbeck. There is better stuff out there.
5. You have a ringtone. Any ringtone. If your cellphone does anything other than just ring, you deserve to be shot. In the neck. And as the blood gurgles in your throat, and bubbles out the bullethole, you should be conscious enough to know that you are drowning in your own blood and about to burn in the special hell reserved for people with ringtones.
6. You can't shut up about your damn kids.
7. You don't drink.
Ummm, I think you're missing the point.
8. Your idea of funny is constantly recycling old Simpsons jokes.
9. You still own anything acid-washed.
Dude, you are so not my friend.
10. You think all Canadians grow crops.
11. You think fruit is art.
Ah, sir, I think you ARE the fruit.
12. You let your toenails grow long - and worse still, you think your long toenails are so wonderful that you give them a french pedicure. Puke. People like you don't deserve to have feet.
13. You pencil-in extra "quotation marks" on greeting cards.
14. You keep a wad of kleenex up your sleeve - worse still if your sleeves are sheer and you're my 6th grade teacher and every time you gesture the whole class has to watch your dirty kleenex travel up to your armpit, get stuck there, and then travel back down as you tell us that the world is going to end in 7 years.
15. You're not black, but you think you are.
Hey, nice bling.
16. You watch any kind of cop/detective/medical/forensics drama.
CSI: Another Lame Attempt at Maudlin Programming
17. You dropped my favourite book in the pool, and then returned it to me swollen, mouldy, and back broken as if nothing had happened.
18. You've rammed your grocery cart into the backs of my heels.
Slow the fuck down. Respect the buffer of space.
19. You endanger your life but save 3 precious seconds by darting into traffic before the walk sign is lit.
Sign should read: Don't walk you idiot.
20. You spit.
I know, I know. It isn't fair to always pick on the camels.
21. You dip your grilled cheese in ketchup.
22. You drive a PT Cruiser or an Aztek.
Ugliest car on earth?
Oh wait. Toss up.
23. You work retail but can't make change.
24. You order a salad at McDonald's.
Newsflash: McDonald's is not healthy. Deal with it, or go somewhere else where a salad makes sense.
25. You think cheerleading is a sport.
26. You talk about yourself in the third person.
27. You've ever worn socks with sandals.
28. You own a velour track suit.
If you're an elf, then you have my blessing. Everyone else, burn the velour. That shit is nasty.
29. You wear your cell phone on your belt.
Ah, the epitome of cool.
30. You think milk is a mixer.
Curdle, curdle, curdle.
Monday, September 12, 2005
2. Math is unnatural. Nowhere else in life are answers so black and white, right or wrong. Like anything else worthwhile, you should be able to argue almost any answer with false logic, loud statements, and the use of multiple exclamation points. For example, which of these makes the most intuitive sense?
a) 2 x 3 = 6
b) 2 x 3 = in the conservatory with a candlestick dammit. Any fool can see that Colonel Mustard is clearly the culprit. What are you, stupid? Huh? Are you too stupid to see what's right in front of your face? Candlestick!!!!!
Yeah. Eerie, isn't it?
3. Rejection can be a blessing.
4. Sleeping in a car gives you quite the crick in your neck.
5. You know how they say "Sticks and stones may break your bones but names will never hurt you". Well here's the thing. Neither sticks nor stones have ever broken my bones. I mean, once I fell off my bike and a bunch of gravel got stuck in my knee, but I think that was more the bike's fault. On the other hand, names HAVE hurt me. Oh yes.
6. I have a prize iris, just the one, that I sing to and care for and love immensely. Her name is Fauna. She's white and delicate and usually very thirsty. I have a toy poodle that I also adore. She is white and delicate, and less thirsty, but needs almost constant grooming. Her name is Flora. Flora and Fauna are imaginary but they give as much satisfaction as solving a math equation a la #2. Hehe. I just said #2.
7. Don't you think that the whole "black hole" thing is just a tad convenient? I mean, there can never be proof because its gravity is so strong that nothing could ever escape it, such as post cards. Fishy, no? And it's not like we've ever heard anything from black holes...
Dear Stephen Hawking,
Hi. I'm a black hole. How are you doing? I am fine just a little lonely, and oh yeah, I exist.
Nope. It's just a prediction thanks to the theory of general relativity, which frankly, is also on my shit list. I mean, if you're so important, shouldn't you have a better name than general relativity. That's like calling me general person. At least I have a proper name. But this theory still only predicts that black holes can exist, and black holes aren't exactly stepping up to the plate. So I think you should all track down an encyclopedia today and do the world a favour by blacking out the black hole entry. An exacto knife will also do the trick. I have taken the further liberty of saving future generations from other entries, such as general relativity, math, vegetarianism, breast feeding, covered stadiums, and weaving.
Oh, and here's another prediction*: black holes are dumb even if they do exist, not to mention useless, and The Leafs will take the cup.
*I realize this prediction sounds a lot like opinion, but trust me, it's a prediction.
8. I know Americans don't like to admit to being wrong, but I think it's high time they abandon their strange spellings and awkward wording and revert to the English that is used by the British. I mean, you have to admit that the English more or less invented English. I think they know what they're talking about. And sometimes you have to wonder if the English settlers who eventually made their way over here and shared their language with us, were playing some joke on us. They probably still can't believe they got us to call trousers pants for goodness sake, and who knows what other offensive things we've been saying? In Canada we have it much worse because we have a warbly combination of both Englishes. We have a u in humour but a z(ed) in realize. I mean, bless those Americans: even when they make mistakes, they go all the way and hang on tight. If they're doing something wrong you can be sure it's going to be REALLY WRONG, more wrong than any other country in the world!! But I think that in this age of globalization, when we are faced with the many languages of the world, we should make every effort to at least be able to understand our fellow Anglos, eh?
9. If aliens exist, and I for one believe they do, then I rather think it's a safe supposition to say that their technology will far outstrip ours should they ever choose to visit. And if that's so, I dare say that their spacecraft will not be made out of tin and flashy lights, as constantly depicted by stupid, unimaginative humans. I mean, you'd think they would travel by light waves, or energy, or some form of teletransportation, not some dome that looks suspiciously like a pimped-out Honda Civic. Sheesh.
10. I like getting ready to go out when Jason is out of the house. I mean, what is the point of putting on mascara if you're seen applying it? Doesn't that burst the illusion and defeat the whole point? So I rather like having a whole afternoon to primp. The only problem is, I still have not worked out a good system for curling the back of my own head. I mean, what was God thinking, putting hair in the most inconvenient of places, and then giving us arms that are just not able to fully extend? God is so not a woman. A woman would either have designed us with hair on our chests where it's easier to reach, or given us multi-jointed super long arms in order to get back there with a curling iron (also giving us the ability to do up our own dress zippers, which are thoughtlessly located on the back!). Maybe evolution will adapt us to this modern complexity. We can only hope. Meanwhile, those of us (me) with two-toned hair are in big trouble, because the slut-blonde in the front consistently looks lovely, while the lilac purple in the back falls flat. Is there some trick to this that I'm just not getting?
11. Speaking of evolution, how many more years do you think we have until us humans are locked up in cages? I mean, I think that evolution must really sneak up on you, and even if it didn't, the next guy in line is going to be more highly evolved and therefore much smarter, so we don't stand a chance. I mean, apparently we come from monkeys, right? But monkeys didn't just disappear when humans evolved from them. Now there are monkeys AND humans, and the monkeys are all in zoos. So it follows that when these long-armed people with hairy chests evolve from us, they'll decide we're awfully cute, lock us up, watch us throw shit at each other, and test their cosmetics and drugs out on us. In fact, I believe that the rise of the cubicle is just a higher life form trying to ready us for our future homes and get us used to small confined spaces where we are robbed of all dignity. Pretty grim future, isn't it?
Jason's not-so-distant relative
Thursday, September 08, 2005
He places before me a tall, sweating glass filled with cold milk. Sharp intake of breath. I waver, and then thank him. But on the inside, I am screaming: glass! I said cup!
I might not normally be so exacting, except for the fact that I have been working hard with Jason to teach him the difference between these two things. After 4 years of prompts and 6 months of intensive instruction, Jason still does not realize that a cup and a glass are two very different things.
And this is not the half of it! If I ask for a napkin, more often than not, he'll bring me paper towel, even if the napkins are closer. Sometimes he'll tear off a square, other times he'll plop the whole roll off its holder and toss it into my lap, leaving a trail of unraveled paper towels to cover the trajectory. When he's being fancy, he'll fold the paper towel in half, making an awkward rectangle that dwarfs the place setting. I have told him that napkins are for the civilized; that paper towels are for cleaning up messes and napkins are for dabbing at the mouth. He just shrugs that shrug of his and says "Well, I have a big mouth."
And really, how can I argue that?
Oh, I've tried during our 6 looooooong years together to turn him into a gentleman, but I still see glimpses of the bachelor he was before he met me. I have this image in my mind of the bachelor way of life, basically consisting of layers of dirt and foodstuffs whose main ingredients are corn oil and powdered cheese. And when Jason manages to talk about the dark ages before I came along, he mostly confirms these ideas of mine.
I remember when we first moved in together, I woke up one morning to the sight of him making grilled cheese and helping himself to a glass of 7up. He was proud of himself for making such a nice little meal, while I could barely contain my disgust. My delicate stomach does not allow for the sight or smell of these things - lunch foods for breakfast, oh my! And when he lived on his own, things were much, much worse. He once confessed to eating day-old pizza that had not been refrigerated overnight! Oh, my stomach still turns at the thought of that one. And so it has been my duty to instruct him on the inclusion of vegetables with every meal, and the benefits of clean kitchen surfaces.
But every now and then, the age of Before Jamie rears its ugly little head, and we have to have little refresher courses on why one condiment at a time will quite suffice and why men who hope to get laid should always shell out for nice shoes.
Oh, the shoes. The shoes! The horror! When Jason and I first started "dating", he wore a ratty pair of lace-up dress shoes that his mother had hurriedly bought him for a funeral when he was 15. They were bargain-basement shoes and they made me want to dump him, fast. And the most amazing part was that he would show up all svelte in expensive suits...and then the footwear just ruined it all. He quite happily accepted my gift of a very nice pair of shoes shortly thereafter, but was appalled when I brought him round immediately to the dumpster out back so we could be rid of the thighs-slamming-shut shoes he had before. He pleaded for their salvation of course; insisted he'd get blisters wearing the new ones right off the bat.
So I made him a deal: either the shoes went, or I did.
A year and a half later he was married wearing those spiffy new shoes, and nowadays when I tease him about his shoes BJ, his eyes glaze over and he claims to have no memory of them. Good man.
So, he's learning. Slooooowly. One day at a time. He doesn't complain when I ask him to grab the laundry off the floor, but he still administers the sniff test when sorting clean from dirty. In fact, he is mystified at how I determine the cleanliness of my clothes since according to his nose, they always smell so nice. Oh, boys.
But anyways, the point is, I didn't say anything about the milk in the glass because boys are very skittish. You have to lead them by the hand very carefully, and ply them with plenty of praise. You have to pretend to be mightily impressed when they make the bed, and the more you can equate sex with housework, the more successful you will be. But it's a pain-staking process and it doesn't come without sacrifice.
Like when you finish your tomato sandwich and wipe your mouth daintily with the big honking chunk of paper towel that's been ripped off and handed to you, and your husband asks how many more you can eat, and you say none, and there's a pregnant pause before your husband exclaims "You said you were blind with hunger! One sandwich does not fill you up!!!" and all you can really do is shake your head, because some things will never change.