sometimes it's just easier to make brownies out of a box

'high maintenance' can be divided into two camps; the 'i need a coach purse for my birthday/valentines'/christmas/halloween/pancake day' kind (which was the reassuring "good god, not me" mantra in the early stages of any relationship), versus the; 'i don't need expensive things, i'm simple/easygoing/thrifty/don't believe your credit card bill should reflect your commitment, instead i want you to pay attention to the tiny nuances of my personality and make something or do something that resonates with that so i will become more giddy than girl-with-brown-on-beige-accessory'.

aka; a lot of work.

and so my request for the first anniversary, was to go camping. and take the mountain bikes. and kayak. with both dogs.

why the hell anyone would want to leave their own, already paid for, climate controlled environment with all of the key amenities, for an over-priced permanently 70/21 degree room- even if it has a five star restaurant/bar/jacuzzi, when there are whole patches of dirt, zip up windows and metal toilets that require shoes to commute to at 3 in the morning is beyond me.



the 'totally-not-high-maintenance' control issues kicked in, in preparation for a weekend in the woods. thank god for amazon.com and 'how to camp with your canine' books, coleman's selection of clip on, magnetic tent lights, the arbitrary 'tree trolley' for wayward and disobedient pooches, and a made-out-of-ballistic-material 'modular hauler' to organize, by colour code, the campsite electrics, french press, canine accoutrements, and assortment of bungee cords. preparation and anticipation, as with most things in the life of an obsessive-compulsive, is key. i even called ahead to make sure that the camp site was "dog friendly".



we were effectively 'tailgating'-- overnight. it must be a cultural thing, but this was a new york city tenement of camp sites, minus the protest. as a child of the 80's, pitching a tent in the middle east meant there were no neighbours except the ones your parents brought for 'booze backup'. camping in dog friendly northern maine is all about sharing 100 square feet of dirt with homesteaders and their monogrammed bird baths.

you are what you eat

it's very important to get the food right at an intervention.

during this current period of financial non-denominational "rapture", it is now becoming more urgent for the start-up-former-herbal-candle-making-entrepeneur to recognize the stressors that are patently spilling over into the general populus' over-taxed interpersonal relationships-- and consequently expand (exploit?) the relevant skill set, in order to meet the need of a new demographic of diagnostic consumer.

confronting anyone party to a domestic violence situation, should only be accented with fare that is soft, cold and non-acidic. the ethiopian food genre maintains an overall theme promoting pacifism for any such gathering, being that it is both malleable and lacking in any crockery. however, should picky eaters, the allergy prone, or a nutritional neophyte be in attendance, hummus, brownie batter (no nuts or chips), and jello pudding/jello salad/jello sundaes/jello corn dogs are typically more marketable sustenance to the less discerning McPalate. * additionally, preparation is key; cooked (and chilled) asparagus is acceptable, grilled or blanched is not. unfortunately, a long time potluck favourite, green bean casserole is cuisine non grata due to the walmart made in china, china and it's volcanic temperatures upon presentation. neither is chili a viable option. or kebabs. or fondue. in fact anything requiring chopsticks is potentially more hazardous than serving pigs in unleavened blankets at a bar mitzvah. finally, pineapple, avacados and peaches should be left for the clinically depressed and obsessive compulsives; pits leave bruises.






* catering for the sex addict's hopeful 'wake-up moment' is more limiting than a kosher-vegan diet; no hot dogs, baguettes, pies, pumpkins, or even a benign tureen of oatmeal-- and definitely no pesto. cornflakes and toast are about as experimental as things should get.

polygamy is the answer to a more fulfilling relationship

all newly married, heterosexual women should be issued a wife, along with their 50th anniversary boxed edition monopoly from the target wedding registry. that whole "first year of marriage is the hardest" could then fade into the past along with the giant swatch watch from your pre-adolescent bedroom wall.

most women (as long as they are not my former polysubstance abusing pothead roomate) will appreciate the effort, as evidenced by little offerings from hallmark with specific descriptors for each individual thoughtful act of de-fuzzing the dryer lint trap, throwing out the last dribble of milk instead of putting it back in the fridge, or chucking random cultures and ethnicities of dark wash jeans/over priced for the amount of fabric white camisole/sweat encrusted bike shorts into one load of laundry set to 'broil'.

barring the obvious sterotypes relating to yawning toilet seats and tv remotes locked to fox news, your government issued wife will eradicate any reservations about sending the significant other off to the supermarket, where, despite daily use of fat free vanilla creamer in a blue bottle, he will stlll manage to come home with a yellow bottle of full fat caramel.

the home bathroom will never smell like a public loo again. flimsy, metal dry cleaning hangers will not overrun the wardrobe of the nicer, wooden ones from ikea. supervision of the miniature four (and eventual two) legged residents will no longer be a concern for forgetful or attention deficient partners that drop all manner of choking hazards for their young charges to encounter.

would it be greedy to register for two as a his and hers set- "his" being the wart covered troll wife with halitosis and chronic alopecia.

carpal diem

there is a tingling in my fingers- and it is not love, bengay, or the results of handwashing too close to a plug socket. it would appear that the many hours i have logged on the laptop are benign compared to the scrubbing, stripping, scraping, and rolling that the nerves in my metacarpals have endured over the past four weeks.

my fingers are currently arthritic, and fairly useless for "activities of daily living". this serves as yet another reminder why it is so important to find a life partner (preferably someone 20 years junior) who can grip the requisite four sheets of double layered charmin (andrex for the british reader, other nationalities-- aside from a hand or a hose, fill in your popular national brand here) and wipe for me, or at the very least hold it still and i will just "glide" across. clearly wiping is not the problem, when your fine motor has gone down the toilet.

and with all the standing (and scrubbing/stripping/scraping/rolling) i can expect my first varicose vein to swim to the surface any day now.

kentucky: where the grass is blue, the necks are red, and colonel sanders isn't as popular as ronald mcdonald

10 years ago when i announced that i was going to graduate school in kentucky, i was met with the: "i just smelled boiled eggs dipped in cat litter and deep fried in garlic" face. i personally, can imagine far worse places to pack your 'two suitcases at 40kg' luggage allowance, to begin accruing tuition debt at exorbitant international student rates. while kabul and east st. louis no doubt offer a competitive package for inexpensive accomodation and an affordable cost of living, the 'getting shot at/stepping on a landmine while nipping out to the supermarket to buy a (competitively priced) carton of milk, holds about as much allure as trying on lance armstrong's bike shorts after he finished the final stage of the '05 tour de france. but then it's a bit odd what some people come to identify as "home" for themselves (zip codes with an emphasis on genocide rather than generic front lawns, or trailer parks in the midwest where the retail demand for miller light is only surpassed by the high consumer interest in sudafed), no more than speculating why a chihuahua is now an acceptable definition of "dog", or that dressing in voluminous floral trousers, showcasing every colour in the crayon box is o.k., especially when co-ordinated to match the "dog".

in the last decade, i've only seen a handful of KFC's (and certainly never from the interior), have not become destitute as a result of buying a horse, gambling on multiples of them, or just trying to purchase a regular admission ticket to the derby. my taste buds have proven impervious to the local zealour for graeter's ice-cream, or an even more inexplicable and ungodly adoration for ramsi's (a long standing "ethnic" restaurant), earning it's "genre" as mediterannean, because it serves overpriced, flavoured hummus. find me an arab who eats fire roasted garbanzo dip, and i will try to find an israeli that munches on sun dried cinnamon raisin bagels with blueberry brown sugar cream cheese. for me, "the big lebowski" was mostly experienced during REM sleep, so an entire weekend festival devoted to it, is about as appealing as a BLT is to a hasidic rabbi. i have seen muhammad ali twice, never eaten a white castle hamburger, and cannot stomach the american version of "biscuits", "gravy" or anything else that represents the "country cooking served in platters upon 20 foot long picnic tables covered in checkered cloths" food group. i do enjoy looking for rednecks, just not in a 'steve irwin to snapping crocodile' proximity. there are also many things that are not typically associated with kentucky that i have experienced, and would never have had the opportunity to do so, had i not chosen the road south of the mason dixon. now when i tell people that i am moving to maine. i get the familiar "face", followed by "wow, you know, it's really cold up there in the winter".

"no shit?!!"

obviously, living in the bluegrass state the last few years, i have been completely cut off from any news and weather that didn't involve histrionics over 'o-zone levels' and panic over the possibility of an inch of snow accumulation. however, there are just as many rednecks in the northeast as there are in the south, and quite frankly the northerner's tendency to punctuate the "ar" sound at the end of certain words (making them sound like they just got stabbed in the chest), grates on my ears more than a twangy drawl operating slower than jessica simpson's limbic system.

the ripple effect

some people body slam into your life, and rapidly pile drive on out, leaving you with bold new habits, little mcnuggets of wisdom, and a deep impression of their left elbow in your ribcage; the evidence, testimony, and future PTSD of your shared encounter. then there are some, more diminutive folks, who's impact is noticeable only by their absence (like a successfully treated UTI). in the absence, a ripple is felt.

the revolving door of mental health, the military, or fathers-who-are-dentists-that-keep-choosing-to-work-in-countries-with-unstable-political-climates, can expedite the resolution (or exacerbation) of any residual attachment issues-- with a side order of grief to go (always: "to go"). ultimately, it is the fundamental need to be remembered, to know that you were "noticed" that accompanies each departure. my office mate left our sanctuary of bodily function humour (for the air force) over a month ago. prior to his exit we talked about his "ripple" (the non-flatulent, non-underpant staining sort). however, asking someone to identify their own ripple is rather like trying to be objective about your "silhouette" in a string bikini.

occasionally i catch a glimpse of what i (like to) imagine my ripples might be. during my tenure, i have become associated with bodily functions, how this supercedes "the accent", i do not know. and while, i don't aspire to the legacy of a nobel peace prize, or memorialized, itallicized and evangelized park bench atop a brick engraved with my name, it is egotistically gratifying to see the tangible remnants across the zip codes; a second hand couch twice removed from "pottery barn girl" in grad school, placed in a permanent adoptive home with "liberal-but-conservative-co-worker-from-seattle", forged friendships based on shared addictions to high cocoa content dessert and higher drama content relationships, a renewed interest in bodily functions (especially the smelly/leaky/dribbly ones), the ability to use british swear words in the appropriate context and accent (an american attempting a british accent sounds like an australian with a mouth full of marbles), or contact dermatitis of the lower phalanges. as a child, i had the chronic habit (diagnosable childhood onset trichotillomania) of picking at my blanket until there was a big ball of fluff to roll around in my fingers. when this was no longer soft and fluffy, it was discarded around the immediate house/car/aeroplane. a friend of my mother commented that she always knew when i had visted because of the little fluff turds she found in the sofa cushions and shag carpeting.

rather than directing the question to self- "what's my ripple"- actualization becomes expeditious when identifying "other"; those who have the propelled the journey, irrespective of whether it's the "pebble people" or the "belly flop people".

ultimately, it's about the memento of relationship, connection and community.

life scripts

we are each contributing a chapter to someone else's story, while simultaneously co-writing our own.

i like the one's i read where i end up spitting tea all over the monitor.

i love carbohydrates

the way to someone's heart is through their stomach, although i think a straight shot through the chest with a butcher knife might be a more effective use of time. today i was informed that men are like waffles, and women are like spaghetti.

waffles: organized, ordered, separated, clearly defined, compartmentalized.

spaghetti: disorganized, touches everything and itself, chaotic.

one of my favourite memories as a child, was when my dad taught me to throw spaghetti at the wall to see if it was done.

i think the gluten-a-phobes are seriously missing out.

the honeymoon is over

i was forwarded what seemed an initially depressing article that would reinforce any residual apprehensions i have not shed about the "C" word. however, there is hope.

"marriage: it's only going to get worse" http://news.yahoo.com/s/livescience/20080205/sc_livescience/marriageitsonlygoingtogetworse;_ylt=AskTdKv9Gu8w.UArCXvUt4Ks0NUE (yeah, i cant figure out how to do that whole "enclosure link" thing) i have already moved past any embarassment at taking a poo with the bathroom door open, so i'm certainly on my way to being a manipulated "statistic" for the purpose of this article.

i am practiced in the fine art of picking; cuticles, scabs (mine and others), baby blankets, paint off coffee shop tables, and other people's quirks and idiosyncracies- an advanced degree with a specialization in how other's conduct their separation of darks/lights/smalls and how they load a dishwasher (big no-no are the non-rinsers).

it would appear that couples who stay together longer become more and more irritated with each other.

(insert witty closing comment here).

happiness; only real when shared

so i poached this phrase from "into the wild", well perhaps not poached, so much as it resonated with exactly where i was sitting and what i was "do"ing in that moment.

serendipity: good fortune in unexpected circumstances.

bravery: to meet or face courageously.

i am not a brave person (usually). however, i think bravery is less about overcoming fear and more about solidifying what you want, followed by a "do".

whats your laundry style?

match.com and it's other "swfwithgsohand5cats" on-line personals cousins may consider revising their initial 'personality compatability inventory lifestyle questionairres'. it would appear (through rigorous lunch table polling), that lack of synchronization in individual methods to achieve clean and orderly undies, are the primary risk factors in the 'happily ever after' sweepstakes. pollsters revealed that the act of doing laundry can span the continuum from the severely autistic; ordering of genres (shirts, trousers, daytime, bedtime), colours, % of viscose present, to the mildly obsessive-compulsive, ultimately devolving to pigpen from the peanuts cartoon proportions (also known as "go to the store and buy new underwear when you run out of clean/have turned clean inside out twice already").

disharmony can begin even before the selection of 'delicate' or 'regular' is made. the two camps comprise of the "soiled linen chefs", who make laundry broth (turn on the water and add detergent) before considering adding their unmentionables. versus the "throw everything into the crockpot and just add water" profile. the former have an alphabetized list of why it would behoove anyone to create a wet, soapy environment before incorporating other elements.

future predictors can also be found amongst the 'spray and stain' nazi's; 'to spray once the offending item has been removed so it can seep in until laundry day' or the; 'to not spray until laundry day where everything is methodically doused in bleach before immersion' is the pressing question. this can also be expanded into the attitude taken towards sweaty workout clothes and socks; 'hang to dry' versus 'sit proving like smelly, damp bread dough amongst the other clothes in the hamper' until laundry day.

compatability probability also needs to take into account the pouncers who wait to hear if the spin cycle has stopped (or like my mother, pre-empts the spin to ensure no creases are ever left), to snatch out all items with an underwire and technical wicking fabrics that must drip dry or die over any dead body, before going into the dryer. then there are those of us who habitually cant be bothered to take 30 seconds to tear off and use an anti-static cling dryer sheet (and passively-aggressively enjoy hearing their non laundry doing partners complain that they feel prickly and electrocutey?).

in the interests of word count and attention span (and frankly ironing is such a boring, waste of time) the bigger minefield of "folding the smalls" is the true litmus test for a couple's longevity. there are some, lets call them "all males", who insist on throwing their cotton boxers, t-shirt style cotton boxer briefs, dress socks, athletic socks and possibly even a few undershirts in one drawer, willy nilly. then there are their domestic counterparts, commonly identified as "most women", who sort the two styles and fabrics of boxers into separate piles, and further segregate them into their own drawer, away from the socks. note: even one missed laundry cycle by "most women", will see "all males" (not be prompted by the obvious visual cue already laid out), to proceed to chuck in sports socks/athletic socks/swimming shorts/belts into the formerly orderly drawer.

and this may be why, in countless therapist's offices, disgruntled housewives (or in bars and pubs), aggravated husbands, are complaining that they have to do all the laundry, or hear about how they are not doing any. ultimately, opposites attract. obsessives need their slackers so that they can be in charge, and slackers need the anally retentives to ensure that they have clean underwear they can find.