I guess last night's excitement was a little too much for me, though. I got up around 8, had breakfast and gymmed it up as usual, but the day went downhill fast from there. I haven't strayed far from the couch in hours, and took a highly uncharacteristic two-hour nap. I made the mistake of falling asleep watching a History Channel show about possible apocalyptic scenarios. As I drifted off, they were exploring man-made catastrophes and ICBMs were mentioned. I remember thinking 'hur hur, what's an icy BM?' which was unfortunate because I then had a dream about pooping out ice cubes.
Having no life does have its perks, though. It gives me plenty of time to cook sort-of-healthy and occasionally delicious meals that would be too time-consuming for someone with any kind of action on the social calendar. For example, Thursday night I made another bangin' quiche. This time I made it with broccoli, kale, and onions with sharp cheddar, feta, and Parmesan cheese. It was especially gratifying because this is the third time I have made quiche for Andy, but the first time he has ever said "Ooh, I love quiche night. Quiche is my favorite!" The first time I announced we were having quiche for dinner, he grimaced and declared his hatred for the egg and pie crust concoction. Since I subscribe to the fish-wife school of 'if you don't like it, cook your own dinner or shut up,' I made it anyway. And he liked it. I know this, because he had seconds, and he was visibly saddened when he learned that I ate the last piece two nights later.
Unfortunately, the sensory experience of Andy's first enjoyable quiche didn't create an indelible memory. The second time I made quiche, he turned up his nose again and grumbled. Fish-wifery prevailed, and I cooked it anyway. I was too excited about using my new/old Cuisinart food processor to make the pie crust to let his disdain dampen my enthusiasm. Previous pie crust endeavors involved painstakingly shredding sticks of frozen butter with a cheese grater, which was almost enough of a workout to cancel out the subsequent eating of said pie crust. However, my awesome g-ma recently bought a new food processor and gave me her old one, so my butter-grating days are behind me now.
The second iteration of quiche was loaded with zucchini, onions, peppers, and broccoli. It tasted amazing but the crust melted down into a hideous, deformed nightmare during the pre-baking stage. It looked like something Salvador Dali might serve you at a dinner party, but at least it made a lasting impression on Andy, who finally remembered the third time around the block that he doesn't hate quiche. As an added bonus, this time I wised up and used dried beans to weigh down the foil lining the crust during pre-baking, and it turned out beautifully. Although beauty here is relative. I wouldn't have been embarrassed to serve it to guests, but this lady ain't winning any ribbons at the fair (unless Helen Keller and Ray Charles are judging).
In other news, a bird missed shitting on me by a margin of inches the other day. I was bent over putting a few things in the passenger seat of my car when I heard a watery splat on the asphalt beside me. I looked down and saw the telltale white splatter. I looked up, and saw in the tree above me one very smug-looking robin with incredible sphincter aim. Somehow, it managed to drop its load in the small triangle of space formed by my body and the acute angle of the car and open car door.
Here's a little weekend reading for your pleasure:
http://www.slate.com/id/
This is an interesting article from Slate about how, for almost a century, advertisements have been playing on women's insecurities by inventing flaws in order to create a market for products designed to fix said 'flaws.' This piqued my interest because I'm endlessly fascinated by vintage advertising (also one reason why I love Mad Men) and also I have been reading 'Born to Run' by Christopher McDougall. In his exploration of barefoot and ultra running, he reveals how Nike created a demand for their running shoes by claiming that our feet are inherently flawed structures in need of support. Funnily enough, running injuries, especially foot and knee injuries, were almost nonexistent until Nike invented these first cushioned running shoes in the 1970s. Instead of improving performance, the padding and support undermined the strength of our feet and allowed us to run with improper form, leading to injuries.
Nike (obviously) isn't the only company to market its products so insidiously, as this article evinces. Feminine hygiene product ads prove just as nefarious, and just as destructive. Thanks, advertisers, for tricking us into mangling our knees, feet, armpits, and vaginae. <--My spell check suggested this for the plural of vagina, and I think I like it.
Some particularly interesting quotes:
Listerine targeted men and women, but the phrase "often a bridesmaid but never a bride" was made famous by the company's ads. In one 1925 image, a woman reads another woman's wedding announcement with a troubled expression on her face. "Her case was really a pathetic one," the copy intones, describing the woman as nowhere near marriage "as her birthdays crept gradually toward that tragic thirty mark." The culprit? Halitosis, of course.
From the 1930s through the 1960s, according to Andrea Tone's Devices and Desires, the top feminine hygiene product in the country was Lysol. In addition to being marketed as a mouth gargle, a household cleaner, and more, the disinfectant was sold as a douche. Consumers understood that Lysol douche was to be used as a contraceptive, Tone writes, although the ads used veiled language, alluding to problems like "germs" and "odors," and suggesting that a wife's "fear of a major crisis" (code for becoming pregnant) could lead to marital discord and divorce. The ads tended to lay the happiness of the marriage—and the power to limit family size—squarely in the woman's lap. Only the "proved germicidal efficiency of Lysol" can "restore every woman's confidence in her power to please," one 1948 ad declared.
Rats, I thought I was really onto something novel when I started using Lysol wipes the day we ran out of toilet paper.
OH MY GOD.....you didn't really use lysol wipes did you? clorox wipes are more effective, the lemon scent makes up for the excruciating burning.
ReplyDelete