Stand by your arteries

Sometimes I wonder about the state of humanity.  In an idle moment at the office, I did a search for leek soup.  This one caught my eye because it was titled Low Carb Cauliflower Leek Soup.  The intro suggests that this is "great for those watching their carbs or calories."  All was well until I reached the second ingredient: "three tablespoons butter."  Uh, that's about 300 calories right there.  The last ingredient is "1 cup heavy cream (optional)".  Heck, I'm sure relieved it's optional because that's gonna run you about 800 calories, Bubba. 

There's one commenter who says "I love this soup and have it for lunch nearly every day."  You might want to get your cholesterol checked, lady.  It may well be low carb, but there's one thing this soup is not, and that's low calorie. 

I'll have a side of angioplasty please ...

Gripe of the Day

People who stop dead at the top (or bottom) of the escalator and proceed to stand and chat.

I ran today.

No, you don't understand: this is a big deal.  I've never been a runner.  I've never been able to run.  I can walk for miles and miles, and I think my fitness level is pretty average - I go to the gym two or three times a week, I try to eat healthy.  But I used to be such a skinny minnie and over the years, well, the weight creeps up and the waistline gets thicker ... you know what I'm talking about.  I'm talking about what used to be called middle age spread.  Now, that sounds to me like something pretty disgusting that you slap on toast, but in fact it's that phenomenon where, when you hit a certain age, your belly suddenly starts to develop a roll.  Then before you can say double fudge brownie you bend over and you've got two rolls.  It's at that point when anyone with an ounce of self-respect says "Whoa!" and vows to take action.

As far as I can tell, running is the hands-down most effective way of burning fat and boosting cardio health.  Plus, it's the perfect excuse to spend money at Lululemon.  So, armed with some excellent advice from a runner friend, off I went to the gym.  I was amazed that her tips worked, and lo and behold, I managed to run!  Not very far, mind you - only a tenth of a mile at a time, then walk a tenth, run a tenth, and so on - but I managed 3 rounds over 10 minutes, which to me was a miracle of Biblical proportions.  I actually felt like I could have run more; I wanted to run more.  But I stuck to her instructions not to overdo it and carried on with the rest of my workout.  But man - running felt good. 

Now, cover your eyes, because I'm going to post some vital statistics, just so I can track my progress:

Gender: Female
Age: Older than Shania Twain but younger than Madonna
Height: 5'7"
Weight: 145 lbs
Pants Size:10

Goal Weight: 125 lbs
Goal Pants Size: 6
Particular Goal: to feel comfortable in a bikini again.

Okay, you can open your eyes again!  I really hope I can keep up with the running, and improve in increments.  I'll post progress as I go.

The Daily Snark

I saw a woman this morning carrying a tiny purse, covered in zips and buckles.  It was a proper purse, with a shoulder strap and everything, but I have to wonder what in tarnation is she going to put into it?  A lipstick?  One teabag? A single tampon?  That's about all it had room for.  You couldn't even fit a teacup poodle in there.  Granted, it was shiny, and it probably cost her a week's groceries, but still.

See, I used to be the anti-purse.  I prided myself on carrying a wallet like a man, and nothing else.  I didn't need anything else, darn it!  That all ended when I started wearing reading glasses.  Which begs the question, what do men do with their reading glasses?  Where do they put them?  (Yes, alright - inside pocket.  Which means a jacket.  I'm a girl.  I don't wear jackets with inside pockets.)  But I digress; where was I? Oh yes, purses. 

When I finally realized I was, in fact, a woman, and did, contrary to all my quasi-militant tomboy tendencies, require a purse, I did not go out and sink precious housekeeping money into either a teensy-weensy bit of patent leather that wouldn't hold a pack of gum, or its monstrous cousin, the sack.  I'm sure you've seen women walking around with the sack: a shapeless fabric bag stuffed so full it threatens to break the bearer's shoulder.  It is distinctly unattractive and makes the bearer look like a hobo.  No, when I finally caved, I bought a satchel. 

Here: I love it so much I posted a picture.  Seriously, ladies, within about five minutes this became My New Favourite.  I've had it over a year now and I absolutely adore it.  It's not too big, not too small, I can fit my wallet, chequebook, sunglasses and yes, those all-important reading glasses into it.  It has handy separate zipped pockets so that smaller items such as keys and lipstick don't get lost; and best of all, my cellphone fits in the front latched pocket so I no longer have to dig for my cell when it rings.  The leather is amazing quality, buffs up a treat with a bit of dubbin, and Roots will even replace, for free, any fittings such as zippers, etc. if they break.  Now that's old-fashioned customer service.

Shameless Promo:  Roots Canada

Here endeth the Snark of the Day.  Please feel free to comment, or if you have a snark of your own, I'd love to hear it.

The Zen of Housework

I love housework.  No, I'm serious: housework really does rule.  And before you start tutting and shaking your head, I'm by no means your stereotypical suburban housewife.  For one thing, I'm a writer, and everyone knows that writers are eccentric.  I'm also a perfectionist, and if there's one thing I enjoy, it's cleaning house.  Now, a lot of my friends employ cleaners, and some of them have suggested that I, as a gainfully-employed 21st century woman, might do the same; after all, I'm a homeowner, I have a cat, and a husband, etc. etc. 

I did consider it - but I can tell you right now what would happen: the minute the cleaner's car pulled out of my driveway I'd be retracing her steps with a duster and mop.  You see, nobody cleans my house quite like me.  They miss spots.  They move stuff and don't put it back properly.  They do a half-assed job.  There's cat fluff in the corner of the sofa: I can see it!  There are crumbs under the stove!  And the fridge - don't even talk to me about the state of the fridge.  And my antique crystal decanter - a family heirloom, mind you - has been moved half an inch to the left. 

No, I won't be hiring a cleaner any time soon.  Cleaning my house just makes me so happy.  It's also really useful vis-a-vis the writing process. You have no idea how many thorny plot problems I've resolved while dusting.  It's like, a meditative writer's tool.  No, wait: it's The Zen of Housework.  Almost, but not quite, as fulfilling as writing itself.

N.B.: I stole borrowed the graphic above from 50s Housewife.  Her blog is great - go check it out!