Beauty isn't everything
This is so funny, I had to pass it on. (Nicked from the bookblog Beatrice.)

Ellen Fein, who has probably done as much damage to female self-image as Helen Gurley Brown through her self-help humour book The Rules and its sequels, got a divorce. Why?

Her teeth. A dentist to the stars messed up her cosmetic veneer job, which -- she says -- caused her constant pain.

We know the truth, though. Her husband, after seeing her come towards his Greatest Treasure for the first time with her gigantic man-eating Chicklets gleaming in the darkness of the boudoir, could no longer enjoy relations without fears of castration.

And rightly so. Read the book; it's true.

Important accessory
If our laptop ever gets fixed, of course. I'm pleased to see that the favourable review compares with mine -- though I have the adult model of Felis catus.

Er. Models.

Feeling mighty quibbly today. I'm off shortly for the first of my knee injections (eee-yuck) and the canal of my afflicted root will be roto-tilled tomorrow. Not, however, by the grim Germanic lady who first examined me.

The more I thought about it, the more uncomfortable I felt. No special equipment (after my mother said, "Dr. D. doesn't do root canals any more, since he doesn't want to invest in all the computer software for measuring the root and things"); indeed, a very "bare bones" sort of an office... unkempt assistant spritzing disinfectant about in a jaded manner... I thought the dentist herself seemed fairly solid, and probably has done root canals in less luxurious situations than this -- but do I want a grim Eastern Bloc operation when I could be enjoying all the luxuries of Western medical decadence?

A friend of mine told me about another dentist, a Root Canal Specialist who is, she says, of such notable accomplishment that other dentists from all over Southern Ontario refer patients to him. I called today, mentioned her name, and to my lasting astonishment, got an "emergency appointment" -- for tomorrow.

I feel so relieved. I hadn't realised until after I called and cancelled the other appointment how it had been preying on my mind. I trust my dentist at home implicitly, but have had such terrible experiences with others, that I think I do now have a little bit of dental phobia lurking in the shadows of my brain.

My girlfriend thinks you're homely (and you're not my type, either)
Not a bad weekend. I am still not back under the iron (I have an abscess, you know!) but I have been out running a few times, and Saturday night enjoyed my very favourite form of cardio, Aerobic Goth Dancing.

It could've been still more aerobic, but unfortunately I dressed for style, not comfort, in a purple satin corset I made myself, and a vintage black satin skirt cut very intricately in spiraling bias panels. The event was a concert by Canadian punk rock dinosaurs Dayglo Abortions and three other bands, followed by Dark Music, at a club some two hours drive from here. I've heard a lot about this club from R., a friend of mine; we've made several tentative plans to drive down, which have always been foiled.

This particular Saturday, however, his friend was the DJ for the music part of the evening, and R. managed to snag us a ride down in the DJ's car.

DJ's car, when it arrived, was driven by DJ's girlfriend, a very-much-younger girl, Russian, in elaborate Gothwear. The drive down was uneventful. When we got to the club, they were between acts, so R. and I went for a stroll down the main street of St. Catharines.

St. C.'s is Club Central. I've not seen the like since I left the Ottawa Valley and my misspent nights of bopping in Le'Ull. Blocks and blocks of street, with nightclubs every second door. And on this particular weekend, they were stuffed to the strobe lights and spilling onto the sidewalk, this being a festival weekend.

As it turned out, we are all, DJ included, a little old for the skull-splitting performances of the Abortions. (Sad, really; they are themselves at least my age. All right, maybe it's sadder to still be screaming adolescent angst and spitting onto the ceiling in one's mid-thirties.) We ended up enjoying most of the concert from the pavement in front of the club. (However, when I was downstairs, I was much in admiration of the small, but lively, moshpit. Had I dressed in my more usual teenage boy nonstyle, I could have been leaping there myself; as it was, though, I'd likely have popped a stay, if not something more vital.)

At any rate, at one point, DJ was talking about his girlfriend (still inside, flirting heavily with the female lead singer of one of the other acts). "She's Russian, so she's very competitive," he said. "So when I said we were picking you up as well, she wanted to know all about you." I expect my right eyebrow did its usual Sardonic Leap at this point.

"I told her you were R.'s date," he went on. "'His girlfriend?' she said. No, I said, his date. 'Oh. Is she pretty?' She's all right, I said. 'But she is a bodybuilder.' I told you -- Russians -- very competitive. 'I am a bodybuilder too,' she said. And I told her, no, you go to the gym twice a week. She looks like she lives there."

"I do, more or less," I said. "The gym's in the basement."

"Exactly. So she says, 'is she your type?' Not really, I said, you're my type. 'Is she my type?' And I said I'm still trying to figure out what your type is. Then we got to your house, and you came out... she looked you up and down, and said, 'She is okay. Not bad. But I am better.'"

I don't remember what I said to this (fortunately, none of the things I was thinking after the initial astounded "Whuhuuuuh?" zoomed through my brain) but it was along the theme of competitiveness, since we then spent some considerable time talking about how it had been variously instilled into us during our respective tender youths.

I'm still a bit stunned. Do people really do this? Set up to judge other people, that sternly, and do the Am-I-Good-Enough comparison test with other women they don't even know?

Yeah, women. I do think this is a girl thing. Sure, men compete too -- but they're bold enough to just whip out their weinies (or their big cars or their six-figure jobs) right there in the open, and everybody measures. It's girls (and I use the term wittingly) who compare in this underhand way.

Poor kid. She's cute enough, mostly because she's very young (much younger than DJ) and pert of figure -- but she's not classically boned, and she is probably not going to age terribly well -- which is going to make this kind of game harder and harder on her as she grows up. I dunno. I've never, really, seriously compared myself physically to other women; I've always taken it as read that most people are prettier than I am. An advantage of growing up homely, perhaps?

Of course, it's rather funny too that DJ would tell me, in so roundabout a fashion, that he thinks I'm a step up from the cat's dinner himself. (What it must be to be irresistable.) On the whole, though, it's probably fortunate that I didn't inform him that he needn't have bothered; I certainly hadn't given any thought to the possibility of ripping his clothes off, either. It's not wise, you know, to offend your only means of transportation when you're two hours from home.

After the noise finished, we ended up dancing for an hour or so, and then going to eat with one of the opening acts, friends of DJ and femme. (The one, indeed, whose lead singer seemed so very much to be the girlfriend's type. Sauce for the goose is not poured over the gander in this case, it would appear.)

Lovely people, but being from the States, they chose safety, and to visit one of the outposts of their fine American chain restaurants (which are all spreading themselves out over Southern Ontario right now like a contagious rash). Perkins, this was, where we had some of the worst food any of us had ever enjoyed, and I the nastiest "French Silk" pie that modern chemistry could concoct.

Home at nearly seven in the morning. I am growing old for this!

The secret of the handkerchief
I now know what that was all about. Sometime late Tuesday, my infection burst through, or whatever it is that they do in the dark corners of the jawbone, and my cheek really swelled up, to the point that it was impinging slightly on my vision all Wednesday.

And once that started, it began to throb, and also hated any kind of little blasts of cold, like draughts, or the normal air movement of walking. I bought a thing meant for sore backs, a kind of elastic belt with pockets in it, which came with chemical hot packs that activated on exposure to air.

That was a look, I tell you -- head wrapped in an elastic bandage with a hot pack increasing the dimensions of my already-swollen cheek.

I stayed home from work both days, too -- which felt like slackage during the moments when my face wasn't throbbing, and like a really good idea during the moments when it was. Read my way through most of Gerald Durrell, and more Jane Austen, and watched Out of Africa, which a friend lent me -- but not Love, Actually, which she included, and which I will probably watch tonight.

I liked Out of Africa, mostly because it was so beautiful. I would like to live in an African plantation house in the twenties! Somehow, Meryl didn't seem at all Blixen-like to me, but that didn't bother me as much as such things usually do. After that, I went scouting madly through the bookshelves for a biography of her which -- I was certain -- I had read quite recently... but I think I got it from the library rather than buying it, even though it was before the current Time of Austerity.

I saw a dentist on Wednesday night. She was stern and Germanic, and while she doesn't inspire me with confidence, neither does she fill me with terror, so I suppose she'll do. Oddly enough, she did not refer me to a specialist for the root canal -- apparently she'll do it herself, next Wednesday, after the antibiotics get the swelling quite down.

(I'm faintly tempted to call on my own bat the fella who is, I happen to know, the root canal specialist for this whole area, and just see if I can get an appointment without a reference.) But there it is. One way or another, the saga of Chipmunk Cheek has at least moved into a new and quieter chapter.

That's about it, really. Took two days off working out (sick, you know), then ran this morning, ten kilometres in about fifty minutes. Today, the ceaseless medical whirl continues; I'm to see my sports medico about getting synovial fluid shot into my knee. Eating has been not too bad, though running a bit to chocolate and sweets round the edges.

Curious thing about my infested mouth -- at no time has the actual tooth in question ever really hurt. It sometimes feels a little peculiar when I bite down on something; my cheek has certainly hurt, from the outside, and the outside of my gum, and at some points all the little glands down that side of my neck -- but the tooth has in fact very often felt better when I chewed with it.

Pardon me while I snark
The jaw? No better. However, instead of yesterday's cute marble-sized infection, I now look, in three-quarter profile from a left-hand elevation, like Hillary Clinton storing nuts for the winter.

And it hurts.

This morning, did the circuit workout from Friday again, but with only two rounds, as I was short on time.

The ghastly Sandra Lee of Semi-Homemade has haunted my grimmer nightmares for some time (ever since I ran into a link for her "holiday cakes" -- a capital crime against angel food -- last year) but this thread on the Television without Pity forums is marvellous. I don't know how many pages there are to it, but I read through 34 of them, and with each successive post, found myself less and less able to restrain open howls of laughter.

Yesterday, I finished The Great Safari -- the biography of the Adamsons I mentioned the other day. Gah. I was never so glad to close a book on two people in my life. Granted, the author, Adrian House, is decidedly against Joy and clearly believes her a man-eating bitch and tramp -- and decidedly for George, who is painted as a sort of 'manly man of the jungle' -- but I hated them both before I was halfway done. I wasn't in the least surprised to find that Joy was murdered by one of her employees, and I was ready to kill George myself. What a pair.

I mentioned this to A., who said, "That whole generation has always struck me as very odd. 'We love the animals. That's why we shoot them.'" Yes. Couldn't have said it better myself. And of that generation, the ones who went to Africa appear to have been particularly odd. I wouldn't want to take a long car trip with Isak Dinesen (nee Karen Blixen) for instance, either. "The wilderness" appears to be where those of the interwar hot things who couldn't fit in anywhere slunk off to do their madder drinkin', freakin', and f*ckin' around. Oh, and self-indulgent writing about it all.

Oh, I am cranky today. And my face hurts.

A marble and a handkerchief
I have the kind of old-fashioned tooth infection that used to be portrayed thus in silly stage comedies. There's a strange, hot, painful lump in my face, just beside the right side of my nose.

Oddly, though it hurts if I smile, or kiss someone, or speak, it doesn't hurt when I bite down on it -- in fact, chewing something firm and crunchy makes it feel slightly better.

My dentist? I still go to my childhood dentist, seven hundred kilometres (or so) away.

I'd recently seen that a new dentist had moved into the strip mall where my doctor has her office -- large sign on the door reading Taking New Patients. So this morning I called Directory Assistance, and told the automatic recorder that I wanted "the dentist at this address." That caused a moment or two of confusion with the operator, but eventually I got the number, and spoke to a receptionist with a heavy accent. Appointment on Wednesday. I hope the infection doesn't crawl through my sinuses and eat my brain before that.

If I were someone's mother...

You're a punk rock mommy! DIY is probably your
motto, because you're a punk mama at heart.
Your kids are getting your independent spirit
and guts, and learning to solve problems
themselves. You love it when they show their
independence, even when it's breaking your
heart.


What kind of a freaky mother are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
How fortunate are all the children I will not have. I wonder what the beasts think of this?

The Provincial Lady
I did a little search, idly wondering what E.M. Delafield's full name might be.

I found this, quite an interesting page, if amateur in layout (for instance, the information I sought is deeply buried near the bottom of the page, and proves to be Edmee Elizabeth Monica Dashwood, known to friends as Emmie). I'm not quite certain who the owner of Starcourse.org might be, though it seems she (or he) has a family connection. (Stripping the URL has just proved more mystifying than not.)

Anyway.

Today's weight, 132.5 pounds -- moderately cheering, despite consumption of about three ounces of fudge yesterday.

This morning, I thought to do a round of Abs, followed by, perhaps, a session on the stepper... however, on contemplation, I resolved that I needed something a bit more stirring, and decided to do an old favourite circuit routine. It comes from Oxygen magazine, and is attributed, I think, to Kristia Knowles.

There was a lot of sweat around this morning. This was a good switch of dull routine.

Circuit (repeat three times, no rest)
All strength exercises for 15 reps.
All cardio intervals for 1 minute.

Cable Row, V-handle, 50lbs
Jumping jacks
Pushup, bodyweight
Quick step-ups (Reebok step, 2 risers)
DB Stationary Lunge, 37.5lb dbs
Jog in place
DB Bicep Curl with Shoulder Press, 17.5lb dbs
"Skipping" (without rope)
Tricep dip off bench, bodyweight
Quick side steps
Squat, Oly bar, 95lbs
Two-legged hops in place
Abs
round 1: Hanging Knee Raise x25
round 2: Cable Crunch, 40lbs x25
round 3: Ball crunch with 27.5lb DB x25
Do the Twist

Eaten today:
one, a cup of mixed Kashi and Fibre One, with protein shake (flavoured with almond extract and nutmeg); small nectarine; coffee
two, 1/3 cup buckwheat pancake mix, prepped with 1/4 cup each egg white and soymilk, and a dash of lemon juice, served with 2 slices sham (sizzled briefly in hot pancake pan), 1/4 cup Quark mixed with Cool Whip, 2 tablespoons apple butter or sugar-free pancake syrup
three, salad with beans and chicken. Silhouette Vanilla Mousse thing. Sugar-free Minute Maid juice drink -- these are my newest addiction, only I've only been finding them at odd moments in convenience stores in unlikely places, where they cost too much, and don't come in, say, flats or large bottles. This one was Citrus Guava.

Yesterday's remaining meals -- other than the fudge, about which we will say no more --
four, cinnamon oatmeal raisin cake, with Cool Whip/Quark/Jello pudding icing. Lots of pickles.
five, slice pumpernickel with can sardines
six, half-scoop protein powder, 2 tablespoons Quark, coconut extract, Cool Whip; 1/4 cup low-fat vanilla ice cream; two crumbled coconut meringue cookies; tea.

Oh! Fudge!
For a couple of years now, I have endeavoured to conquer one elusive culinary accomplishment -- fudge. Couldn't do it. Mostly I ended up with fudge sauce, though on one particularly frustrating occasion, I got fudge crumbs instead.

Since usually I can make foodstuffs do my bidding in the kitchen, it had become more of a fudge grudge.

I did enjoy one success a few months back with Velveeta Fudge.
From Southern Cooking at about.com:

1 cup (2 sticks) butter, softened (I used unsalted and would definitely advise that, considering the saltiness of the cheez!)
8 ounces pasteurized process cheese, Velveeta, cubed
1 1/2 pounds confectioners' sugar, about 5 cups unsifted (I used 3 cups unsifted, which made a nice not over-sugary fudge)
1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa
1/2 cup non-fat dry milk
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2 cups coarsely chopped pecans or walnuts (I used a 300g bag of choc. chips)

In a large saucepan over medium heat melt butter and cheese cubes together, stirring frequently; remove from heat. Sift together confectioners' sugar and cocoa; add to cheese, mixing well. Stir in non-fat dry milk, vanilla and nuts. (I used a mixer on low-med speed for mixing in the sugar, cocoa, milk powder & vanilla.)

Turn into a 9x9x2-inch pan; chill until firm and cut into squares. Makes about 3 pounds of Velveeta Fudge.

Not only did it have a correctly fudgy texture, it even tasted reasonably good -- at least as good as those other bizarre processed-food candies that tend to turn up everywhere round the Holiday Season -- and not in the least like Velveeta. (Though in fairness I must add that I occasionally noticed a slight smell of processed cheez once or twice when opening the refrigerated container for another piece.)

Anyway. That was that, but it in no way alleviated my burning desire to conquer Real Cooked Sugar Syrup Fudge.

I made a batch last night, from this recipe:

Chocolate Fudge

2 cups sugar
2 ounces chocolate (I used unsweetened)
2/3 cup milk (I used 1%, a bit of that being left over from the cake)
2 tablespoons corn syrup
2 tablespoons butter

Instructions from the recipe (poached from recipesource.com were rather spare, consisting of "Combine and cook over low heat to 240 degrees. Remove and cool to 110. Add 1 teaspoon of vanilla and beat. Spread on buttered dish or pan."

Based on my other reading (I've researched fudge, let me tell you!) I added the following refinements: combined only milk, sugar and corn syrup, and heated till sugar was dissolved. Brought this mixture to a boil, then added butter and chopped chocolate, reduced heat, and cooked to 238? (that being soft-ball stage from other sources). I also added a pinch of salt, since I was using unsalted butter.

Following that, I diverted strikingly from instructions. Instead of letting the mixture cool in peace, I instead added vanilla, let it sit five minutes, and then, as with pralines, beat the heck out of it immediately. It set! It might be a little grainy for Fudge Purists, but I tend to like a more solid, European-style fudge myself, so that was all right.

My only complaint was that it didn't seem "chocolatey" enough. I liked the flavour of the cocoa one I tried to make last Yuletide much better, even though that was, texturally speaking, yet another Fudge Failure.

Randomness
I've just about given up on Pynchon. I brought all several dense pounds of Mason & Dixon home with me, and never cracked it. Fool to think I would, I suppose -- my parents' house is rife with favourite books, and new books, and magazines; plenty of good reading around without warping my head round Pynchon-prose. I'm just a bit cross with myself, since I am enjoying it in a way. I do suspect him of harbouring Joyce-like ambitions of revolutionising literature -- but at least his humour seems nicer than Joyce's.

I went to the library to find more Noel Streatfeild (inspired by re-reading Ballet Shoes at home) but only managed to unearth one (and a particularly lame-looking one at that). Instead, I came home with Mineka Iwasaki's Geisha, A Life (I read Memoirs of a Geisha a few years ago, and liked it up to the ending, which I thought deeply lame). Also Amanda Hesser's Cooking for Mr. Latte. (This intrigued me. There's been a great deal of dissing of Ms. Hesser over on the eGullet forums, dissing which of course I am in no way qualified to participate in one way or another, not being either a professional gastronaut or a New Yorker. So far, I quite like her style; she's opinionated and sometimes probably wrong, so I can relate. On the whole, though, her intentions seem good, and she seems to have a certain degree of awareness of some of her own flaws.)

What else? A biography of Joy and George Adamson. I loved Born Free as a child; it was one of my "regular books" along with (probably not coincidentally) the oeuvre of Gerald Durrell. And something else... oh, yes, the first volume of Kristin Lavransdotter, by Sigrid Undset. I've been running into a lot of references to this series of late, and quite honestly am surprised I've never read it, considering that it was written in the 1920s, is a classic, and appears to cover a whole range of themes that I would have found absolutely irresistible in my teens. (I'm hoping I'll still like 'em now.)

I also had a quiet little rant to myself this morning, when I hit a reference in some blog or other to this appalling travesty. I recall that I thought Gwyneth Paltrow as Emma was the nadir of bad. (Well, to paraphrase Opus, "lord, she wasn't good.") But Paris Hilton? Starring? As anyone, let alone key figure in literary adaptation? Shoot me now. No, better yet, shoot her.

What is this stupidity? All anyone has to do these days, it seems, is make a public spectacle of themselves, and there they are -- instant star. Whatever happened to talent?