Nurse Hillie

My mother was a nurse. And a very good one at that. When we were kids, my mother would bandage and balm our cuts without so much as a squeal. We could puke everywhere and my mother would not wretch as she cleaned it up. Poop, pee, puss, bring it on – my mom never wavered. But when we’d be at a friend’s house and hurt ourselves, the mothers there would squawk and balk at the sight of a cut finger. Not my mom.

Jane and I call it “Nurse Hillie Mode”.

To this day, if we have any medical question or have something weird to show her, her voice changes, her demeanour changes and Nurse Hillie comes on the scene. Her voice gets more even and she talks just a little slower and a little deeper. Her brow knits a bit and she very efficient. Blood pouring out of a cut? She’ll calmly and firmly wipe it away and see how bad the cut is. Ingrown hair? She’ll firmly wipe the area and efficiently pluck that hair free. There’s a picture of my mom on her graduation day from nursing school – she must have 19 or 20. She’s wearing one of those old-fashioned nursing caps and the crisp white uniform. Whenever Nurse Hillie comes on the scene, I picture a swish of a nursing cape and Hillie in her nursing cap zooming in close on the malady.

So when I sent her this link yesterday, I expected Nurse Hillie to love it. NOTE: If you are at all squeamish, do not look. It is disgusting and is still haunting my thoughts and making me gag. That's why it's not embedded. If you're a masochist, you will click on the link.

Nurse Hillie loved it, natch. In her Nurse Hillie voice, all deep and clam, she tells me that it is not a zit but a blocked sweat gland and then tells me how they develop. She said the goo coming out is thick and …I cut her off, switching the topic to her favourite – George.

“So how is George,” I asked, trying to direct her away from the horror.

“Cute,” she said curtly, as if George was a nobody. “The stuff that comes out smells like sour milk.”

Oh Hillie. When she said that, I pictured the swish of the nursing cape as she ran off to the next medical dilemma. Her voice got animated and bubbly as she talked on an on about George. Nurse Hillie left the scene and Hillie was back in full force.

I miss her.

Medically Yours,

xoxoSallyS

In Defense of the Snuggie

Mock not, my friends, when I say the Snuggie is one of the greatest inventions of our time. I was once a mocker, too. I laughed uproariously when the commercials aired. I declared that someone wearing a Snuggie looked and was ridiculous. A blanket with holes? Who could be so dumb? I am. Except that I am not dumb for owning and proudly wearing a Snuggie.

Byron’s and my quest for comfort drew us to the Snuggie. In early October, Edmonton had a freakish cold snap. We had just moved back there from the balmy shores of Victoria, where the average temperature in the winter is about 3 degrees. When this cold snap hit us, we chattered our teeth and wondered how we could possibly survive in Edmonton. Never mind that Byron grew up around here and I had been living there for years before we moved.

One Saturday, in the middle of the cold snap, we decided to brace ourselves for winter. I have rented since I left my parent’s house so whenever it was chilly, or I got a chill, I would crank the heat. In the two years we were in Victoria, By and I kept a very warm house. For the first time, he never had to pay for heat, so he also cranked the heat whenever he wanted. Here, we have to pay for our heat. We are very reluctant to turn the heat up. How could we remain comfortable and warm, while not bankrupting ourselves?

One word.

Snuggie.

We got provisions for a long winter that weekend. We got flannel sheets, a kettle, slippers… and Snuggies. They are tan. They go past our feet and the sleeves extend well past our fingertips. They have a high neck and are fuzzy. They are the best things ever. We care not if we look silly sitting on the couch, all Snugged up. The shame has disappeared when we walk around the house in our Snugs to get a book or a drink. It’s like a warm, body-length hug. The thermostat has not gone past 20, even though it’s frosty outside and there’s a nip in our house. We no longer care, for we have our Snuggies.

Seriously, if I could, I would give a Snuggie to all my family and friends just so we can share the joy of wearing, curling up under, and snuggling under the Snuggie.

Comfortably Yours,

xoxoSallyS

I'm kind of gross.

It’s true. I am kind of gross. Strike that – full-on gross.

My office is on the 9^th floor and right across from my office is another office building. My desk faces the window so I can see all the workers at their desks toiling away or eating lunch or talking with people or looking out the window. Knowing they look out the window, and that they can probably see me in my office does not deter me from my gross ways.

I floss at my desk. If I have a bat in the cave, I will dig for that bad boy – with Kleenex, of course. But still, I pick my nose at my desk. I will re-adjust the girls. I will re-arrange my pants. I eat lunch and take advil and apply balms and salves. I act as if no one is watching, as long as my back is turned to the door.

I wonder if they see me and think “who is that narsty girl in the window”. Does anyone else do this? Or am I alone in my gross office ways?

Flossingly Yours,

xoxoSallyS

Toodle-ooo

Oprah is leaving her show in 2011. And not a moment too soon, if you ask me. I loathe Oprah. She’s number one on my Celebrity Assassination List. Right before Nicolas Cage and Celine Dion.

I hate Oprah’s sense of self and how she thinks that what she thinks is what everyone else should think. That stupid “Oprah’s Favourite Things” show? Silly. Sure, she can spend $400 on a bath robe. The rest of us schlumps have to make do with our paltry $40 robes. When Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s book “Love in the Time of Cholera” was on her book list, that’s when I loaded my rifle. How dare she call him Gabby? Should we call her “Opie” or “Ra-Ra”? No, because she’d eat us alive, like she did recently with those corn dogs in Texas. And what is she doing eating corn dogs, anyway? Didn’t she not just 20 years haul a wagon’s worth of her fat onstage to celebrate her weight loss? And she unleashed Dr. Phil on the masses. For that alone she should burn in hell. Is Dr. Oz her fault, too? Come to think of it, isn't Opie responsible for the scourge that is Rachael Ray? Damn her!

I can’t go on about the many ways Oprah is a drain on our culture. Mostly because I refused to watch Oprah years ago. It was around the time she did “Beloved” and she screamed, with out-stretched arms, “I AM the beloved!!!”

So to Oprah I say this: Don’t let the door his you on the way out.

Talk Showingly Yours,

xoxoSallyS

Who's Coming?

The Company’s Coming headquarters is just around the corner from my house. Imagine my glee a few weeks back when I saw a sign outside their building advertising their annual cookbook sale. I got up early last Saturday and went. The books were on sale for 50-80% off because of scratches and dents, but the ones I picked up looked fine. Besides, I would do enough damage on my own just using them.

The warehouse was packed with books, and Jean Pare herself perched in a corner, autographing books. There were older women, women my age, strollers and old men. You could tell we all shared a love of these cookbooks and strangers consulted strangers on the value of a certain cookbook over another. It was very civilized as we got into an impromptu line and snaked around the perimeter of the warehouse, poring over stacks of books. It was bliss. I even got Mrs. Pare to sign the book of cookie recipes for my mother.

I picked up a copy of the casserole cookbook for myself. My mother had this book when we were growing up and I mocked her relentlessly for it. Some of the recipes from that book are just downright gross. Carman’s Caper is just wrong on so many levels. Hillie loved it and it remained a staple in our meal rotation for years. I had forgotten about (blocked out?) that meal until I flipped through the book and was reminded of the bland, mushy mess of Carman’s Caper. Then I flipped through the book again, looking for one of the more heinous culinary creations – Fish Stick Casserole. Rice, layered with a can of tomatoes, fish sticks and cheese on top. I hated that meal, and loathed it more whenever my mother made it, she would load a forkful into her mouth, smirk and tell me it was wonderful. Thankfully, the editors of Company’s Coming realized that dish was disgusting and edited it out of my version.

I picked up six books in total for myself, and am looking forward to next year. I saw some women with lists of books they wanted to get, and dutifully checked them off as they picked them up. Good idea. Does anyone have a cookbook they want next year? My list is being crafted…

Sauteeingly Yours,

xoxoSallyS

Sugary Shake

I am very excited. Very excited. I am doing Christmas baking this year. In the past, a few cookies and some chocolates would come out of my kitchen, but nothing much. This year, I am around family and we're not travelling, so I can bake non-stop. And I intend to do just that.

Bulk Barn is opening near my house. I am so excited and I realize that makes me a tool. But seriously, I am a whore for bulk sections. Byron can attest to that. Why would I buy my oatmeal in a bag when I can scoop my own out of a bin? Why pay for a can of cocoa when you can just refill the old one? I save pennies, people. PENNIES! The fact the Bulk Barn is opening near my house just before my Christmas baking bonanza begins makes me happier than George stories.

Well, maybe not that happy – my apologies Jane and, more importantly, George. No offense was intended.

So what am I making this year, you ask? I have been collecting recipes and ideas for weeks now. I have made list after list and revised said lists. It’s a mix of old and new recipes. Old as in coconut chocolates and whipped shortbread and ginger cookies. New as in mint chocolate wafers and mint chocolate bark. Obviously, I am a whore for the chocolate-mint combination, too.

The irony of all this hoopla on my part is that Byron lacks a sweet tooth. The man hates icing on cake. He finds sweet and sour meatballs far too sweet. He can turn away from a plate of cookies. How are we married?!?! All my teeth are sweet. So this baking bonanza I am embarking on is all for naught with him. He wants me to give it all away. I will. I have co-workers and family to give my wares to. But I have to taste everything first, you know.

Expandingly Yours,

xoxoSallyS

Digital Vomit

I posted yesterday for the first time in months. My dad got on the phone this morning with me to say he was glad I posted something. I don't know what to write these days. Life is very good. I am happier than I have been in ages, and my gripes seem silly. But if I go on about happiness, I feel like I'm bragging. And I have no life-changing experiences going on to blog about.

But this did strike me as funny. This is a comment from my last post. Megan calls it digital vomit...

Hi friend, peace...
Your blog very interesting.
If you willing visit my blog, and read my article at ****
And... if you love books, read The Holy Qur'an please...

I like books - a lot. But to pick up the Holy Qur'an for shigs is not an option. I don't read holy books for fun. Ever. Peace, friend.

Hesitatingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Where am I?

Edmonton is a very cosmopolitan city in many ways. Sometimes, it’s downright Hicksville. And it’s reverted to Hicksville this week now that the rodeo is in town.

At lunch, I went for a nice walk. Walking towards me, I saw a man in bright blue jeans, a big ol’ cowboy, carrying a lasso. I stared at him while we walked towards each other. There was the obligatory large belt buckle. There was a shearling vest. There was a plaid shirt. And there was a lasso. In downtown Edmonton. Among highrises and office towers. It was the most out-of-place item I could have come across at that time of day in that location. What was he roping? A lamp post? A mail box? A newspaper box? As we passed, I was still staring, so he gave me a nod of his hat and said hello. If he said “howdy”, I would have died laughing.

The rodeo also brings in a lot of oversized pick-up trucks. They are huge, loud and there are far too many fake scrotums hanging off the back ends.

The bright side of the rodeo in town is that we are allowed to wear jeans all week. It’s Rodeo Week, after all!

Howdy-dooingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS