The thing about couscous

Friday night we went out with some runners. One of them bought me belated birthday earrings that look like Christmas lights and actually light up. I think my mother will love them.
Saturday we went for a rather slow and mincing 10k run before heading into town to see my mom, and nana and Ed. We sort of didn't manage to have lunch so we wiped out a large percentage of my grandmother's nanaimo bars and shortbread. And eggnog cranberry cake. And those little ball things. And that almond bar number. Were those butter tarts? Damnit.
Today C came over for the much anticipated and fretted-about dinner. I don't like people watching me when I cook. Too much pressure. I like to do it alone, in the dark.
I prepped pretty much everything so all that was left to do was drink wine (Peter Lehmann 2006 Barossa Shiraz: excellent), put the dressing on the salad and make couscous.
Have you made couscous? I looked at the box about 36 times because it said to bring the water to a boil and put in the couscous and then to remove it from the heat. I kept thinking "yeah, but when do I remove it from the heat? Is it like white rice? Is is like brown rice? It looks really small. Is it like quinoa. Where are my pants? How long do I cook it for?". But apparently you dump it in, stir it, take it immediately off the heat and then it's done! Too bad I'm going to try and nix wheat in the New Year because couscous takes just a bit more time than, um, toast.
I'd say dinner was pretty good. Not as good as the real thing, but then everything is better with (whipped) cream on it.
Watched "Bruno". Funny. Painfully, anally funny. I haven't seen that much cock since... oh, "Shortbus"! I think "Straight Dave's Man Slamming" was the highlight, but then I just like to point and laugh at unintelligent, raging, inarticulate homophobes that drink things out of extraordinarily large cups.
What else, what else. I've come down off the ledge since I started working out again on Monday. Hey: if you ever see me on the Lions Gate threatening to jump? Don't call the cops, just give me a pair of running shoes and a shove and I'll figure it out.
If I didn't work out I would probably be on drugs. I mean, I'm on drugs, but they're more the kind where you have to go to your local grocery store - where you've been shopping for the past two years where every goddamn check out person (the average age of which is 16) knows you and sees you on a weekly basis and you're already feeling bad because you didn't shower this morning and so are going for the appearance of normalcy vis-a-vis clean underwear and a jaunty chapeau - and shamefacedly inquire if they sell rolling papers and to find, after a few heartbeats too many, that they do and they're $1.12.
Great.
Set for another few years.