Jess and I have been busy people lately, which means we haven’t had much time to spice things up. In the kitchen, I mean. Get your mind out of the gutter.

Well, with a couple of days off this week, Jess took the initiative and went prowling through a couple of the cookbooks I keep on the shelf (gotta keep up appearances, you know).

Together we picked out four dishes and added all the exotic ingredients (potatoes, ooh!) to the shopping list.

On Sunday, Jess made us potato and corn chowder just like mom used to make… only with prawns. Can’t say I relished the addition of seafood to a perfectly good carb-fest, but it was my nod to the adventurous spirit of the undertaking. Then on Monday night she cooked up this magnificent tortilla pie.

Look, I’m as progressively-minded a guy as you’re likely to find, so yes, I’m feeling a mite guilty that Jess is suddenly cooking all the meals single-handedly. But I’m rationalizing it as a week-long celebration around my birthday. Next week, I’ll be only too happy to step up at dinner time and defrost some fish sticks, or open a lovely can of chunky soup. Yum!

I don’t think he trusts me anymore.

Growing up in Montreal, our family had a series of guinea pigs. First there was Ginny, who came home from the pet store already pregnant (I’ve since learned this is a sign of a really irresponsible establishment). One traumatic evening while the parents were out, our babysitter rushed us to our bedrooms when we shouted in alarm, “There’s something coming out of Ginny!” By the time mom and dad got home, there were three new baby piggies: Popcorn, Raspberry and Patches. We found good homes for Popcorn and Raspberry and kept Patches to keep Ginny company. Eventually Ginny left us, and Frisky joined the family.

When we moved to Australia in 1993 we left them all behind, and I’ve been wanting guinea pigs again ever since. Meet Sunny and Toffee, the two newest additions to the family. They are both very cute, but they don’t always get along so well.

We picked up these two fellas on January 29th. They’re brothers, and we’re guessing they were 6 weeks old at the time, which makes their birthday December 18th.

Since the last time I kept guinea pigs (or cavies, as they are called by more serious people than me), the Internet has arrived on the scene, and I’ve learned that many things I thought I knew about these chirping fuzz-balls were completely wrong. For instance, feeding them watery foods like iceberge lettuce is quite unhealthy for them. Also, the distinct, high-pitched trilling noise they sometimes make is an unhappy/aggressive growl–not a contented purr. This discovery caused a little trauma in the first couple of days, as Jess had happily perfected several ways to make the piggies “purr” based on my “expert knowledge” of guinea pig behaviour before we looked it up.

Something else we’re learning the hard way is that male guinea pigs tend to fight for dominance. This especially happens when there’s a female around, but boys have their bad days either way. Sunny had a particularly cranky day on Thursday, and Toffee expressed his displeasure with a nip to the nose. With one of our boys bleeding (however slightly), I was pretty upset. We made some calls, and on veterinary advice had the boys booked in for some, er, “modifications”.

By the next day, however, it was all brotherly love again (the nice kind). Feeling a little better about their prospects together, I did some further research, which suggested that having guinea pigs neutered is not a clear cut solution, so to speak. In fact, there are quite a few sources claiming outright that neutering has little or no effect on guinea pig behaviour, and that the operation should only ever be done for medical or contraceptive reasons.

The lady at the vet’s office seemed annoyed when I called to cancel the procedure, but when I asked her if she thought it would really make a difference she just vaguely answered, “Well it might calm them down a bit.” For now, our boys’ “boys” are safe, but if they start fighting again we might have to arrange for more spacious living quarters, so they can each have their own territory.

More photos in the gallery.

As of today, I have admitted defeat in my metrosexual career. We have hired a cleaner.

That’s right; I have a cleaner. Me. The sensitive guy who’s got it together. I can’t clean my own toilet.

Now I could tell you that it’s because I’m so incredibly busy being a successful man about town, that Jess and I must attend just so dreadfully many social engagements, that our home is simply that dim, dusty retreat that we keep for those few times when our nonstop schedules allow for a moment’s rest. Myeees. I could tell you that, but you’d see right through it, wouldn’t you?

Closer to the truth is that I can’t tear my steadily growing buttocks off the sofa, where I sit for hours on end cuddling my girlfriend and watching DVDs of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine—season one. (Even the trekkies just recoiled in disgust.)

I have failed my mother, whose gentle tutelage in the domestic arts has come to naught. Dirty dishes shift in the sink, while clinging fragments of last week’s taco salad surreptitiously pulsate toward basic language skills.

The odd thing is, when I told her we’d be hiring a cleaner, mom didn’t seem to mind. On the contrary, rather than a strangled sob of bitter disapointment, she actually brightened at the news and asked eagerly for details. I could almost hear her thinking, “Maybe next time we visit Kevin we won’t have to get a hotel room!”

In fact, not a single person I’ve mentioned this to has given me the sad, pitying gaze I keep expecting. Could it be that having a house cleaner is a status symbol? Could it be that I have actually graduated into the ranks of the social elite who don’t know where their vacuum is kept?

I wonder if I can get her to make me breakfast in bed.

No, this isn’t some kind of rant against EM radiation from home appliances or garishly promotional food packaging. We have simply reconfigured our fridge door from right-hand opening to left-hand opening, and I swear it’s giving me brain tumours!

Though you may not know it, a handy feature of most modern “freezer-on-top” refrigerators (unless you have one of those Internet fridges, in which case you have bigger problems, my friend) is that you can move the hinges from one side of the appliance to the other. Jess and I got home from shopping yesterday, and I very casually declared, fresh tub of melting ice cream in hand, “I think I’ll switch over the door on the fridge.”

Given the layout of our kitchen, this is a perfectly logical change to make. But boy are those two pages of simplistic-looking instructions in the refrigerator manual misleading. (Yes, I read manuals.)

An hour and two litres of melted ice cream later, the door hinges had been moved, Jess had been traumatised by a perceived near-dedigitation, and neither of us could open the fridge in one try.

I expect it’ll take us a couple of weeks to reprogram our brains to the new door-opening direction. In the meantime, I’ve stuck a large “PULL” sign on the appropriate corner of the door. It hasn’t helped at all.

I flicked off and squished all the worms I could find and moved the plant indoors for the day. I hope it lives…