Girl in a Boy House

It's the least relevant day...of the year.

2012-02-02T14:23:00.000-08:00

It's Groundhog Day, or, as I like to call it, the least relevant day of the year if you live where I do. I don't care what's happening in the rest of the world - six more weeks of winter would be an early spring; we've been having unseasonably mild weather which makes me a bit superstitious that it is going to be ALL WINTRY BLASTS ALL THE TIME come April and May.

But Groundhog Day - you will be happy to know - is not just a weird, made-up holiday like you may have assumed. It actually has roots in pagan European weather lore! Good times. Despite my previous feelings that Groundhog Day is the stupidest day of the year, which was largely based on weather bitterness which I am trying to overcome by finding within me an invincible summer, I now say hooray for the groundhog! The lowly groundhog, elevated to the status of having its very own day. It's not everyday we celebrate a rodent. We should all be happy for the groundhog.

Today is also the day Sid Vicious died, which seems a bit of a "who-gives-a-shit" piece of information, but since he overdosed on heroin to be with his beloved crazy-ass Nancy, maybe he was somehow confusing Groundhog Day with Valentine's Day. I mean, you do that much smack in your lifetime you probably have a hard time keeping up with the calendar, you know?

Many, many of our special days have roots in pagan rituals, but not - as you likely already know - St. Valentine's Day. St. Valentine was a Christian martyr, and I'm a little fuzzy on the details as to how his day became synonymous with love and chocolates and those cheap incarcerated teddy bears that proclaim they are prisoners of love. In any event, I am very much looking forward to Valentine's Day this year because my kids are at the hilarious stage when talking about anything romance related has them shrieking with disgust. It's quite amusing. Their teacher started a heart-themed calendar for the month of February and it's the Worst! Calendar! Ever! The boys have taken to bringing home Geronimo Stilton books from the library, and we have been reading them at bedtime. There was a chapter where a female mouse VERY CREEPILY goes after Geronimo in a romantic way, and the boys were actually screaming with horror. It was kind of horrible, come to think of it. If there had been a gender reversal - a male character going after a female one in the same manner - there would have certainly been an uproar about it.

But alas! This is the way of the world, it seems. Being a mother of boys makes one acutely aware of gender bias. Take, for example, what used to be Boy Scouts but is now just Scouts, versus Girl Guides. It's okay for girls to be with only girls, but not okay for boys to be with only boys, is the take-away message I am receiving.

We've all heard about the uproar over the new Lego line that is aimed at girls. Personally, I looked at that line and immediately coveted all the sets for myself. They are CUTE. I also covet one of those Maplelea dolls - I really like Taryn. But anyway, I think we're all aware of the uproar about Lego, how Lego is supposed to be gender neutral, etc., etc. I do not agree. I think that Lego is generally marketed to boys. Girls do play with Lego, of course, just as boys play with dolls, but predominantly those items are gender-marketed. Is this a bad thing? I don't know. We don't live in a gender neutral world, people. I am not saying this is right or wrong, I am saying that this is reality.

But I digress. I am simply amused that my boys have reached the stage where little hearts cause them to make retching noises, whereas I have reached the stage where Valentine's Day evokes feelings of the craving variety, as in chocolate and wine. Come to think of it, perhaps chocolate and wine should be the new way to celebrate Groundhog Day! Yes! Let's celebrate the groundhog with a nice glass of Shiraz and a pile of frozen York patties, shall we?

COME ON DOWN! You're the next contestant...

2012-01-31T10:00:00.000-08:00

It's the last day of January, which feels very strange given that, with the exception of about ten days wherein I had that feeling of doom that I would never be warm again, it has been mild. The snow is almost melted in my backyard, which is odd. Perhaps the apocalypse is upon us? I can think of no other explanation.

Other things I cannot think of an explanation for: why I thought it was a good idea to apply nailpolish five minutes before I needed to leave the house, thus ruining the nailpolish application the second I put my coat on; why I have had Pinball Wizard stuck in my head for days only to magically have it disappear and be replaced by Rasputin; why there is an audience for such shows featuring people who live in swamps, or who are crowded in their houses because they cannot stop purchasing on-sale toilet paper, or who dress their young daughters up for beauty pageants; why people take their dog-hating dogs to off-leash parks, and then become defensive when my dog-loving dog goes to greet their dogs - why not just leash your dog and walk it around the block?; and why I am insanely craving popcorn at ten in the morning and I also feel like bursting into uncontrollable tears and/or curling up in bed and wallowing in sadness?

There may be an explanation for the last one. Rah rah Rasputin. Lover of the Russian queen. They put some poison into his wine.

Related: can a tsarina really be referred to as a queen? I know that it was the Russian royal family, but is a tsarina and a queen the same thing?

Completely unrelated: when I was a kid I loved watching The Price is Right. If I could time travel, I would totally go back to the early 80s and I would be a contestant on that show. Ideally, I would be wearing a tube top. I would get to play Plinko - and I would get all the chips because I would know which cost more, a case of Rice-a-Roni or an electric kettle. I would spin the wheel - and, even if I didn't win the $10,000, I would still be the first to choose my showcase showdown which would include: an RV, a dinette set, and a trip to lovely Myrtle Beach. I would get inappropriately hugged by Bob Barker, and I would scream and wave my arms around a lot in excitement. Perhaps I would even fall on the floor - I don't know. I haven't gotten that far in my time-travel fantasy.

When I was a kid I used to think it would be so cool to live in the 1800's; maybe I would work on my embroidery sampler all day, or perhaps write things on my slate with my slate pencil, and I would be excused from excessive physical activity since running or sports would put a serious strain on my corsets. Now I just think that it seems kind of icky, living with no running water and no toilets - I don't even like camping, at campgrounds WITH running water and toilets - and also my embroidery ability, like my ability to sew on buttons, is extremely hampered by my inability to put a piece of thread in a needle and not have it completely tangled in seconds. Also I am unable to sew anything without crying. So if I were to time travel, it would definitely be to be a contestant on The Price is Right. Wouldn't you just love a new dinette set? Or - OR - a NEW! CAR!

While I'm at it, maybe I would time travel to be one of Barker's Beauties! I could walk along the stage in my super high heels with unlikely and impractical "camping wear" (i.e., Daisy Duke shorts and a plaid shirt tied at the waist) with a giant smile, showcasing the grand prize of a recreational vehicle. Only for a day, though - I would like to blot out the whole Bob Barker creepy grossness.

If you could time travel, where would you go?

The fashion police are coming.

2012-01-29T15:32:00.000-08:00

"Hey Mom!" Jake said, out of nowhere, "I'm sexy and I know it!"

I never quite know how to respond to such inappropriate statements. It's like when two-year-old Mark told my mother that he had no money, so he couldn't get no ho's. Or when Jake informed my mother, in one afternoon, that a) he wasn't going to be a chump, he was going to get a prenup, and b) "penis" was another word for "dink". My poor mother. One would think that the solution to this problem would be for me to stop listening to such inappropriate music. Alas.

Also, have you actually listened to "I'm Sexy and I Know It"? It is one of the funniest songs I have ever heard. I mean really: "I work out! I work out!” I have no idea if this was meant to be ironic or not, but I kind of love it.

Speaking of being sexy and knowing it, I received my O Magazine the other day – do NOT judge me, we all have our vices – and there is a whole section on how to wear the new trends in denim. Now, I have recently adopted jeggings as part of my wardrobe, which I had previously decried as a plague upon society, so I will tread lightly here. Still, the first trend described was – wait for it – coloured denim. Adam Glassman, I am deeply disappointed in you. COLOURED DENIM. The question posed was "What do I wear with the new pastel jeans?" Here's my answer: not applicable, since seafoam jeans are a travesty. Some of you might raise your eyebrows in a what does she know, she lives in black and throws in charcoal for colour, but seriously. It is not a good idea to don lilac and/or seafoam and/or peach pants of any fabric, unless you are in a retirement home and you are coordinating those with floral nylon blouses and plastic jewellery of the same colour family. I may be biased, but I'm only trying to save others from the fate that I suffered in the early nineties, when I wore purple and/or forest green jeans to the bar, along with a black bodysuit - remember bodysuits? - and my spiral permed hair.

Adam then goes on to recommend ways to wear coated jeans, which, for those of you not in the know, as I was prior to reading this magazine, coated jeans are a substitute for leather pants.

Sorry, I needed to take a break for a minute, just from typing the words "leather pants". I don't want to get into any rock star/ I am the Lizard King kind of discussion. Let's just agree that putting tight, super-shiny materials on your thighs is not a good idea, not if wearing flattering clothing is of importance. We should have all learned this lesson in the eighties. And even if you can pull off wearing leather pants, the question is, should you? I mean, if you are lucky enough to be in the 1%, it is guaranteed that something else would look much better. Just say no to leather pants or, apparently, coated jeans.

This is not the first time I have been disappointed by Adam Glassman, nor, likely, will it be the last. Remember a few years ago when he announced that the majority of shorts for women were hideous and unflattering and wearing them was akin to fashion suicide? I privately agreed with this sentiment, but later he bowed under intense pressure from Oprah's shorts-loving fans and amended his statement. STICK WITH IT, ADAM, I thought. I realize this is contrary to my hypocritical adoption of jeggings, but still. Most shorts for women are hideous and unflattering. It's about time we realize this and demand better looking shorts for all women. Power to the people!

All of which is to say: just say no. Say no to coloured denim. Say no to leather or leather-look pants. And for the love of fashion, just say no to mix-and-match denim.

Give your mother a kiss or I'll kick your teeth in.

2012-01-25T13:51:00.000-08:00

Happy Robbie Burns Day! I was telling the boys about Robbie Burns Day today, explaining the celebratory nature - in a modified way - and about their Scottish ancestry. Jake was getting more and more agitated and more and more defiant about it, when he burst out "We are not in Scotland, Mom! We are in Canada. WE ARE CANADIAN."

Good point. Also I have to admit the only thing I do on Robbie Burns Day is look up YouTube videos of Mike Myers in So I Married an Axe Murderer and walk around singing Bay City Rollers songs and Do You Think I'm Sexy in a Scottish accent. I'm probably putting my ancestors to shame. It's not like I'm heading over to the Legion to eat haggis, get drunk on Scotch, and get into a brawl with someone from a different clan, like a good Scottish lassie.

Haggis. You have to hand it to the Scots, they have cornered the market on the world's worst cuisine. Scottish cuisine is the absolute bottom of the global barrel. Second is probably Norweigan - and hey, I'm Scottish-Norweigan so I can really vouch for this. Boiled potatoes! Fish balls! And I'm very sorry to offend all of you haggis and/or lutefisk fans, but what the hell? Was everyone drunk and did those dishes really seem like a good idea at the time? Someone very kindly mentioned to me recently that if I wanted, I could get vegetarian haggis, which honestly seems like the third-most-awful food item in the world.

Do you ever wonder how kind of bizarre cultural things got their start? Like, for example, bagpipes. Actually, I can probably guess how bagpipe music got its start but it's a grim picture so I won't go there. Do people honestly enjoy bagpipe music or is it one of those things that you intellectually think you should enjoy because of your ancestry, but emotionally and viscerally you loathe it? Is it like the recorder - intellectually you realize that elementary aged children are taught the recorder because of its lightweight size and inexpensiveness, but the sound of it, my god, the sound of it. There is nothing like being next door to a classroom full of recorder-playing fifth graders. Did I mention that I'm starting to get ready for the next book fair, which is next door to the music room? Alcoholic donations welcome. Also? Ear plugs.

Because of the melting streets and the filth on my windshield causing me to be actually unable to see out my windshield, which seems like a liability somehow, I washed the car today. That is a MAN'S job, people. Anyway, I manned up and took my filthy minivan to the carwash, and beside it an apartment complex is being erected (heh) and there was a giant, cavernous hole dug, filled with various heavy machinery. It made me supremely nostalgic. There was a time when I would walk my boys in their double stroller to construction sites, and they would sit there, fascinated, for HOURS on end. Jake was one, and he would clap his little hands and say "Diggies! Diggies! Jake happy! Happy!" We spent our days that way, our endless unscheduled days, wandering around the neighbourhood looking at buses and machinery, and playing farm and blocks and trains, and now suddenly they are gone most of the day and when they are home they are involved in their own little lives that often do not involve me at all, and one day they are going to be bringing their recorders home to practice and suddenly I am wallowing in Robbie Burns Day melancholy. Just like a good Scottish lassie.

How To Not Let Yoga Wreck Your Body

2012-01-22T14:11:00.000-08:00

The New York Times recently published an article entitled How Yoga Can Wreck Your Body, spurring outrage throughout the yoga community, insofar as yogis can actually be outraged. For me, I read the article and had a number of reactions and feelings, so much so that I needed some time to organize my thoughts. The general message of the article highlights the growing number of yoga-related injuries and concludes that the vast majority of people should steer clear of yoga altogether.

I consider myself to be a yogi, no matter how pretentious that sounds. I have practiced Mysore-style Ashtanga yoga for almost five years. I have never sustained an injury. My initial reaction to the article was that anything - anything - can wreck your body if you let your ego get in the way. I'm in good shape, but I'm not a runner; if I suddenly started running 10K a day, assuming that I purchased running shoes, which I do not currently own, you can bet I would injure myself, pending my not collapsing and dying from that much cardio. I mean, I am someone who ended up in the ER from playing recreational slo-pitch. Any kind of physical activity can be injurious if you are not aware of your own body and your own limitations, or in my case, if you take a line drive to the throat.

I have known people to injure themselves performing yoga postures, it's true. I know people with tight hips forcing themselves into lotus, blowing out their knees. I have known people to do one of those dreadful hot yoga classes, overstretch and tear a hamstring. Shoulders, necks, backs: I've known people to injure themselves doing certain postures.

If you try this in a "hot yoga" class you may tear your hamstring. But that doesn't mean you can't practice yoga.

The Primary Series of Ashtanga is known as the "healing series", something I truly believe because it healed me. So why is yoga wrecking bodies, as the article suggests?

If you have back problems, don't do backbends. You can still practice yoga.

First, I think we need to address the matter of semantics. Differences in connotations and personal interpretations can really fire up an argument. I can tell you I used to get irrationally annoyed when people would refer to their toddlers' daycare centre as "school". Honestly, did it matter what anyone called it? Did it make a difference? No. But yet I would be bothered always by the switch in title.

And this is why simply using the word "yoga" in such a sweeping way bothers me. What I think of as yoga and what the article is talking about are two very different things.

When I first started at my studio, a teacher said to me "There is a difference between going to yoga classes and having a yoga practice." And there, exactly, is the point. Going to a yoga class and treating it as a kick ass workout - that is where the injuries happen. Competition, ego, and envy are injury instigators. Pressure from inferior teachers who don't know individual bodies and limitations leads to injuries. Attempting difficult or complicated postures in a crowded, sweaty room without first obtaining the proper knowledge, strength, and flexibility is an injury waiting to happen. Turning your attention outward instead of inward, not paying attention to your body and what it is telling you, letting what happened yesterday affect your feelings about today can lead to pain and injury.

You can't learn this in a led class. You need a teacher to help you, one-on-one.
But that doesn't mean you can't practice yoga.

In Mysore-style Ashtanga, students practice the sequence of postures at their own pace with a teacher to assist and adjust them properly. The benefit of this style is that you do not go past your own limitations; you do not move to the next posture until you can properly and safely perform the previous postures. The teacher deems you to be ready when you are ready. The teacher works with you one-on-one and learns your body and your strengths and weaknesses. As an example, here is a video showing this style of yoga (fun fact: I am wearing a pale pink top and light grey tights - can you spot me?)

But posture - or asana - is only one of eight limbs of Ashtanga. Only one. Of utmost importance is the limb of ahimsa, which means non-harming. This includes non-harming to ones' self. My beloved teacher is known to say "Do this posture at the expense of absolutely nothing." Taking this advice eliminates the possiblity of yoga wrecking your body. He also says "You want to do this your whole life." I do. So I draw my attention inward.

The other limbs include breath control, inner peace and inner observation, and living ethically. It doesn't really matter if you can hold your leg behind your head then float back to chaturanga if you roll up your mat and resume your life as an asshole. That's not yoga. Sri K. Pattabhi Jois, the Guruji of Ashtanga yoga, said that yoga is for ALL people, except for lazy people. I really believe that. I have a friend who is featured in this video; he is amazing, he has a beautiful practice, I am inspired to be in his presence. But also inspiring are all the people I see every day, every morning at yoga practice, all those people in the previous video. Our practices all look different; our bodies are all different, but we are all there, with intention. From the very beginner who struggles through sun salutations to the very advanced practitioner who takes my breath away with their physical stamina; those people who are true to themselves and their practice, those who live an ethical, compassionate life, those who cultivate patience and kindness, those people are true yogis and are inspirational, always.

Practicing asana is important - it gives concentration, it gives physical strength and stamina, but of greater importance is to live the yoga, to take it off the mat and live a life of compassion and inner reflection and non-harming - to others and to yourself. That is yoga, true yoga, and it cannot wreck your body.

Just settle the fuck down already, it's just Pyjama Day.

2012-01-19T13:49:00.000-08:00

It's Pyjama Day at the boys' school today and - this may not seem significant to you, but it IS - Mark is wearing pyjamas! Not once has Mark ever worn pyjamas on Pyjama Day. He has always preferred to wear just regular clothes, despite the pyjama clad children everywhere. His refusal to conform to Pyjama Day bothered me a bit when he was in preschool, then less and less with each year. I figured, in my chillaxing way, that he as he grew he would become more interested in festively wearing nightwear to class, or if he didn't, that was okay too. I was pretty sure that somewhere out there were perfectly functional adults who also opted to wear jeans on Pyjama Day, so I was not too worried. When he told me he was going to participate, I tried not to make a big deal about it. This morning he was a bit concerned, telling me that he was worried about what the public would think - his "public", upon further investigation, was discovered to be our neighbours. He reassured himself that our neighbours probably would not laugh at his pyjama clad legs, and in any case, he was wearing snowpants. In the car he fretted that no other children would be wearing pyjamas - what if it was just he and Jake? - but then we saw my friends' children, all of them in Division Two, and all of them wearing pyjamas, and he was vastly reassured.

I have known parents to get upset if their children choose not to participate in an ostensibly fun activity at school - it's FUN, we say, why don't you TRY it?, just TRY IT. - but sometimes kids have reasons of their own, and what's wrong with that? Wearing your pyjamas to school is an odd concept, after all, and in any case, certain quirks can be outgrown.

All of which is to say, I really like my friend Nan's plan for a parenting magazine section entitled "Just Settle The Fuck Down Already", indicating that we cannot control every single facet of our children's lives. Once we all realize this, we will be much more at peace. Not everything that happens to our children or every part of their personalities is a direct result of our actions. We can all point to parents who, to all appearances and with all the available information, did everything right and yet their child's life turned terribly, horribly wrong. See also: Nancy Spungen. We also can point to parents who adopted the "Feral Child" method of childrearing and yet produced functional adults who contribute to society. See also: Jeannette Walls. I'm not saying parenting doesn't matter: of course it does.  This is not license to guzzle whiskey and smoke while pregnant or allow your toddler to watch TV for twelve hours a day or to feed your children nothing whatsoever other than Coke, Chicken McNuggets, and Pop Rocks. I mean, that's really going to fuck shit up. Obviously we need to do the best job we can and use our brains and our instincts and reliable, researched information, and YET, we still cannot control and shape our children exactly to our specfications. Nor should we want to. They are little people, in their own right.

I have a post on my mind right now that I want to write - not that Pyjama Day is not important stuff - but I'm just not ready. I realize this is kind of like one of those vague Facebook statuses that people probably mean to be enigmatic but instead turn out kind of flaky. You know what I mean.  Today was the worst (or, alternately, best) day ever!!!!! with no explanation to what happened, spurring questions and concern from all fronts. Or an inspirational quote to show that there is drama going on in your life right now, but you are making peace with it. Or - and this is my favourite - I'm going through my Facebook and deleting everyone who is not a true friend. If you are NOT a true friend, GOODBYE. Those always make me feel uncomfortable. If you are going to unfriend me, I guess I would rather not it be part of your Facebook status, you know? Not that I should talk. I mean, my Facebook status today had to do with the fact that I'm wearing compression stockings and jeggings at the same time. I'm melding the part of myself that wants to be stylish and hip with the part of myself that is next door to drinking hot water and lemon on a summer day. WORLDS COLLIDING, OMG.

I also really, really want to talk about the New York Times article about yoga and all the fallout from the yoga world and all that and throw Jim Fix and running into the mixture, but I have run out of time talking about PYJAMA DAY and so I will have to save that topic for next time. In the meantime, I came across this "Shit Nobody Says" video over at Hilarity in Shoes' blog, and I love it even more than the "Shit Vegans Say" one (is there HONEY in your bread?). Maybe I should make my own video. But I'm not sure what it would say. My hands are cold. Barkley is the cutest dog EVER, you should totally get a Labradoodle. Please don't fart at the dinner table. The secret ingredient is love.  Mmm, cheese. Please don't talk about your penis at the dinner table. I used to have a nice rack, now I'm totally deflated. Chickpeas are awesome! NO FARTING AT THE DINNER TABLE. Inhale, exhale. You have to use your breath. Do not talk about poop at the dinner table. Barkley want to go for a walk? Walk? Walk? I think I'm going to have a glass of wine. STOP TALKING AND FINISH YOUR DINNER. NO. NO MORE FARTING. I made this kick ass stirfry. Do you want to go to Costco with me? I have a phobia about it. Okay, just clear your plate and get started on your home reading. Yes, it's okay if you have to poop first. Wash your hands. Asana is only one PART of yoga.

There's the foreshadowing - for the next post! No, not the farting and pooping part.

Are you feeling sad? It's Blue Monday!

2012-01-16T13:56:00.000-08:00

My very good friend reminded me this morning that today is Blue Monday, the saddest day of the year, and yet I'm not feeling sad. That's a win! I am, however, feeling cold; our mild, springlike winter has suddenly ended. The dog keeps looking at me balefully, probably trying to telepathically communicate to me his desire for a walk. And I keep looking back at him, telepathically communicating something along the lines of "Are you out of your furry little mind?" We seem to be at an impasse. Perhaps if it warms up to minus twenty, we will go out for a walk, but if not, you will be stuck in the house with me for the foreseeable future, my canine companion.

So how many of you watched football this weekend? I cannot say I watched it, but fortunately I have a football fan of a husband, and so I am IN THE KNOW. The first game brought much joy and excitement, the second game extreme happiness and satisfaction, the third and fourth games semi-disappointment and disgust. Awkwardly, the team I like and my husband's favourite team will be playing each other next week, which does not bode well for marital harmony around here. Truly, I don't care enough about football to really have a stake in this particular argument; I will submit in a medieval wifely way to my husband's will and cheer for his team. Hey, no one wants a divorce over football for heaven's sake.

More interestingly, how many of you watched the Golden Globes this weekend? I did, not that I have ever heard of most of the TV shows and movies that are being celebrated; in fact I don't know most of the celebrities. But I do enjoy Ricky Gervais and I also do enjoy me some eye candy, i.e., Johnny Depp. I realized, alarmingly enough, that I have had a crush on Johnny Depp for twenty-five years. That's distressing. Also distressing: Angelina Jolie's arms. I saw her sitting at the table, thought she looked elegant and beautiful, but when she stood up...eeek! Her arms! Her giant arm tattoo! Normally I shy away from mentioning that someone is "too skinny" - commenting on one's body type is rude, no matter the body type - but HER ARMS OMG. Have some cheesecake, Angelina. Also - and this is controversial and will probably open a big huge can of worms, but - I tend to dislike arm tattoos, unless the tattoo is an anchor and the tattooed person is an old sailor. That's kind of cool. But Angelina's big tat really detracted from the beauty and elegance of her outfit, I think. Feel free to disagree with me! I'm just not an arm tattoo kind of girl.

By far the best parts of the Golden Globes for me were Seth Rogan's comment about concealing a massive erection, Jimmy Fallon VERY ACCURATELY imitating Mick Jagger's dance moves, disproving forever the myth that "moves like Jagger" is a good thing, and Mark Wahlberg's extraordinarily sullen award presentation. Why so glum, Marky Mark? Is it a Blue Monday preview?

My dog just sat on my feet and looked up at me, tail wagging. FORGET IT, BARKLEY. I have been outside a few times today to do dropoffs and pickups, and I am still chilled from those brief encounters with the out-of-doors. I was wearing jeans, turtleneck, knee high socks, thick wool sweater that doubles as a fall jacket, gigantic mid-thigh down parka with hood, Joan of Arctic Sorels, gloves AND wool mittens and I was still frozen. When I was at the doctor's last week, he commented on the colour of my hands and feet and suggested a) I may have a mild form of Raynaud's disease, and b) that I am not built for this climate. Tell me about it, doctor. Tell me about it.

Saturday the Fourteenth, the Black Boot Edition

2012-01-14T15:45:00.000-08:00

I am not a very superstitious person, so I am not going to put any weight on the fact that I woke up last night and the clock read 3:16. In related news, did you know there is a football game with very high (emotional) stakes tonight? Things are going to be TENSE in the Boyhouse, as they often are during the playoffs when a certain New England team is playing.

I may take this opportunity to quietly update my neglected-of-late cooking blog, because watching the game may add too much stress-by-osmosis to my life.

I will tell you that I have never been so happy to see Friday the Thirteenth than I was this week. This week really kicked me to the curb. I was sitting on the couch, staring at the TV, and my husband looked up from the - I kid you not - Enron documentary that we were watching and said "Wow, you really look worn out." Honestly. I do not get sick very often so when I do I feel like I have been completely run over by a large piece of machinery.

But! On the cheerier side I am almost completely back to normal, enough to be able to make ribald jokes regarding vegetarianism. Informing someone that you are a vegetarian will invariably result in the question of whether or not you eat fish, and while I realize that there is such a thing as pesco-vegetarianism, I am not of that group. I still consider fish to be meat, so I do not eat it. The follow up question to the fist one is, without a doubt, "But how do you get enough protein?" And this is where I usually smile and lift my eyebrows, and intimate that my husband must be one lucky fellow, don't you think? Generally that ends the questions. There's nothing like referring to your skanky bedroom antics to get people to never ask you anything again.

Hilariously, I once told a male friend that I am a vegetarian, and his response was completely different; he exclaimed "Really? But you seem so NORMAL."

While I am a vegetarian, I will admit that I do have some boots that are made from - gasp - leather. I have some pairs which are vegan, true, but I'm not entirely convinced that the process used to create man-made shoe materials is actually BETTER than leather. I don't know. It's a complex issue. It's kind of like about ten years back, when everyone was on a super low-carb diet, but no one was losing weight because they were all eating highly processed low-carb substitutes for high-carb items, i.e., low-carb bread and cookies. For the record, I was never on that diet. It is VERY difficult to be on a high-protein, low-carb diet when you are a vegetarian; no one is THAT skanky.

Related to perceptions of what is "better" or not, I saw a fellow being interviewed who was part of the "Occupy Calgary" movement, and he was passionately championing more electricity use as opposed to that of fossil fuels, when in fact electricity in this province is almost all coal-generated. Heh. Facts, people.

Anyway, I realized that I had promised to post pictures of my new boots, the ones that made the salesman tell me that I was - awkwardly enough - Puss in Boots. I thought that in addition I would post a few pictures of my favourite boots, both vegan and, um, non-vegan. Enjoy!

The new boots! My mother referred to them as "hooker boots", which I take as a compliment. My husband takes that to mean I'm low on protein.

The same boots, but with turned down cuffs. Puss in Boots! These are not particularly practical, because they are not lined, but they are cute, I think.

These boots look really slutty with leggings. I wear these when I wear a skirt or dress and I think they are pretty saucy.

This photo is specifically for Nan and for Kimberly, neither of whom believed me that Ugg boots could be even remotely attractive. See? They can! I purchased these at half price in an outlet mall in Palm Desert. Why do we not have outlet malls like that here? Please note the gratuitous shot of my new Pandora bracelet, but please ignore my freakishly giant hands. Seriously, my hands really are that big. I have issues finding gloves that fit.

These are my practical, dog walking boots. I wear these when it is cold and snowy, but not cold enough for my Joan of Arctic Sorels. I feel very patriotic when I wear these boots, what with the maple leaves on them. Canada - I love you. Let's get some of those American-style outlet malls, hmmmm?

These are my actual favourite boots; they are perfect for walking with their low heel, and they are lined to be warm for fall weather. Sadly, they are not warm enough for winter.

These boots are comfortable, but they are really only good for dry, non-snowy sidewalks since they do not have a very grippy sole.

That concludes a partial walk through my boot closet. Can you tell which are leather?

The fog has lifted.

2012-01-11T13:47:00.000-08:00

The fog has lifted, so to speak. It turns out that I have a raging sinus infection, which certainly explains why I was just getting worse and worse and why I would sleep for ten hours a day and still be completely exhausted and why I felt like I was walking around underwater and why I sat up yesterday when the alarm went off and had to lie back down with a stabbing pain behind one eye and a dull ache in my ears and teeth. I had a doctor's appointment yesterday, and since this doctor is new to me, I was a bit nervous. My old doctor always erred on the side of undermedicating, and so I mentally prepared myself to argue for some kind of medication.

Turns out, I didn't need to argue, the doctor immediately diagnosed sinus infection and prescribed a round of antibiotics, plus an over the counter medication. I went to fill my prescriptions, and the friendly pharmacist informed me that they did not have that over the counter medication, but I was not to worry. It was not necessary, he said, my doctor only recommended it to help manage the pain and congestion. Blink. Blink blink. "That seems pretty necessary right now," I said, before bursting into tears. My puffy, blotchy, sobbing ugliness spurred him into action and he found a suitable substitute.

I feel much better today. I can feel my old energy returning, and I also do not feel like ripping off my own head. I have been able to accomplish some of my everyday tasks: I did the laundry without collapsing into the warm-from-the-dryer clothes, I cleaned the bathroom without crying, I walked the dog without contemplating death. I may even bake a banana bread later today, without fear that the noise from the stand mixer will cause unspeakable anguish.

All in all I would say that's a good day. Which is not to say I'm 100%, since I tried to send my husband a jokey sort of text that said "I'm sexting you!" but for some reason it came out "I'm decrying you!". I'm not sure how that happened. He did not respond, probably thinking that this is my normal behaviour now. Or maybe he thinks I'm actually crying, which is a fairly unremarkable occurrence.

A few months ago, my husband went to run an errand and came home with an iPhone for me, thereby catapulting me into the modern age. Previously I had only a flip phone with no voice mail and I had never sent a text in my life. Upon receipt of my iPhone, I immediately texted a friend - one who mocked me for my lack of technological savvy - saying merely "I'm texting you!". I was so excited. I was less excited when my husband took my old phone to be recycled. He went through, deleting my old information, and came upon a whole pile of texts that I had received, utterly unaware that I had received them. One of them was from January 2011, and said "Hey Nic, so sorry but I won't be able to make it tonight. Call me later!" Oops.

All of which is to say my lack of texting and/or sexting abilities may have nothing to do with my recent illness, and more to do with the fact I listen to the kind of radio station that advertises for Grey Power Insurance. A girlfriend sent me a message the other day, saying that she was thinking about me as she heard a Hall and Oates song on the radio. Hall and Oates! She knows me well indeed.

A Fabulous New Weight Loss Plan!

2012-01-09T13:27:00.000-08:00

I have a fabulous plan for all of you who wish to lose a couple of pounds as per your New Year's Resolutions. First, come and hang out with me while I cough and hack away and - presumably - pass this very weird virus on to you. Next, wait until the virus settles into your sinuses and causes you to wonder if there is something else going on and if perhaps you should go see your doctor, because even your teeth hurt. Then, realize that you have no appetite and all food tastes like nothing to you. Have you ever eaten guacamole and not be able to taste it? Tasteless guacamole is just really weird. Your pants will be looser in no time at all! New Year's Resolutions fulfilled.

I'm so dull, and I'm not sure if it's just my personality taking a turn for the grim, or if it's the constant headache, or if I've just always been so dull and have never noticed. But hoo boy, I feel boring! At least I'm not complaining about the weather. Of course, it has been abnormally and remarkably warm here - it's like March or April, rather than January - and the snow is almost completely melted. My neighbour's sexy snowwoman is nothing more than a stub of snow in the middle of his brown front lawn. This feels symbolic in some way that I just can't put my finger on (see also: my dullness).

Something exciting did happen this weekend, though. I was at the hair salon, and my hair therapist had just finished telling me this long and detailed story about the firing of her male colleague, and that very same colleague came through the door and started working! It was as if he didn't realize that he had not been fired. Tensions came to a head when I was sitting at the sinks and he attempted to rinse out my colour. Drama! Drama at the hair salon! Sadly, it wasn't so dramatic as to be entertaining, just dramatic enough to be kind of awkward and also passive-aggressive, in a hair stylist sort of way. Upon recounting this tale, I realize that this was less of an exciting event and more of a minor diversion from the usual People magazine epiphanies that happen at the hair salon.

I guess my personality really is taking a turn for the grim. It doesn't help that the house is silent - absolutely silent - since the boys went back to school today. The only sound is the ringing/roaring in my ears. That, and the dog constantly going to the door, but when I go to let him out, he turns and runs back to his doggie bed. What the hell, Barkley? I have a feeling the silence is affecting him too.

Inspiring!

2012-01-06T17:50:00.000-08:00

This weird little Christmas holiday virus seems to be the gift that keeps on giving - every day it's a new and different symptom, and although I am feeling better - i.e., functional - I am far from being my usual energetic and healthy self. For example, my cough is now almost all gone but my sinuses seem to want to kill me softly, with their extreme pressure of a song. It's enough to make a person pull out the neti pot, and I do not make that move lightly.

Back when my cough was the symptom of the day, I was taking Halls' cough drops when I noticed something on the individually wrapped candies. I looked closely: on each wrapper was written "Nothing you can't handle" and "Don't waste a precious minute". Inspirational quotes on my cough drops. This seems like the thin edge of the wedge.

Is it me, or is the vast volume of inspirational quotes making them superfluous? Everywhere you look, there are little nuggets of precious wisdom; from Lululemon bags to my favourite but very pretentiously named Yogi tea, from billboards for a "better Calgary" to the massive influx on my Facebook news feed. It's like, to paraphrase a modern quote, drinking from the firehose of motivational sayings. Don't even get me started on Jack Layton's final letter to Canada: the first time I read it I felt somewhat uplifted; by the fortieth time I read that love was better than anger and optimism better than despair, I felt more irritated than inspired.

This is not to say that I am a cynical sourpuss - or if I am, that will surely change momentarily, given that it's Friday and I'm planning to test the theory that red wine is medicinal. When I was young, my grandma had "Desiderata" hanging on the wall of her home, in between framed embroidered pictures of flowers in baskets with such maxims as "Grandchildren are a gift from God" with all of our names surrounding it. I would look at "Desiderata", and even at a young age it spoke to me. As I hit the bumpy road that is the young teenage years, I would remember "You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here." and I would feel peace. Her "Desiderata" was the one thing I wanted from her possessions when she died; I had it reframed and it now hangs in my living room wall. I look at it every day, and every time I read "With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world" I feel that it really IS a beautiful world. Everything I believe in is written in "Deserata".

So I suppose that is my inspirational quote, the one that inspires me. Perhaps someone out there is being inspired by "Don't waste a precious minute" on their cough drop wrapper; I suppose it's possible. Or perhaps we should treat the constant stream of motivational sayings the way we do fortunes in fortune cookies - with a "in bed" addendum on the end. Like, "Nothing you can't handle - IN BED", or maybe "Do not do to others what you would not want done to yourself - IN BED". Or even - and this is a nod to all the hockey fans out there, I am a Canadian girl after all - "You miss 100% of the shots you don't take - IN BED."

You say you want a resolution

2012-01-03T18:27:00.000-08:00

Well, you know. We all want to change the world.

I used to be a dedicated non-resolution-maker, but in the past couple years I have made - and kept! - resolutions at New Year's. Of course, one of those resolutions was to learn how to bake bread, so it's not like I'm asking the impossible of myself (bread baking, it turns out, is remarkably easy). Last year I resolved to be more social, and to stop drinking on weekdays. I did both of those things, and I continue to do them, as I continue to bake bread regularly. It was a bit harder - I had to get myself out of my homebody rut a bit, and I had to get used to relaxing on the couch without a glass of red - but I found that they were resolutions that really had a positive impact on me, both my body and my mind. My yoga practice improved and I know giving up the weekday wine had a part in that.

I had to think for a while to decide on resolutions for this year. If I'm going to resolve to do something, I want it to be something lasting, a lifestyle change, if you will. I have decided on the following resolutions for 2012:

Drink Less Coffee

Don't get me wrong, I still heart coffee very much and I am still going to enjoy 3-4 cups a day, but it's going to be 3-4 cups a day, rather than 6-8 cups a day, and I don't think I need to explain this further. To this end I have stocked up on tea. Helllllooooo, methadone! To be honest, the teas I have stocked up on are herbal and/or decaf, so it's not exactly a methadone situation. It's more like one of those plastic pretend cigarettes people use to quit smoking. I am cold all the time and I like to sip on something warming, so I think the teas will be just the ticket.

Be More Patient

This is mostly for the kids. It's not that I'm particularly impatient with the kids, but I do find myself becoming snappish or going into "fly-off-the-handle" mode for silly things. This is not to imply that I'm going to let my children run wild and undisciplined while I explain quietly that Mommy Does Not Like That Behaviour And Here Are The Reasons Why, but I'm going to be more patient with them being just...kids. I want to be more patient with regular kid silliness and regular kid requests, rather than getting annoyed and impatient. Also, have you ever noticed that we - or, I should say, I - have a tendency to talk to my kids in a way that I would never use to speak to anyone else. Why should the people who live in my house, who I love more than anything, have to be spoken to in a less-kind way than I would speak to a perfect stranger? It does not make sense.

Walk Away From Negativity

I have decided not to let negativity affect me negatively. Get it? There are certain individuals in my life who are, for lack of a better word, very negative people, and I'm tired of letting their negativity ruin my day. What I need to remember is that passive aggressive comments geared toward myself, my husband, or my kids only reflect on the commenter. Right? I AM RUBBER YOU ARE GLUE. This is going to be a tough one for me; it's always easier to believe the negative things, rather than the glowing reviews, strangely enough. I've spent a lifetime taking things like that to heart, when really, a passive-aggressive person is only showing their own insecurities and that should not affect my day and make me sad. A very good friend reminded me that an easy way to deal with negative people is to be compassionate; consider how awful that person's outlook must be in order to be negative all the time. I'm really going to try this; I'll let you know how it goes.

Did you make any resolutions this year? Do you ever?

2011 Year in Review at the Boyhouse

2011-12-31T08:01:00.000-08:00

One of the great things about keeping a blog is looking back over the year to see what happened. In general, I can hardly remember what happened last week, let alone last January, so it's kind of fun to look back and see what was going on for 2011. What happened in the Boyhouse? Here's a look back at the highlights of the year.

January

Against all odds, I gave up drinking wine on weekdays, I survived Blue Monday, the saddest day of the year, and I watched Money Never Sleeps without actually falling asleep.

I also bought Sorel boots! Because it was SO COLD.

February

I talked about bald men and The Bachelor, which may just be the worst show in the world, Jake made all my Valentine's dreams come true by making me a Valentine saying "Bee Mine" complete with bee, and we went to Disneyland and I did not lose my mind (much)!

March

I got all pissy about Mommy Wars, I became mentally unhinged due to Daylight Savings Time, and Mark turned seven!

April

I had my varicose veins stripped and discovered that it is a very, very painful process (and that using the word "stripping" will bring a lot of presumably disappointed readers to one's blog), I turned 36 and contemplated the weird cultural phenomenon that is the surgical "Mommy Makeover", and I went to a friend's house at 2:30 in the morning to watch the Royal Wedding!

Me, strung out on Percocet.

May

Someone wanted to name Mark's soccer team the "Burning Blue Balls" which, quite frankly, would have been awesome, Mark's super-persistent cough turned out to be pneumonia and I thought that perhaps I was the worst mother ever, and, completely unrelated to the pneumonia, Mark became obsessed with beavers.

June

I threatened to storm the local weather station to debate their methodology of deriving average temperatures in my city and also revealed the biggest fight my husband and I have ever had, we got a new gas meter installed, and the kids started a kids' yoga class. Wow, June was pretty boring.

It was also the coldest Super Soccer Saturday ever.

July

At an amusement park, Jake won a stuffed octopus whom he named Octopussy, we stalked Will and Kate at the zoo, and my esthetician quit on me and the boys became obsessed with cougars.

August

Mark was still coughing all night long even though his pneumonia was gone in May, I became extremely emotional, then suddenly excited about back to school and I also fell in love with the 1975 Sears catalogue, and I became incensed over stupid t-shirts about being too pretty to do homework.

We also went on vacation and Jake learned how to swim!

September

The boys started Grade One and Two and were placed in the same class, Jake turned six, and I worried about turning into Mullet Lady.

October

Against all odds, my dog became a bloodthirsty predator in a fluffy body and caught a squirrel, the boys learned how to dance hip-hop, and I did not stop believing, I held on to that feeeeeling at the school's Halloween Family Dance - which was complete with girls crying in the bathroom.

November

I debated the usage of the words "vagina as a clown car", I challenged People's Sexiest Men list and made my own, and I talked about Movember.

We also decorated the tree!

December

I went to my husband's Christmas party and also posted a picture of me in eighth grade, my kids got all crazy about the mistreatment of Rudolph, and I accidentally sang along to Baby It's Cold Outside with a complete stranger in the liquor store.

So that was 2011! What will 2012 bring? I hope it brings much peace, joy, and happiness to you. xoxo

Puss in Boots

2011-12-29T10:57:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I was awake for maybe six or seven hours in total. The night before that Jake suddenly developed a fever...then I developed a fever...and then I developed the following symptoms: sore chest, sore throat, and narcolepsy. The whole day was a blur of sleeping, eating cinnamon toast and freezies, and sleeping. I showered at 4:00 only so I could put on a fresh pair of pyjamas. I did not even put on makeup! This is a testament to my sickness if ever there was one.

Today we're all a bit better - Jake is still under the weather, but I heroically showered at 9:30 and put on yoga pants, so I'm one step up from a pyjama day. I say this tentatively and nervously: I'm actually kind of enjoying our PJ days. I say this because no one is really, horribly sick; no one is throwing up or dangerously ill or crying. We're just all sort of sick and pretty tired and we have no place to go and nothing to do and it's kind of...nice.

I'm sort of worried the universe is going to smite me for saying that out loud. But it IS nice, snuggly days watching movies, reading books, and the boys playing with their new toys and their Wii. A few more days like this may see me typing feverishly "All work and no play makes Nicole a dull girl" over and over, but for now, it's nice.

Prior to my 18 hours of sleep day, I managed to pack away all the ornaments, disassemble the tree, and finish my cleaning binge. We can now all sit comfortably at the table without moving our chairs around to allow people to get up from the table. Win!

I also went shopping. This to me is somewhat heroic, facing the mall that I had been avoiding for more than a month. We might all have a lot to say about Boxing Week sales, but they are a great time to stock up on things needed throughout the year. For me, that means jeans for the boys. I did some online Boxing Week shopping and managed to get a year's supply of jeans for cheap, something that is desperately needed around here since my kids manage to completely wear out the knees in their jeans within a few weeks. I should add that I am decidedly NOT a seamstress, and there are only so many pairs of cutoff jeans a child needs, and so we go through a lot of jeans.

But other than online shopping, I did venture outdoors and went actual physical shopping. My husband and I dropped the boys off at my mother's and then went to the very quiet downtown mall. My very favourite store had 50% off sales - black and charcoal sweaters! - and I also obtained a new pair of boots. As soon as I have energy I will photograph them and post the picture. THEY ARE HOT. I showed my mom who said, immediately, "Oh! You got hooker boots!" Yes, Mom, I did! They are saucy and tall and the salesman smiled at me and said "You're Puss in Boots!" Um. That was a little awkward, but I think he meant it well.

I was so enamoured with my saucy Puss in Boots look that I even capitulated to the demands of fashion and bought - and I say this somewhat shamefully - half-price jeggings. They are actually much, much more comfortable than I thought they would be, although nowhere near as comfortable as the pyjamas and yoga pants that are my wardrobe this week. Maybe by New Year's, I will feel well enough to actually wear them. Then again, maybe I won't.

Post-Christmas Cleaning Binge

2011-12-26T14:53:00.000-08:00

Did you have a good Christmas? I'm relieved to tell you that Mark recovered enough to enjoy Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, although he was somewhat exhausted by yesterday evening - but then, shouldn't we all be exhausted by then? My mother mentioned yesterday that Mark is always sick at Christmas, which seemed incorrect to me, and indeed, upon checking my blog entries the last time anyone was sick at Christmas was 2008. That seems like a fairly decent run to me.

But today we are all enjoying good health and also our Christmas gifts. I caved this year on my "no video games" policy and the boys - all three of them - are currently playing Mario Kart Wii. They are also threatening to get a fourth control so I can play with them, an attitude I am steadfastly discouraging. So far they have yet to turn into slack jawed zombies, so I grudgingly admit the Wii is fine. Also, I received a game, just for me, the Wii Jeopardy. Now THAT is something I can get behind.

I also received this beauty:

A Pandora bracelet! It's perfect in every way. I also received this pashmina scarf, which is so unbelievably soft I want to make out with it:

I haven't yet. But I want to.

Meanwhile, today I have broken all my normal rules and have not taken the Christmas tree down. It's not because I don't want to. I came home from yoga, faced with the clutter and boxes and general grunginess that indicates holiday living, and thought I could not face one more minute with the tree up. The kids intervened passionately, and I have agreed to give it one more day. I regret this decision immensely, and I find myself giving the tree what my children themselves refer to as the "furry eyebrow". Enjoy your time with us, tree. You're next.

If I couldn't take down the tree, I certainly could deal with the holiday grunginess, which is exactly what I did.

That's me, minus the blonde hair and kicky pink dress. My children seemed a little alarmed at the zest with which I attacked the floors and bathroom. My husband went out to run an errand and came back to find me scrubbing the floor tiles with vinegar water and a Sham-Wow, all the furniture moved around so as to clean behind it. "Wow," he said, backing away slowly. "You're really...cleaning." YES I AM.

Meanwhile, we have approximately one thousand chocolates in the house, which seems like a lot. What's better - freezing and savoring them over the next several months, or devouring them all just to destroy them? Probably something in between, I suppose. But given we still have Halloween candy in our house, something must be done. Immediately. Now pardon me while I go deal with a box of After Eights.

"And they're hanging their stockings," he snarled with a sneer...

2011-12-24T10:27:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow is Christmas! It's practically here!

We made it through the entire first term of school with no days lost due to illness; despite classmates being knocked down with strep and colds and stomach flues, my kids remained healthy, with only a few minor days of sniffles. I know someone who takes full responsibility for his child's health; the lack of illness is due to superior parenting on his part. However, I take my children's health as a blessing - one that I supplement with lots of sleep, vitamins and good food, but a blessing nonetheless. Then on Thursday - the last day of school - Mark mentioned he had a sore throat, but that there was no way he was missing the last day.

A chill of foreboding went through me. Mark insisted he was well enough for school, and he certainly did seem to be, but this is also the child who insisted he was well enough for school when it was later revealed that he had pneumonia. To say that I was a bit apprehensive would be an understatement. And so I was not at all surprised when I picked them up from their shortened day to find that he had a low grade fever. Jake complained that he was very tired. We went home, I settled the kids on the couch with Despicable Me, and took Mark's temperature every half hour or so. He complained about this; when I told him about rectal thermometers though, he was relieved with the modern technology that is the ear thermometer.

Things got worse and his fever hit 103. Now, I am of the school of thought that if a child has a virus - which is what I thought - then the best course of action is to stay home and rest with lots of fluids. Mark was drinking a lot of fluids, and eating some freezies, and eventually the fever went down, hovering between 100 and 101. He threw up in the night, which made me despair for everyone in the family. Not Christmas barf!

Yesterday Mark seemed to rally a bit - Jake rallied entirely, spending the entire day dressing up in old Halloween costumes and making pretend spaceships out of fleece blankets - and we played Legos for a bit, before Mark lay back down on the couch. He woke up from a nap, crying from pain in his throat, with a fever of 103, again. Now I started to question things. The doctor's office was closed. The only options were the gross petrie dish of a local walk-in clinic and the emergency room. I tried to get his fever down with cool cloths and Tylenol, all the while googling worst case scenarios and photos of strep. I peered down his throat with a headlamp, I fretted and took his temperature over and over. I spent the entire day feeling anxious and a mixture of am I doing enough, or should I take him in?

Today, he's much better - still a sore throat, still a lack of appetite, but no fever and with semi-normal energy levels. It's a Christmas miracle! At least, hopefully it is and that no one else comes down with this.

So tonight I'm going to make homemade pizza and Caesar salads, after dinner we will watch Elf, put out cookies and milk - traditions must be maintained no matter what one feels about Santa - and then tuck the boys in. We're moving Jake's bed into Mark's room for a "sleepover"; and then we'll fill stockings and drink wine. It will be a perfect Christmas Eve.

And I wish for you, my dear readers, a most perfect Christmas Eve, however you may spend it. Have yourself a merry little Christmas. Let your heart be light. xoxo

It's Festivus Eve! Grievance time!

2011-12-22T10:53:00.000-08:00

All this Christmas sentiment is getting to me, I thought. Two nights ago, I became increasingly irritable throughout the evening; everything was getting under my skin. My husband was, I thought, an unbearable asshole and the kids were insane, obnoxious, and loud. I crabbed around the house then said, at 7:45, that I was going to bed, much to the relief of everyone in my house. I crawled into bed, only to tell my husband that I must be getting sick, since I was so tired and achy and sad. My husband thought for a minute, then asked if it was possible I was getting my period. Hey! Suddenly everything made sense!

Pre-Christmas sentimentality plus upcoming ladies' holidays equals a supremely irritable, weepy, emotional wreck.

I spent yesterday morning listening to White Wine in the Sun and Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas on repeat, and crying. They'll be drinking white wine in the sun...I sang along, chokingly, tears running down my face as I chopped vegetables. Mercifully my fingers are all still intact. This is not unlike when I was 14 and would be horribly depressed about the awfulness of life in junior high, and then sit in my dark room listening to Leonard Cohen, or Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here. Cathartic? Possibly. Helpful? No.

Fortunately my girlfriends suggested a nice long walk with our dogs in the afternoon, with the sun shining and the blue sky so lovely against the snow. That, along with a peppermint Lindor, lifted me right out of my weepy lunacy.

Also somewhat cheering is the sight out my front window. My single male neighbour seems to be exercising his artistic side by making snow sculptures:

Look closely. The female snowman has giant snow breasts. And even though my neighbour lives alone and possibly always will, the sight of this snowman couple, with the giant breasts and the coffee cup, makes me smile. Actually, on another level it's a bit depressing, but let's just gloss over that for now. A snow couple! Happy! Happy thoughts! Let your heart be light....

Here we are on the eve of Festivus! Festivus for the rest of us. And in the spirit of Festivus, I shall air my current grievance - and no, it has nothing to do with the idea that maybe that snowwoman has had some work done. It is that I was watching the news (or "news") on Monday morning, and the caption for one of the breaking news stories was "Kim John Il Dead". JOHN. Kim JOHN Il. Global Calgary, try proof reading. It's awesome. I expect better from you; you aren't Breakfast Television.

In general, spelling and grammatical errors are a grievance to me. We all make the occasional mistake, but generally, I feel all HULK SMASH when words are used incorrectly or misspelled. Especially if those words are in a Christmas newsletter. It's not spelled HOLLIDAY, extended family member who shall remain anonymous. And it's "oops", not "opps". And punctuation is there for a reason!

Time for some calming ujjayi breaths, I think. But tell me, in the spirit of Festivus, do you have any grievances to air?

Santa's coming! Santa! I know him!

2011-12-20T10:07:00.000-08:00

True confessions: I have never taken my children to a mall to "meet Santa". I'm going to really put myself out there for a moment and say that it has always seemed a little skeevy to me, to set my babies on this dressed-up stranger's lap, this stranger masquerading as Santa, only to have them shriek in terror for the photographer elf. This website, devoted to creepy Santa photos and terrified children, kind of kills me.

Plus, it's not even the REAL Santa! Every time I see a photo of children with Santa, I think only of Buddy the Elf and his excitement to see Santa, followed by: You stink. You smell like beef and cheese. You don't smell like Santa. You sit on a throne of lies! I also think of my husband, who figured out at age three or four the myth that is Santa by visiting more than one shopping mall in a day and seeing more than one Santa. The gig is up, fat guy.

It's a strange ritual, isn't it? The thought of going to the mall right now makes me hyperventilate, but the thought of going to the mall and standing in line for an hour with small children just so they can freak out on Santa's lap? Ca-razy.

I realize I'm in the minority here. I'm also probably in the minority for thinking it's kind of funny that my kids keep singing, to the tune of Jingle Bells, "911, 911, Santa Claus is dead! Rudolph got a dollar to shoot him in the head!" Ah, where would we be without Rudolph-as-depicted-as-a-hitman songs?

Despite our anti-Santa sentiment around here - my kids are non-believers, would you guess? - the excitement about Christmas is escalating. I went to the grocery store yesterday to purchase a few items for Christmas Eve and for some special festive brunches, and realized that the bus from the local seniors' residence now always comes Mondays at nine. In other words, at the exact same time I do my shopping. This means, clearly, I need to find another morning in which to procure my weekly groceries, because I simply can't take it anymore. I cannot take the grumbling about the amount of cash registers that are open, I cannot take the accidental bumping of my legs by grocery cart absentmindedly leaned upon by an elderly lady, I cannot take the crabbing to cashiers about the scandalously high price of butter. I was thinking this, impatiently, as I saw the crowd of mainly elderly women obtaining their carts and looking critically at the "Festive Solutions" display.

But then I saw an old man fumbling around in the cookie section, with his cart full of eggs and bread and ice cream, I saw him carefully choose a bag of "Dad's" oatmeal cookies and set it in his cart. I caught his eye and smiled. I thought that he looked sad, and lonely. I wondered if this was the first Christmas he was doing the grocery shopping. I wondered if he was all alone this Christmas, if his wife was gone and he was just doing the best he could. It reminded me - not for the first time - how very difficult this time of year can be, how joyless and bleak it can seem, and I felt unworthy of all the luck and happiness in my life.

I went home and unloaded all my groceries, then headed to the school to pick up my boys for lunch. They ran across the snowy playground to meet me, singing about dead Santa and murderous Rudolph and Robin laying an egg. My luck and my happiness.

Don't throw me down, Clark! Is your house on fire, Clark? Oh. That was fun. I love riding in cars.

2011-12-18T13:41:00.000-08:00

It is ONE WEEK until Christmas and the mood around here is a mix of mellow and excited. Yesterday was our open house and - although the basement looked like a Lego bomb went off and also like twenty-five children dropped crackers on the carpet and then stepped on them vigourously, which is probably exactly what happened - now I'm kind of in a weird state of not having much to do. One week before Christmas. It's nice, do not get me wrong, I heard on the news that it was taking 45 minutes to exit the parking lot at the nearby shopping mall, and I'm very happy not to have to be around people who are so filled with the Christmas spirit that they may may murder you and run over their own grandma to get a parking spot.

The kids are also in school until THURSDAY. Their last day of school is THURSDAY. I cannot imagine that there will be much learning this week. I also cannot imagine how their teacher is a non-drinker, but that's just me. We all cope differently, I suppose.

Personally, I am going to cope with Christmas excitement - my own - by watching Christmas Vacation on the CBC tonight. I am also now 90 years old, apparently, by using the words "on the CBC". I really need to buy the video of this movie, as I watch it every year and every year I become slightly annoyed at the editing of the words "We're going to have the hap-hap-happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap-danced with Danny Fucking Kaye". Ah, what a movie.

Without further adieu, I will time travel back to 2007 and do a meme! A Christmas meme! Feel free to answer these questions in the comments or, if you are a blogger, answer them on your blog and put a link to it in the comments. xoxo

Five Quick Christmas Questions:

1. What is your favourite Christmas beverage?
Wine is pretty much my favourite. Red wine - it's festive! But on Christmas morning I do enjoy a cup of coffee with Bailey's - the original Bailey's. I know they have all sorts of new flavours of Bailey's, but because I am 90 years old (see also: referring to it as "the CBC") I like the original. I loathe even the idea of eggnog. Just looking at it makes me feel all squeamy. No amount of rum can fix that beverage.

2. What is your favourite Christmas song?
I love so many Christmas songs. In no particular order: Last Christmas by Wham!, Santa Baby by anyone at all, Baby It's Cold Outside - because who doesn't like a festive song about date rape ("No, no, my answer is no!" "But what's the sense in hurting my pride?"), White Christmas by Bing Crosby (because I am 90) and Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas. On the more religious side, I love O Holy Night and the Hallelujah song from the Messiah. I like to sing it loudly, luckily for the people who I live with. I also love this song, although it continues to make me sob and turn into a blotchy, red faced sentimental idiot.

3. What is your favourite Christmas movie?
Elf, followed closely by Christmas Vacation (it's on the CBC TONIGHT) and When Harry Met Sally, which I count as a Christmas movie because it involves Christmas, New Year's, and my husband will only watch it with me during the holidays. He refuses to watch it more than that because I always get drunk and repeat all the dialogue. Anyone want to come over and watch with me? It's super fun!

4. What is your favourite Christmas dessert?
My mom makes a chocolate Yule log with whipped cream. It is PRETTY yummy. I also really like to eat a lot of After Eights and call that dessert. I need a cleanse just thinking about this.

5. How long do you leave your Christmas decorations up?
Heh. I usually put the tree up EARLY - like before December 1st - and so by the afternoon of the 25th I want to tear everything down just so I can move through my living room without bumping into something. I try to wait until after Boxing Day, just to be not such a grinch, but it doesn't always happen.

If you'd like to participate in this meme, let me know - it's fun!

PS My gingerbread recipe is up at the cooking blog - nom nom nom.

Call for help, I am stuck to the countertop.

2011-12-13T09:55:00.000-08:00

We have no fewer than five Advent calendars in the house. Two are Kinder chocolate ones, sent by my mother-in-law, one is a cloth one that is utilized only as a calendar and not as something particularly fun, one is a Star Wars Lego calendar which has led me to realize after a conversation with Hannah that I do not actually know anything at all about Star Wars other than Chewbacca is a Wookie, and one is this cute little thing:

Every day I fill it with little chocolate coins or kisses, and also a note about the festive activity that we will partake in today. I got the idea about festive activities from this post by Lynn - I read it and thought it was brilliant! I felt all warm and fuzzy, thinking about my children squealing with delight as they read the note about what today would bring. Unfortunately, since we had the tree and all decorations up prior to December 1st, and also since I apparently have zero imagination, and also since the kids are in school five days a week, my actual holiday activities have been pretty lame. Don't get me wrong, the kids are still happy to read a book about Christmas, go sledding, and watch the Charlie Brown Christmas special, but those things, along with making three Christmas cards, have been in the rotation since the month began. But! On Sunday I remembered we have an actual bona fide activity to do - our annual decorating of our (fugly) gingerbread house.

Since my very good friend Tara turned me on to pre-built gingerbread houses, I have never and I will never go back to the build-it-yourself kind. I also will never allow the children to consume this gingerbread house. Ack. For all I know that gingerbread and candy have been around since the Iran-Contra affair. I will be posting my own recipe for gingerbread people over on the cooking blog soon.

Spoiler alert! Our house looks nothing like the package.

So here's how one decorates a gingerbread house in the Boyhouse:

First, gather together two very stoked children who are delighting in their mother's idea of notes in the Advent calendar.

Start applying icing to the roof, only to discover there is a hole in the bag. Get icing all over sleeve. Decide to cap the icing bag and use the hole to apply icing.

Find out that this uses up a lot of icing, and there is no way to decorate the whole house. Whatever. Just start throwing the damn candies on there.

Meanwhile, if one is the canine member of the family, sit at attention and wait for those rock hard little candies to roll off the counter. Consume them rapidly, then fly around the house as if crack cocaine, instead, has been consumed.

If one is still bitter about Santa, the reindeer, and their poor treatment of Rudolph, then one can devise evil ways to burn Santa and his reindeer up by a) creating a firepit outside the door to be stepped in by Santa, and b) sprinkling red sugar on the roof to symbolize the flames that will burn the reindeer's hooves when they land on said roof. Not to worry. The gingerbread inhabitants and the rest of the world will be just fine. This is special fire only to target Santa and the reindeer - and possibly anyone else who may be stupid enough and/or lacking in the Christmas spirit to make fun of poor red-nosed Rudolph. Suggestions that burning up Santa is not exactly the Christmas spirit will fall on deaf ears.

I don't know whether to applaud Jake for his creativity and his willingness to stand up to the poor bullied Rudolph, or to be completely appalled by his arsonist ideas. Let's just say I'm somewhere in the middle here.

Finally, after all the candies, sprinkles, and shredded coconut have been un-artistically applied, admire final product:

Please to note the icing on my shirt. That shit is sticky.

You want a close up of the house?

And there you have it. Another glorious work of gingerbread art by the people of the Boyhouse.

The very best way to spread Christmas cheer is by singing loud for all to hear.

2011-12-11T13:04:00.000-08:00

I went out for a few hours, came home, and found that my husband had wrapped all the Christmas gifts! It was the best Christmas gift ever! It instantly made me feel like giving HIM a big Christmas gift, if you know what I'm saying. Voluntary gift wrapping is even sexier than voluntary dishwasher unloading.

Here's a little fact about me: if there is a song playing that I enjoy, I will sing along, regardless of the location. This isn't a conscious thing; I just tend to sing along, in my head, which often leads to SINGING OUT LOUD FOR ALL TO HEAR, a la Buddy the Elf. It's my way of spreading not only Christmas cheer, but just cheer year-round, I guess. There is a good chance that if you see me in the grocery store, I will be pushing my cart, humming and singing along to the 1970's light pop favoured by grocery stores everywhere: I've seen lonely times that I could not find a friend...but I always thought that I'd see you again. Needless to say, if Hall and Oates is playing, there is no chance I will not be singing along. She's gone, oh I, oh I, got to learn how to face it.

A large part of my inability to hear a song and not sing along is that - I'm going to boast about myself for a minute - I have an immense catalogue of song lyrics in my head. I pretty much know all the lyrics to every song ever written, from By the Light of the Silvery Moon to In Da Club. What can I say, other than my awful voice, I rock at karaoke. The downside to this is that I have a massive percentage of my brain devoted to song lyrics. If I could just free that part of my brain think of all the things I could accomplish, like earning my Ph.D., maybe, or figuring out how to drive to south Calgary without bursting into tears.

A few weeks ago I arranged to meet up with some friends in an area I was not familiar with. I wrote down directions, studied them, and half an hour before the appointed time, I headed out. Not unlike the time I was driving from the airport to West Houston and ended up in Sugarland, Texas, I drove past my turnoff. There was much construction, and road signs were not up - for the love of god, Calgary, keep road signs up during road construction - and I ended up far into a residential district before I realized my mistake. Then I pulled over and cried, before remembering that deep in the glove box is a Garmin! I plugged it in, typed in the address, and then became insanely frustrated as the Garmin had not been updated in some time, and kept telling me to turn left where the streets were blocked off by construction. Eventually I made it to my destination, and realized that I did not know how to get home, until my friends very kindly pointed me in the right direction. Upon reaching home and relating this to my husband, he sighed heavily. "You're so smart" he said, "How can you be so bad with directions? You need to realize you're lost BEFORE you see a herd of cattle or the signs to Banff."

He has taken it upon himself to become my instructor, spreading maps all over the house and quizzing me about the major arteries of the city. Some of this information must have been absorbed, because I drove to the southeast part of the city to meet up with Marilyn for lunch and I neither got lost nor burst into tears. I had heart-pounding anxiety for much of the trip, but I made it! I did!

This newfound information has not displaced my song knowledge, however, or - needless to say - my propensity to sing out loud in public places. On Thursday I found myself in the Superstore liquor store, singing a duet with an older gentleman. I was pushing my cart (yes, CART) through the aisles, and I heard someone singing the very best festive song about date rape ever written: Baby, It's Cold Outside. I unconsciously hummed, then sang along - SANG ALONG - with a total stranger. It was somewhat awkward when I realized I was part of this impromptu duet when I rounded the aisles and the older gentleman winked at me, me with my case of wine, giant bottle of Bailey's, and a twenty sixer of gin. It had all the makings of a great romantic comedy, other than the fact that a) I'm happily married, b) the man in question was in his sixties, at least, and c) this was all taking place in a liquor store at ten in the morning.

Santa Baby, Please Don't Bring Me Harem Crops, or an Elf on the Shelf

2011-12-07T13:18:00.000-08:00

This is the view looking out my back door this morning:

Notice how difficult it is to see where the snow on the garage ends and the sky begins? My plan this morning was to take a trip to Superstore, but the snow and the thought of pushing a giant cart through the windy, unplowed parking lot shook my resolution and so instead I have been puttering around the house, drinking copious amounts of coffee and avoiding my dog's gaze. We are not going for a walk, Barkley.

The kids have been taking swimming lessons at school, and they ended yesterday, just in time before the really cold weather settled in for its long winter nap. It's so perverse to me, taking swim lessons in the dead of winter, but fortunately it has not been too cold. Also fortunately, none of the injury, death, and/or dismemberment that I had to waive prior to them taking part in lessons has taken place. Those waivers will be the death of my nerves. The half block that they walk is full of dangers, apparently, dangers that they could get run over by a car or slip and fall and crack their heads open on the sidewalk. Then, once they are in the pool, they might slip and fall and crack their heads open on the pool deck, or drown in the pool, or some other such catastrophe. Happily, they are still in one piece, although I have yet to hear if they passed their level or not. I'm going to go ahead and predict not. I have yet to hear of any child ever passing their level during school swim lessons.

The snow, despite its propensity to tempt me into sitting at home drinking coffee instead of shopping for groceries and liquor (very important, 'tis the season), is making me feel all festive and Christmassy, not that I wasn't before, but you know, SANTA'S COMING. We don't do a lot of Santa-magic things around here, given that my children are abject non-believers, but of course we hang stockings and leave out cookies and talk about how Santa is kind of like a feeling, that doing something nice around the Christmas season means that you are Santa. Just out of pure perversity, though, I feel like getting my kids one of those Elf on the Shelfs. Have you seen them? The concept is just plain creepy - you place the elf in different locations every day so that the elf can monitor your children's behaviour and then report back to Santa. Aieeeeeee.

That motherfucker is terrifying. Can you imagine having a little spy in your house, reporting on your behaviour, then moving into different parts of the house every day? Yikes. If we had one of these when I was a kid I probably would have never slept again. I would have been curled up in the fetal position on my pink bedspread, rocking back and forth. Can't sleep...the elf's going to get me. But apparently it's a very popular idea. I'm not sure with whom, but with someone.

Speaking of the naughty list, I think someone at Lululemon is in trouble for coming up with these:

Please Hammer, don't hurt them. Now, Lululemon knows I love them - no one is a bigger fan of their Wonder Unders or their Power Ys or their Smooth Moves thongs than I am - but why would anyone bring back the Hammer Pants? You can call them Harem Crops as much as you like, but You Can't Touch This. The only plus side to these atrocities is that you would be guaranteed no camel toe. They remind me of a guy I used to date named Tony. His IQ was - and I'm speculating a bit here - probably slightly higher than Forrest Gump's. He was a fan of Hammer Pants and that is all I am going to say on the subject.

However, while we are on the subject of fashion, here's a picture of my new dress that I wore to my husband's Christmas party:

You like?

Holy shit! Where's the Tylenol?

2011-12-05T10:20:00.000-08:00

The boys have been practicing Christmas songs at school - for what purpose, I am unclear, since they never have a pageant or holiday-themed special night for the parents to watch them do non-denominational festive winter performances or anything. Don't get me wrong; I am not a "put the Christ back in Christmas" kind of girl, not by a long shot - and I'm also not going to get into my usual festive discussions about the reasons that Christmas is celebrated on December 25, stemming from pagan winter solstice rituals. I like to celebrate the season as one of giving and light and love, and not get caught up in political/religious details. If you want to put the Christ back in Christmas, that's cool, but I am not going to get all up in arms if you call it a holiday tree, you know? Let's all just hold hands and sing around the shining star like the fucking Whos, okay? No need to get all divisive. Pa rum pum pum pum.

I've been on a bit of a rampage this morning. It is one of those days where I find everything strangely irritating; the lack of green sugar sprinkles in the Co-Op baking section - the fucking Co-Op BAKING SECTION - just about pushed me over the edge. I was one second away from ripping down their "Festive Solutions" display and going all Clark Griswold on the place. "Hallelujah! Holy shit! Where's the Tylenol?"

I realized after I got home with my non-green-sugar-sprinkle groceries that I had only consumed about 1/2 cup of coffee this morning. I quickly remedied this and felt much better. I'm a bit mixed: should I be concerned about my obvious coffee addiction, or should I be happy that my crankiness is so easily fixed by just drinking more coffee? I'm leaning toward the latter.

Anyway, the boys have been practicing Christmas songs at school, and predictably, they are coming home singing various festive songs with the words changed around, featuring Batman and Robin and the Joker peeing on a wall. Such lyric alterations are extraordinarily witty and clever, in their minds. Eventually the conversation turned to Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

And here is where I shall digress a little. There are few Christmas shows/songs/stories that piss me off as much as the Rudolph. In fact, there are NO other Christmas shows/songs/stories that piss me off. I love Christmas. I love it in the way that the Grinch's heart grows three sizes and he realizes

Maybe Christmas, thought the Grinch, doesn't come from a store.

Maybe Christmas - perhaps - means a little bit more.

I love the generosity and goodwill that come from people during the Christmas season (except at the mall, which is why I do not go there past mid-November, to keep my wholesome view of humanity). I love Christmas trees and lights and baking. I love it all.

With the exception of Rudolph. Well, it's not Rudolph I have a problem with. It's those bastard other reindeer, not to mention - when it comes to that terrible clay-mation show - the assholes that Santa and the elves show themselves to be. People who get all pissy about "Happy Holidays" and "Holiday Trees" and whatnot should be pissy about poor Rudolph and his mistreatment. Since when, in this day and age, is it socially acceptable to isolate and mock someone because of differences? Since when is it socially acceptable to exclude someone because they look different? And since when is it okay to only accept those differences when that individual does something heroic and saves the day? THIS IS NOT OKAY.

So when the boys came home singing about Rudolph, I said mildly to them "You know, I've never liked that song. I always feel so sorry for Rudolph. The other reindeer are so mean to him, just because he's different."

Jake looked up at me intently with a serious expression. He was silent for a moment, then said "You know Mom? It's not the Christmas spirit, but you know what? I kind of want to get a gun and shoot those other reindeer."

I do not endorse violence, but I had to agree with him.

I'm so excited! And I just can't hide it! I'm about to lose control and I think I like it!

2011-12-02T08:00:00.000-08:00

I'm a whirling dervish of excitedness today because it's my husband's work party tonight! Squee! I have a new dress and everything. I know a lot of people hate going to their spouse's - or their own - work parties because, yawn, boring. And don't get me wrong, I'm sure this party will also be a bore - they are foregoing a DJ in favour of a jazz band. How will things get started in here if they don't play the Black Eyed Peas? - but I get to wear a new dress! And have cocktails! And eat food that was not prepared by me! That's pretty much the top of the top, you know? I am not cooking dinner. And I'm going to be wearing not-jeans.

So now we are in December, and all the confusion around moustaches - who is a Movember participant and who is just a misguided moustachioed man - is gone, which is nice. In my last post I said that moustaches were the mom jeans of facial hair, but upon deeper consideration, I have decided that they are more like the camel-toe pants of facial hair. Much skeevier.

In my university years, I was a terrible flirt (actually, I have always been somewhat of a flirt...but let's just say university years for illustrative purposes). I was in the bar with some girlfriends when I noticed a guy from one of my economics classes, who had a moustache. This was in the early 90's, so it was NOT the style of the time - at the time all the guys were shaving their heads and growing goatees. Anyway, I had been enjoying a few drinks with girlfriends when I decided to ask that guy why he would possibly think a moustache was a good idea. This was my thinking, but the actual words that came out of my mouth were the following: "Why do you have that moustache? Do you use it to tickle the ladies?" Suffice it to say that this moustachioed fellow found my sauciness intriguing in a way that I had not bargained for. I had to spend the remainder of the semester giving the poor guy the cold shoulder, which brings me to an important life lesson: never ask someone if their moustache tickles the ladies. Another lesson learned during my university years: in the deeply intelligent and insightful words of Harry in my very favourite movie of all time, When Harry Met Sally, "Men and women can never be friends, because the sex part always gets in the way." Truer words were never spoken. Ladies, if you have any male friends, remember those words of wisdom and it will save you much awkwardness in the future when your "pal" wants to "take things to the next level."

Harry: No man can be friends with a woman he finds attractive. He always wants to sleep with her.

Sally: So what you're saying is that they could be friends with a woman they find unattractive?

Harry: No, we pretty much want to nail them too.

Speaking of entertainment from the 80's, I wanted an addendum to my thoughts on Magnum P.I. I have only ever seen one episode of Magnum, and it involved Magnum being stranded in the ocean somewhere and having to tread water for a very extended period of time. My husband, being significantly older than me, was a Magnum watcher in the 80's; any time he hears "In The Air Tonight" he says, in a very serious and emphatic way, "Best. Magnum. Ever." He also does the air drums - but who doesn't? Really, you have to be dead and/or armless to not perform the air drums when listening to that song.

There was a point to this, but I seem to have forgotten it. I may have had a little too much coffee today. But I'm going to a party tonight! I have to NOT fall asleep at 9:00.

Oh yes, I remember now. Apparently "In The Air Tonight" was playing while Magnum showed his badass side by shooting a guy. Shooting him dead! You go, Magnum!

Remember when Hawaiian shirts were popular, and not just worn by the same guys who wear "Bikini Inspector" t-shirts and/or those t-shirts that depict an outline of a very fit male specimen, in sharp and ironic contrast to the actual body type of the wearer?

The 80's were really responsible for many poor fashion styles. I could just say the mullet and the Hawaiian shirt and leave it at that, but really, there are so many other terrible examples. I am going to take a deep breath and show you how brave I am by posting my eighth-grade yearbook photo:

Ack. Ack ack ack. I have no idea why I am actually wearing my glasses in this photo, because I normally only wore them for board work at school and then wandered around in a myopic fog for the rest of the time. Even then, I thought those glasses were ugly. Until I got contacts at age 15, I stumbled around in the blurry, blurry world, squinting when necessary. But this photo is proof that things were bad in the 80's - those glasses were ubiquitous, as was the spiral permed, teased hair that required a bottle of Salon Selectives hairspray a week just to maintain. But how about this:

You can say that you didn't have that couch in the 80's, but you would be lying. What I love about this photo is that I am wearing a Daisy Duke styled shirt over a tank top with a long denim skirt AND I am wearing lace-up white Keds. There are so just many fashion faux pas in this picture, and yet - AND YET - this was not unstylish in 1987.

One last photo:

This photo is less to illustrate how Garfield horoscope sweatshirts go with Levi's jeans, and more to illustrate the decor of the 80's - which was probably held over from the 70's, really. Panelboard! Spider plants hanging from macrame plant holders! Lamps that had built in side tables!

This is a very long and rambling post, and so I shall conclude. In conclusion:

1) Moustaches are skeevy.

2) Men and women cannot truly be friends.

3) Magnum P.I. was a badass.

4) Clothing, hair, and home decor in the 80's was extremely misguided and should never be replicated.

If we remember these things, the world will be a greater place.

Movember Madness

2011-11-30T09:17:00.000-08:00

Yesterday as I was driving the kids to school, Maneater came on the radio. You know it's going to be a great day when Hall and Oates is on the radio!

Oh oh here she comes. Watch out, boys, she'll chew you up! Oh oh here she comes. She's a MANEATER.

Now THAT's what I call a moustache. Is it me, or is anyone else relieved that this is the last day of Movember? Don't get me wrong: I have a very personal connection to prostate cancer and so I am very happy at the funds and awareness that are raised every Movember, but nevertheless, I will not be unhappy to see clean shaven faces tomorrow. All those moustaches are just so...startling. It took me well into the month to get used to seeing men - who I see on a near-daily basis - sporting moustaches of various lengths and thicknesses. The other day there was a news story on our hurricane-but-not-really-a-hurricane windstorm, and every single man interviewed was sporting a moustache. I completely lost track of the story, I was so distracted by the moustaches. I kept wondering if the interviewees were participating in Movember or if they had moustaches all the time. I kept wondering if the moustaches were charitable, ironic, or earnest in nature. I couldn't concentrate at all.

What is it about moustaches? They have the ability - with the exception of Magnum, P.I. - to make any man look extraordinarily creepy. They make normal men's faces into that which would bring to mind the warning "Do not approach". They bring to mind "70's porn star" - although when I noted that recently, a Movember participant asked why and how I would be aware of that comparison, to which I respond get off your high horse. There's no porn like 70's porn, and we all know it. Also, regardless of porn, didn't everyone in the 70's have a moustache? They were as common as gold medallions nestled in chest hair.

Look! Moustache, gold medallion, AND chest hair! It's the trifecta!

It's funny how styles change. These days, I associate moustaches with seedy criminals and/or a few select members of my extended family. I'm not anti-facial hair. I can pretty much get behind most facial hair styles, the exception being a soul patch, but moustaches? They are the mom jeans of facial hair.

Okay, I'll grant an exception for this guy. I'm posting this picture for my mom, who thinks he is the bee's knees. What a fabulous daughter I am. Even if I am now clinically insane from We Need A Little Christmas.

****Thanks to all the guys who participated in Movember, and thanks to all the people who donated to someone brave enough to make themselves look like a person who would make small children cry. Prostate cancer research is important, and you've helped. Thank you.****

Maybe we actually ARE in Kansas, Toto.

2011-11-28T10:10:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I was driving my kids to their yoga class when I came into a standstill traffic jam. As the 140 km/hour wind gusted around our minivan, I wondered if, perhaps, the insane weather had anything to do with it. The question was answered as I finally manoevered past the firetruck filled with men cleaning up the streetlight that had blown over onto the very busy street. Are we in Kansas, Toto?

I nervously drove home past downed trees and signs only to hear news updates that a) the entire downtown core had been shut down since windows had blown out of two high rise office buildings, and b) police were urging everyone to stay indoors. OKAY.

In other words, it was the perfect day to spend the afternoon putting up the Christmas tree.

The day before we had put up the various decorations - my husband had taken advantage of a mild day a few weeks ago to put up the outdoor lights - but the children could not wait another DAY before putting up the tree. And here's the thing about Christmas tree decorating with young children: while it is a wholesome, lovely, family activity, there are moments within the wholesome, lovely, family activity where I fear my head might explode. Or something. Because I answered "Not yet, lovey" approximately one thousand times in response to the question "Can we start decorating yet?" while I held a giant string of lights for my husband to very exactly wind around the tree. Once the lights were just so, I let the kids loose on the decorations, to the detriment of a couple of them; nothing, however, that glue wouldn't fix. Things started to spin out of control as little wire hooks got lost, (fortunately) shatterproof balls bounced on the hardwood, and the dog flopped sadly in front of the tree, his spirit apparently broken by the upheaval and change in his life. There's a tree. In the corner. And the table moved.

The result, of course, is that we have a very Christmassy house, and two boys who will not stop talking about the tree. Which is cute, of course, but a little tiring. "Mom Mom Mom Mom Mom Mom what's your favourite decoration Mom Mom Mom Mom Mom? Let me show you what mine is. Mom? Mom?"

Mark was super excited about decorating. I was slightly worried he would spin off the planet. I was also worried if he stepped outside he would spin and blow off the planet. See that little snowman and tree on the coffee table behind him? My mother gave that to the boys last year. It plays "We Need A Little Christmas". Is it possible my mother hates me?

Jake put every single one of his favourite decorations on three adjacent branches, including the one he made in kindergarten featuring him in a Santa hat. Sadly, some of the decorations keep slipping off the overweighted branches, but I don't have the heart to move them. He wanted them all to be together, so they wouldn't be lonely.

Every year I buy an ornament that represents something we did this year. Since we went to Disneyland, I bought a Buzz Lightyear-and-Woody-in-a-stocking ornament. "Everyone loves Woody!" Mark said happily. Hehehe. Woody. Remember Mark's obsession with beavers, and his stuffed animal named Beavery? Jake has, apparently, caught beaver fever, as he received a large - very large - stuffed beaver for his birthday. He named it Woody. I love when the boys play so nicely and calmly together with their stuffies, especially when they talk about how much Woody loves Beavery. I bet he does. I just bet he does.

Don't they look like they just calmly spent the afternoon sitting serenely by the Christmas tree, playing quiet card games? As opposed to spastically running around the house, shrieking about Christmas?

These are a few of my favourite things

2011-11-24T12:44:00.000-08:00

Every year, my very lovely friend Beck writes a satirical review of all the items on Oprah's Favourite Things For The Holidays. It's one of MY favourite things, reading her review. This year, she did not stop there, no, not Beck. She instead created her very own dream team of bloggers to write about their own favourite things - a Christmas Gift List. Guess who is on that team? ME. So go on over to Beck's blog and check out what I want for Christmas (and no, I did not say "world peace" or "an end to hunger". Those are implied.)

A little note about the beautiful Beck: she is one of the reasons I started this blog. Way, way back in the day, I was inspired by her very funny, very beautiful, very thought-provoking writing. I started my blog, very shyly and quietly, and she was the very first person ever to comment on it. Her support spurred me on, and here we are today. 409 posts and counting. Beck and I are now friends, even if we are long-distance ones, and one of these days we are going to get drunk on wine together, wear black sweaters, and blog all about it. xoxo Beck.

Enough mushiness! Go over to Beck's and read the gift posts - there are many talented writers over there and I am honoured to be one of them.

PSA: Don't be a dick.

2011-11-23T09:34:00.000-08:00

Do you remember back in the day when you were trying to get pregnant, and it wasn't happening very quickly, and everyone you knew was getting pregnant, and you were sad and frustrated and felt like stabbing every single person who asked "So when are you going to have a baby?" or who carefully examined what you were drinking to see if it contained alcohol or who had some unsolicited advice about getting pregnant or who said things like "You're not pregnant yet? Can't wait forever! Tick tock tick tock!"? Remember that? I know it wasn't just me.

I was reminded of this the other day and here is my public service announcement of the day: It's really fucking insensitive to ask a woman of childbearing age about their fertility. So don't ask. Related PSA: Don't be a dick. Actually, that should be a lifelong public service announcement.

Segueing from PSA's to PDA's, yesterday I went to pick the boys up from lunch and a friend quickly walked over to me in the playground, asking if I noticed the teenagers on the hill behind the school. There, lying on top of each other on the frozen ground, were two teenagers passionately making out and, um, grinding. Soon the two of us were joined by three other mothers picking up their kids; the five of us staring at the oblivious couple. Aw! Young love. It reminded me of that day last summer when a young couple started making out passionately in front of my house, groping each other eagerly. The guy made it to second base. Sometimes it just can't wait, I guess.

Following the advice of several people, I decided to check out Staples in my seemingly endless quest for Christmas printer paper. I should note that this is NOT a sponsored post, but maybe it should be because even though prior to Monday I had never set foot in Staples and now I am a little bit in love with it. This is what I saw as I entered the parking lot.

Do you think it is NOW available due to my whining? Probably NOT but I will take the credit anyway. I walked into Staples and - as usually happens when I'm in a new and large store - I felt completely overwhelmed. I stood for nearly five minutes looking around, wandering into one of the aisles, having no idea where to look or what to do. It's almost like I'm practicing to be a senior citizen. What's that? Where is the paper? The pretty paper? No, not THAT paper. The only thing worse would be going into Future Shop or something like that. Five minutes in Future Shop makes me want to huddle in a corner in the fetal position, crying and rocking back and forth. Finally, a super friendly guy with the biggest smile ever asked if I needed assistance. How could he tell? He directed me to a display that was almost right in front of me.

Squee! Not only was there a large selection, but there were also pretty little seals in the shapes of snowflakes and seasonal address labels! I finished my shopping on the weekend, but I could not resist what was in front of me:

Angry Bird stuffies! Thanks to my husband and his new iPad, the boys (and my husband himself) are now into Angry Birds. The three of them played it together for much of the weekend while I re-read Sense and Sensibility. It is exactly like what I thought life would be like when I had two boys. The three of them play a video game, I do something girly. Maybe on the upcoming weekend they will play it and I can give myself a pedicure or something. Anyway, I thought these would make cute stocking stuffers. Then I saw the cutest little snowman Pez dispensers with a really excessive amount of Pez refills:

They needed a home too. Clearly the boys' stockings are going to be VERY WELL STUFFED. Then - then, OMG - I saw something that I am hoarding just for me:

Peppermint Lindor! These are really, really hard to find, in my part of the world anyway. They are EVEN BETTER than After Eights. They are even better than frozen York patties. They are even better than Swistle's Died-And-Gone-To-Heaven-Mint-Chocolate-Brownies. They are the G-spot-orgasm-plus-he-gave-me-a foot-massage-and-unloaded-the-dishwasher of mint chocolate. I bought the above three boxes but I would have bought the whole damn display if I knew where the carts were kept. However, as it was I had items slipping out of my arms every time I took a step, so I limited it to three. I don't care what Kate Moss says, peppermint Lindor taste WAY better than skinny feels.

Yes, John Cusack too.

2011-11-21T10:23:00.000-08:00

Okay, okay. I wrote my last post and then had an avalanche of people ask me WHY John Cusack wasn't included. Even my husband - my husband! - read the post and asked why John Cusack wasn't on the list. Here's the truth: I forgot about poor John Cusack. Poor Lloyd Dobler. I blame the book fair.

There. Now I feel better.

As of Saturday, I am officially finished my Christmas shopping - including stocking stuffers and the photo calendars we order for the grandparents and various others who I think need to look at a photo of my children every single day. Look at them! They are adorable! I normally try to get my shopping done by mid-November for the simple reason that I loathe the mall, especially at Christmas. All those people shopping for Christmas cheer that have a decided lack of it, who would drive over their own grandmother for a parking space. I like to keep my festive happiness intact, and so I finish my shopping early. This does not mean that I won't be visiting Staples today, in an attempt to find the elusive Christmas-themed printer paper. Why is it so difficult to find? Nan not-so-gently suggested that perhaps I am having a difficult time finding it because it is no longer 1996. Oh Nan! But how am I to send out my annual super boring Christmas letter if I have no Christmas themed paper? My relatives and in-laws depend on my super boring updates. Must I write them on plain paper? Must I draw my own poinsettias? This is wrong on many levels. BRING BACK THE CHRISTMAS PRINTER PAPER.

Speaking of shopping, this morning I was in the grocery store and it is a miracle I made it back alive. I knew I was in trouble when I was choosing a cart and a busload of old women swanned in. I live in a senior-heavy neighbourhood, and once in a while there will be a little shuttle bus bringing people - women, mostly - from the seniors complex to do their grocery shopping. This is not a good day to be in the grocery store. The aisles were crowded with very slow moving old ladies carefully looking at the different types of baked beans (more than usual), complaining about the lack of mandarin oranges, and crowding the deli counter looking for a particular type of ham. Sadly, there was only one checkout open, and the lineup of old ladies behind me was quite long. The old lady directly behind me persisted in pushing her cart into the back of my legs, causing me to develop a severe case of grocery store rage. Push. Push. Push. I could hear her complain, as I unloaded my perfectly-reasonable amount of groceries, about the fact that the bus driver would be back at ten o'clock, and she would never make it out of the lineup on time, due to my excessive number of items. I glanced at my watch. It was 9:35.

I remember my grandma being like that as well. Once when we were visiting, my brother and I were supposed to take her to church, which was directly across the street from her seniors complex. And by directly across the street, I mean that it was a two minute walk away, at the very maximum. My brother and I showed up at her building thirty minutes before church was to start, only to find her sitting in the lobby, steaming. "We're going to be LATE," she reprimanded us.

I briefly considered letting the old lady go ahead of me, as I often do. However, a) she was with a gaggle of other old ladies, and I didn't really want to let five of them go ahead of me, and b) I was seriously irritated with the fact that she was still repeatedly, but possibly unwittingly, pushing her cart into the back of my legs. However, karma hit me right in the face when the very slow witted but super chatty carryout guy started to bag my groceries. I took a deep breath and braced myself for the usual onslaught of chat, and it exactly covered the topics I expected: my children and their school, the cold weather on the weekend, and Stampede Wrestling. My status with the slow witted carryout guy is quite high since I once told him that I know a former Stampede Wrestler. It's a rarefied existence I lead.

Nicole's 10 Sexiest Men Alive List, or the post where I shamelessly objectify males

2011-11-18T17:26:00.000-08:00

The book fair is finished now, much to my relief. By the end of it I pretty much hated children, a sentiment not unlike the one I used to get when I waitressed in university and would, after working a certain number of shifts in a row, hate the entire human race. By the end of that certain number of shifts, I burned with internal fury. You don't care for those choices of salad dressing? FUCK YOU. You think that an appropriate way to get my attention is to pat me on the butt? I SHALL NOW STAB YOU WITH YOUR STEAK KNIFE.

Not that I wanted to stab any children with a pencil in the shape of a paintbrush, mind you, but I was fairly tired of explaining that yes, $7 is indeed greater than $5, and no, $0.50 is not the same as $5. We ended up raising significant funds for the library, and next to that, the fact that my sanity and nerves were shreds of their normal selves is nothing. Right?

Apparently People magazine came up with their "Sexiest Men Alive" list and though I haven't read it or even know who is on the list, I decided - because all the cool kids are doing it - to make my own list! At first I was going to top the list with my husband, because he really is one sexy guy. Hoo boy, do I have a sexy husband. But then I thought that would be boring and lame because who really wants to read a lusty letter to my shmoopie? Also, saying that MY HUSBAND is the sexiest man would make me like one of those people who say that all they want for Christmas is world peace and an end to hunger. Those people are assholes: a) we ALL want world peace and an end to hunger, and b) saying that makes the listener feel like a selfish idiot for saying that they are wishing for a Pandora bracelet.

A note about my own personal taste: I heard recently (from a source I cannot remember, if you know, can you help me out?) that if there were Hooters-style restaurants for women, they would contain men walking around in business suits flashing their perfect credit scores. I heard that and thought YES. You are speaking to me. Another note: I have a shameless tendency to objectify actors. I tend to be attracted to the character they are playing, well aware that they may be complete asses in real life. I do not care about real life. I care about how sexy they are playing a particular character. I don't want to get to know them, I just want to fantasize.

Without further adieu, here is my list of Nicole's 10 Sexiest Men Alive:

10. Jonathan Crombie

Who is that, you may ask? He was my first crush; he played Gilbert on the CBC production of Anne of Green Gables. I was ravenous for the Anne books, and when the CBC aired the television special, I very carefully taped it and watched the VHS recording many times after that. I wish I still had that VHS - not that I have a machine that would allow me to view it - but it must have some awesome mid-eighties Canadian Tire commercials. You can give like Santa, and save like Scrooge. I actually only included him in solidary with Hannah who had Almanzo Wilder on her list, but it turns out he actually evolved into a very attractive man:

Hey Gilbert, I have (artificially) red hair. Want to call me Carrots?

9. Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy

Mr. Darcy is - by far - the sexiest man in literature. Possibly this is due to his massive wealth and aloofness, who knows. All I know is I swoon when he can bear it no longer, he must tell Elizabeth how much he loves and admires her, and Colin Firth brings it to life, baby.

8. Gabriel Byrne

When I went to see Little Women - in the theatre! - I was absolutely enamoured with Professor Bhaer. He is bringing sexy back in an impoverished German professor kind of way. Normally I don't find poverty attractive, but when he sneaks Jo into the opera and then translates....rawr.

7. Christian Bale

Again with the Little Women reference, Christian Bale is very saucy as Laurie. And, although I've always wanted to be a Jo, the reality is I am probably a less-artistic Amy. Also, Christian Bale is Batman. BATMAN! The superhero who is actually a highly trained martial artist, and a billionaire. Sign me up.

6. Eric Dane

Doctor, doctor, give me the news. Whenever I watch this with my husband, I say "Ooooh, Dr. Sloan.", and my husband, who is a very confident man, says "Damn, he's a good looking guy." Yes, he is. Yes, he really is. He is also much sexier with grey hair and a beard.

5. Ralph Fiennes in The English Patient

Ralph Fiennes is so sexy he is explosive as Count de Almasy. Remember when he gets all drunk and dances all intensely with Mrs. Clifton, or when they have sex in the closet? It just doesn't get hotter than that. He would be horrible to have a relationship with, as I've discussed before, but who cares about that? We don't have the Sexiest Men Alive list to think about them taking out the garbage, now, do we?

Look at him! He has been walking. For three days.

4. Val Kilmer as Ice

"That's how he flies. Cold as ice, no mistakes."

He's also pretty hot all oiled up while playing volleyball.

3. Hugh Jackman

I think Hugh Jackman is sexy in every role I have ever seen him in. I wouldn't mind seeing his Reel Steel, if you know what I mean. But I think he is the best as Wolverine. Or really, the guy who turns into Wolverine. He's a tough Northern Canadian guy who has claws coming out of his knuckles! How sexy is that?

The lady will have two tickets to the gun show.

2. Ray Lewis

Let's take a break from actors for a moment to focus on professional athletes. RAY LEWIS. His intensity and physical stature are breathtaking. Can you imagine if this passion for football took place in other areas? HOO BOY.

Now, anyone who has been reading my blog for any length of time should be able to guess my number one sexiest man alive (other than my husband). Drum roll....

1. Jim Cuddy

That voice! That talent! "Oh, she loved the lines around his mouth."

She also loved the fact that he very patiently posed with the fan who did a frantic run-walk, new acquaintance in tow, to ask for a photo. I'm not a stalker! I swear! But I lurrrrrve you.

LIVE IN THE NOW, Oil of Oregano, Lots of Links

2011-11-14T11:29:00.000-08:00

I have a little something something up at the Yummy Mummy Club - and I would be so happy if you popped over there to read it. If you were so inclined to leave a comment, I would be VERY happy. xo

I wrote all about living in the moment and enjoying the present, which I think is a very important thing to do. I also think of - get ready for a dated reference here, people - Wayne's World. Remember the scene when Wayne visits a guitar store and looks longingly and lustily at a very expensive guitar ("Excalibur") and Garth freaks out: "Stop torturing yourself, man. You'll never afford it. LIVE IN THE NOW!"

I also have a lovely recipe for gingersnaps up at my cooking blog. These are my husband's favourites, and I baked a batch last week, despite the fact that I normally only bake these around Christmastime. Yesterday, he went out to run errands and came home with an iPhone! For me! I highly recommend you bake these cookies. You never know what could happen. They are magic!

How was your weekend? I had an amazingly productive one: hair was cut and coloured, Christmas shopping was nearly completed, much writing was done, photos were chosen for the annual calendar given to the grandparents, dinner with my girlfriends was consumed, Christmas lights were hung, a jack and impact gun were purchased and the snow tires put on the minivan. Full disclosure: the Christmas lights and tire change were NOT done by me, obviously, but they are DONE. Then, Sunday morning I woke up with a sore throat, headache, and general fatigue and lethargy that did not bode well for the busy week I have coming up - a week of running the school book fair.

I jumped into action. I took oil of oregano several times, which was extremely unpleasant and probably ranks in the top five worst tastes ever. I drank Vitamin C drinks, I ate two giant slices of chocolate zucchini bread (file under "Feed a Cold"), I swallowed a few spoonfuls of honey, I took Tylenol Cold Nighttime Relief and went to bed at 8:45. I woke up eleven hours later feeling, if not 100%, much, much better. I feel like patenting this combination for my very own "nip it in the bud" prescription. I have a feeling that the eleven hours of sleep probably counted for more than the other home remedy/ over the counter/ homeopathic antidotes, but I hope that the oil of oregano did something. I would hate to think I took that horrible stuff to no purpose.

And now I am off to set up the book fair. I wonder if there will be much Justin Bieber paraphernalia, or will his possible thirty-seconds-of-action-leading-to-a-lifetime-of-paternity-allegedly indicate the demise of those "Future Mrs. Bieber" stickers?

Red Poppies

2011-11-11T07:58:00.000-08:00

Every November, I wear a red poppy. I believe in peace, I believe in diplomacy, but I also believe that the world and its problems are coloured in shades of grey, and so I do not wear a white poppy.

I am a peaceful person. I believe that I promote peace, understanding, and compassion in my everyday life. Wearing a red poppy does not indicate anti-peace or pro-war sentiments. It does not indicate political leanings or beliefs. It indicates respect; respect for the veterans, respect for the peacekeepers, respect for Canada as a peacekeeping, diplomatic nation.

I wear a red poppy because I have respect for those who believe in something so strongly they are willing to sacrifice everything for it. A friend of my husband's has served in Afghanistan. He truly believes that the Canadian presence there is making a difference. I may or may not agree with the politics, I may or may not agree with the decision to send troops to Afghanistan, but I respect the fact that there are people who truly believe that they are helping to end a ghastly regime and to rebuild a country. Who am I to say that they are wrong, sitting in my comfortable, warm house with enough to eat and with healthy, strong children? Who am I to judge what they are doing when I live a life of ease and happiness?

I wear a red poppy because I have respect for the old men with red-rimmed eyes standing at attention in their uniforms. These men have seen things that I cannot even imagine. They followed their sense of duty and served in ways that are obscenely horrific. There is no glory, no glamour, in war.

I wear a red poppy to show respect to the mothers of the fallen. I have two sons. I live a charmed life. I know that if I lived in another era perhaps my sons would be drafted. Maybe I would end up with no sons, or maybe they would come home to me, irreparably damaged. When I see a veteran license plate, I think of the mother who cried with joy when her child came home.

In November I wear a red poppy.

Boring, Useless, Who-Gives-A-Shit Information

2011-11-09T09:46:00.000-08:00

Many, many years ago, before my mother-in-law discovered email and all the associated animated emoticons that could be utilized therein, she used to send me actual written letters, usually accompanied by a piece of knitting she had been doing - the knitted dishclothes I prefer, for example. In one such letter she had written all about her daily doings for about four pages, then abruptly concluded with the line "Well, that's enough boring, useless, who-gives-a-shit information for today." It's something that still makes me smile, and I often mentally refer to certain things as such: boring, useless, who-gives-a-shit information.

That is how I feel about reality television. I never watch it, except for sporadic episodes of American Idol and, although I am loathe to admit it, The Bachelor. I don't watch much television but when I do it is what I like to think of as escapist television; comedies such as Parks and Recreation, for example, or Modern Family. Serious television programs don't interest me much unless they involve Sipowicz threatening to beat down a perp to give himself up or Dr. Sloan doing anything at all. If Dr. Sloan took to the airwaves reading a copy of Today's Parent, I would avidly watch it.

As an aside, I'm quoted a few times in this month's Today's Parent, on the joys and pitfalls of stay-at-home parenting. Also as an aside, the other day I mentioned that I was a stay at home mom, and received the huffy response "It must be nice to be able to afford such a luxury." I was a bit taken aback by the resentful and bitter tone. I never know how to respond to such. It IS nice, actually.

Anyway, back to reality television. I don't watch it and I most certainly do not find it tempting to watch, especially if the program involves a) children, b) domestic chaos, or c) dysfunctional families. I have my own children, I have access to my own domestic chaos, and if I want to see a dysfunctional family I will go to my next family reunion. And so I've never watched the program that features the Duggar family and their very large brood, but I am aware that there is another bun in the oven, so to speak. I'm aware of this somewhat against my will, since it is all over the news and, relatedly, all over Facebook. In fact, someone posted this picture just the other day:

Oh, ha ha. Good one. Except for a few little things: a) a clown car involves all the clowns being in there at the same time, which is clearly not the case given the wide range of ages, and b) the more correct terminology would be the UTERUS, not the vagina. Even if the children were all clustered in this poor woman's body at the same time, they would not be stuck in her vagina. They would be in her uterus. But it does not matter, it is an incorrect comparison anyway.

I really couldn't care less how many children other people have - I maxed out on two but I'm well aware that everyone is different when it comes to ideal family sizes. However, when I did hear that this woman has birthed nineteen (soon to be twenty) children, the first thing that came into my head was "Wow, her poor vagina!" I mean, there are not enough Kegels in the world, if you know what I'm saying. Which brings me to a funny story.

When I was pregnant with Mark, I worked on a natural gas trading floor in a group of men. It was an open environment which meant that I often had someone standing behind me, peering at my computer screen. Since I was pregnant, I had a bit of concern about the impending birth and the subsequent effect it would have on my delicate feminine essence, let's say. So I put "Kegel Exercises" into my scheduler and twice a day a little reminder would pop up on my screen, after which I would dutifully perform them. One day a young male colleague and I were working together, and, predictably, my reminder popped up on the screen. I clicked "DISMISS" quickly, but not quickly enough, as his face turned red and he suddenly needed to get something from his desk, right now.

I wonder if he could tell I was already doing them.

Knowing Me, Knowing You, The Time Change Edition

2011-11-07T10:43:00.000-08:00

With clock-like consistency, there are two times of the year that get me excessively agitated and stabby, and those times are the "Spring Forward" and "Fall Back" atrocities known as Daylight Saving-related time changes. I may have mentioned this before. I'm not going to bore you with the details, but I will say that, as I age, I myself seem to be more affected by this. For example, I woke up at 3:30 this morning thinking that it was time to head over to the yoga studio. I think my stomach is currently in danger of digesting itself, and it's only 11:00. My brain is a liquidy mess. I can't wait until I slip into a coma at 6:30 tonight - after it's been dark for two hours, and I certainly can't wait for the excitement of having two highly exhausted children at that time, when we will still need to finish our home reading and tidy up our rooms. It's going to be great!

Just pick a fucking time and stick with it, people. Time change is an antiquated notion. Let's move on.

So as my brain liquifies and I sip my fourth cup of coffee, let's play a game of Knowing Me Knowing You, shall we? I picked up this meme from my very good non-lesbian-life-partner-she's-just-a-friend Allison over at Bibliomama. Play along - it's fun!

1. What keeps you up late at night?
Oh, ha ha, this is such a funny question! Nothing. I have trouble falling asleep very rarely, and when I do it's due to something ridiculously stupid like the guy who came to one School Council/ Parent Association meeting and raved about busing fees and the school naturalization area, but who actually did not want any involvement with the Parent Association because he is way "too busy". That guy irritated me so much I stayed awake until AFTER TEN O'CLOCK. Travesty.

2. Do you collect anything?
I have a lot of books, but I'm not sure I would say I collect them. Clothes? Yoga wear? Boots? At last count I have 10 pairs of black boots, and here is a (partial) look inside my closet:

My yoga clothes - sadly, I am doing laundry right now and so this is much neater and less crammed than usual. Also note: I have a cowboy hat on my top shelf. This is what living in Calgary does to you, people.

My sweater "drawer".

My "drawer" dedicated to t-shirts of the long and short sleeved variety.

So I'm not sure if I can say I have a "collection", but my husband would say that I have issues with clothing. Hey, you can never have enough black tops and sweaters, am I right?

3. Are you addicted to Angry Birds?
I barely know what Angry Birds IS. I have a flip phone. I don't even have voice mail on it.

4. What's your idea of a perfect evening?
At the risk of sounding VERY lame, I love spending the evening on the couch, drinking wine and eating something made with cheese, and watching reruns of NYPD Blue. Or Jeopardy. I am so much fun to live with!

5. Are you looking forward to winter?
I live in Calgary. It's winter right now. NO. I like to be warm. But at least the winter gives me an excuse to procure more black sweaters and boots.

Here Comes Santa Claus!

2011-11-04T09:57:00.000-07:00

It's snowing right now, big huge flakes that are sending the city into a panic, traffic-wise, as always happens for the first serious snowfall. DRIVE SLOW, HOMEY. I should be more irritated with the snow, but it gives me an excuse to stay home and drink hot beverages, rather than take a trip to the leaf-and-pumpkin recycling depot. The pumpkins have been sitting on our steps for weeks now. They are probably disgustingly soft and mouldy, but I do not have the heart to bag them up, so I think I will leave them for my husband tomorrow. It seems more like - not to be anti-feminist or anything here - a blue job, you know? I was talking to Allison the other day and we decided that we would be the worst lesbian couple ever, given both our lack of talents in vehicle maintenance and ability to find the fuse box. The latter is just Allison, I for one know exactly where my fuse box is located. But I have been known to burst into uncontrollable tears when the "low washer fluid" light has come on. Sorry, Allison, we are JUST going to be friends.

So instead of bagging up the disgusting pumpkins, I'm drinking a warming cup of tea. I purchased a package of Yogi brand tea - because I'm pretentious like that - without realizing that there is the added bonus of an inspirational saying on each teabag! Today's saying: To love is to live for each other. Actually, that's kind of nice. I can't really say anything about that. But yesterday the saying was Let your mind dance with your body. I think my mind is doing the white-man's overbite.

On November 1st, I started feeling excessively festive and dug through my drawers until I could find my special green pajamas with reindeer imprinted on. Then I did some Christmas shopping, culminating with a trip to the post office/ Hallmark store yesterday. I had to pick up a package anyway, but I thought I would get a head start on my annual Christmas letter. I asked the man working there if they carried any Christmas stationary. "WHAT?" he asked, frowning. I explained to him what I was looking for - printer paper, with a Christmas or winter-like motif. "No." he said, shaking his head in a very disapproving way. "No, we don't have that. And I don't know anyone who would." O-kay. I went back over the conversation in my head, wondering if I had accidentally asked for something completely obscene and inappropriate, like maybe an inflatable Santa Claus complete with erection. No. I had just asked for Christmas paper.

Then I went to pick up my package and asked the woman at the post office counter if I could purchase Christmas stamps. "Christmas stamps? No. They are not AVAILABLE yet." she said, looking at me like I was maybe the most insane person ever. I guess she and the other guy were in cahoots? I don't know. People, I was in a Hallmark store. Three-quarters of the place was filled with Christmas-related items and probably had been for the past three weeks. I don't think asking for Christmas stamps was THAT strange. But maybe it was. Maybe it was.

My 400th Post!

2011-11-02T09:29:00.000-07:00

This is my 400th post! Four hundred posts! I certainly have had a LOT to say. Maybe I should start writing something meaningful, like those people who spout nothing but inspirational sayings. After all, the other day I was having a cup of Yogi brand tea, and on the teabag it said "The only tool you need is kindness." I thought this was beautiful, somewhat flawed, and also Ha! You said Tool! So maybe I have not evolved enough to the point where I will be writing and/or quoting inspirational sayings. Although, here is a lovely quote from the painter Bob Ross:

"Just a little bush, and here's another one. This one hangs right over the edge of the cabin. He's watching everything … make up little stories about the plants and think about the little creatures that would live in here. There's probably all kinds of little squirrels and rabbits and just a multitude of things that you may never see, but they're here. They're here …"

Again, maybe I'll just stick with my regular programming.

Here we are in November, with the excitement of Halloween behind us. The kids went out trick-or-treating with their dad, and came back with an enormous haul of candy. Do you have rules about candy consumption? When it comes to Halloween, what works for us is the tried-and-true rule that there are no rules, also known as gluttony is self-regulating. I essentially let my kids go to town on their candy and I find that within a couple of days they are not interested in it. The problem is, we often have Halloween candy last us until Easter. I am going to follow in the footsteps of some of my friends and freeze the little chocolate bars and/or chop them up for baking. I also encourage the spirit of giving and sharing with others, which is how my friend ended up with those horrid little toffees that only she likes. "Are these the gross candies she likes?" Mark said, holding up the orange and black wrapped toffees. "Let's put them in a special pile!" Jake encouraged him. Also on the way out: Cheezies for their grandpa and for a friend with Celiac, plain potato chips for their teacher, and Wunderbars for their dad.

Check out our spooky decorations! They managed to lure in eleven trick-or-treaters, which is high for our street.

Jake with his booty. Am I the only one who kind of dislikes when the kids get miniature Play-Doh? Also, notice that Jake got Old Dutch Salt and Vinegar chips and I DID NOT steal them. I think I deserve a reward. He also got one of these:

It's a hard-core Christian tract! Hey, I don't have a problem if someone has a good relationship with old JC, but I WAS a little startled to find this in the candy bag. Also I am dying of curiosity as to which neighbour was handing these out.

I was at my parents' house on the weekend and made off with some old pictures, notably of me in Halloween costumes. Here is me at age six dressed as a gypsy:

Check out the crock pot and mug tree in the background! Not to mention the dark brown fridge. Remember the days of making costumes out of household items and ending up as a gypsy or, in the case of my husband, a hobo? The days of dressing up festively as itinerant fortune tellers and/or the homeless are gone, I guess. Gone with the days of having ceramic frogs to hold SOS pads.

This is the first year I have ever purchased a costume for my children. Normally, my mother - who is handy with the needle, whereas I am decidedly NOT - makes them, but I felt kind of sorry for her with Jake's request to be Spider Monkey from Ben 10, and so I bought them. It felt a bit like the end of an era.

Here are the boys trick-or-treating together for the very first time. They are one and two years old. CUTE.

How was your Halloween?

It was a graveyard smash!

2011-10-31T12:57:00.000-07:00

It snowed today! The little dusting is, I believe, positively correlated with the comment I made yesterday regarding the unbelievable fact that we had made it through September AND October with no snow. But, dear readers, we had NOT made it through October, and so now we have snow. It's not much though and it is mostly melted, but I feel silly for having mentioned it.

I also feel a bit silly for having thought - although not spoken aloud - that we have eluded illness quite successfully so far this school year. Mark now has a very, very minor version of the sniffles which has the unfortunate yet usual side effect of THE COUGH. This means that he is waking up to cough in the night, which gives me post-traumatic flashbacks to his bout with pneumonia and the subsequent months of nighttime coughing. I gave him a shot of his steriod inhaler this morning and he responded by saying "Wow, my chest feels all crazy!" which led me down a spiral of worry. But he seems fine.

He really was just fine until the morning after the Halloween Family Dance, which is, quite honestly, the highlight of his calendar year, right after Christmas. And it was a fabulous time for all of us, although I'm happy that it's all done. I cleared my calendar last Thursday specifically to make these:

Ninety sugar cookies! They are almost completely devoid of nutritional value, yet are a consistent crowd pleaser. I was taking three dozen of them for the bake sale/ concession at the dance and was pleased to see that they sold out fairly quickly.

Nothing sells like a choice of spooky shapes and lots of sprinkles.

The dance itself was so much fun, augmented by a flash mob performance from a local studio - teenage girls dressed as zombies, dancing to Thriller. My kids were dressed in their finest spooky wear:

A vampire and Spider Monkey from Ben 10! My husband and I are in the background, and we are also dressed up, although my neighbour did not realize it. I walked over to the school early to help set up, and as I left the house with my makeup gun set to "whore" I fervently hoped I would not run into anyone I knew. No sooner than I had thought that, my neighbour got out of his truck and started talking to me in a casual, awkward, elephant-in-the-room way. I mentioned I was on my way to set up for the school Halloween Dance, and he said "Oh! Halloween! I thought you were just going out with some girlfriends!" That was a little disheartening.

For the record, I do not look like this when I go out with my girlfriends.

Near the end of the dance, the DJ was inspired to play a number of "oldies" for the parents' listening pleasure. I was a little wary - after all, this was only days after the soul train - but the very last song was Don't Stop Believing by Journey, which is pretty awesome, if you ask me. I was belting out Hold on to that FEEEELLLLININNNNGGG for the next couple of days.

There was even - hold on to your hats! - much Grade Six Girl Drama, complete with mediation ("She's upset because you said you didn't want to dance? But then she saw you dancing with Sophie?") and crying in the bathroom. A few years ago my niece was at a school dance and my sister-in-law asked her how many girls were crying in the bathroom and my niece was completely flabbergasted. How did you know girls were crying in the bathroom? Because girls have always and will always be crying in the bathroom at dances until the end of time.

There is something very comforting in that. When my children are chaperoning their own children's dances, and Party Rockers in the House Tonight is the golden oldie played for the parents, girls will still be huddled in a group in the bathroom, surrounding and comforting one of their sobbing compatriots.

Jake-Z and Marky Mark

2011-10-26T10:22:00.000-07:00

Over the past six weeks there has been a hip-hop residency program at our school, meaning that the kids have been learning hip-hop in gym class. I was interested to see how this would go since my children have a great love of music and - especially in Mark's case - dancing. This great love of music does not translate into talent, however, and so I was greatly amused when they would practice their steps at home. And by "steps" I mean they mostly crossed their arms and bobbed up and down slightly, with intense scowls on their faces, with the exception of their two signature moves: gorilla and soldier. Gorilla! they would shout, arms and legs bent, back curved. Soldier! they would say, standing at attention and saluting. With that kind of preview you can well imagine that I was eager to see the windup performance yesterday afternoon.

It was, hands down, the single greatest school assembly I have ever witnessed. I'm not sure what I enjoyed the most: the Grade Ones and Twos who made up with enthusiasm what they lacked in coordination and body control, the Grade Threes and Fours who were enthusiastic AND coordinated, or the Grade Fives and Sixes who had the most coordination and complicated routines, but who had a singular lack of hip-hop joy on their faces due to the self-consciousness of performing a dance routine in front of the school and their parents, ick. I also much enjoyed my fellow parents who turned into "Woo Girls" at the sight of their children performing their funky moves. Myself included. Woooooooo!

The young male leader of this hip-hop residency announced that there would be something special happening after the performances. What that was, he said, was something that we parents would surely remember: a soul train dance line! Now, it's true that he was much, much younger than all of us, but a soul train dance line? None of us were actually clubbing in the 70s, so I'm not sure how old he thought we were. Nonetheless, who can really resist? It was great. My own children did their patented dance moves: Jake did a couple of jumping spins and then mostly walked with great funky aplomb, Mark did a couple of John Travolta-esque moves and also, inappropriately, a couple of butt-smacks (his own butt). Some kids walked grimly and in a deeply embarrassed way, some skipped with their arms waving, and some really got their groove on. Me, I joined in when the parents were invited, despite wearing the world's ugliest - yet most comfortable - knock-off Uggs.

All of which is to say that we're ready and excitedly anticipating Friday's Halloween Family Dance. The boys have even gone so far as to say they hope I'll join them on the dance floor. Of course I will. It will be only a few more years until they are the deeply embarrassed, grim children walking quickly down the soul train dance line.

Cultivating the Relationship

2011-10-24T10:37:00.000-07:00

How was your weekend? I spent Friday night here:

which is to say I had a pretty fabulous weekend. My parents stayed at our house and took care of the children, and I will say this: I always fret a little about leaving them, even for one night, and they always wish that I stayed away longer. Hum. It's nice to have time with just my husband and not be completely distracted by the kids, as I often am. A friend's mother was talking to me about when her girls left home and she found herself sitting across the table from her husband, just the two of them; how strange it was and how important it is to cultivate that relationship. Not that I'm panicking about the empty nest just yet, but still. Another friend, who is a pharmacist working with cancer patients, told me that incidences of the human papillomavirus spike in teenagers AND in women in their fifties - empty nesters who leave their husbands and engage in promiscuous activity. Where am I going with this? IT'S IMPORTANT TO CULTIVATE THE RELATIONSHIP, PEOPLE. And so I had a great time in Banff. We walked to downtown Banff for dinner and met up with an elk on the way:

Cute! It's not so common to see elk in the townsite anymore, and so I got my picture taken with it.

Look, he's showing his bum.

After dinner we went back to the hotel and hung out in the lounge, getting drunk, listening to a fabulous blues guitarist, and meeting people at the bar. That's always fun. We met a couple from Boston who were also Patriots fans, so there was much "Gooooo Pats!" talk and more drinking. I stayed up until - wait for it - MIDNIGHT. I had the teensiest bit of a headache the next day.

I had made a full recovery by Sunday and was persuaded by the children to put up all the Halloween decorations and carve pumpkins. Carving pumpkins is one of those family fun activities that actually end up being NOT SO MUCH family fun. I mean, the end result is fun. The ideas about what the pumpkins should look like, that's fun too. But the actual carving? My husband gets the glory of using a very sharp tool that's designed to cut drywall. I get stuck cleaning the goop out of the pumpkins and trying to save the seeds for roasting, which only I eat anyway. The kids refuse to assist in the cleaning process, and only wish they could assist in the cutting process, and so pumpkin carving is really not much of a family fun project. They turned out well though:

Doesn't that one look like Gru from Despicable Me?

Happy, Happy Birthday Baby

2011-10-21T09:45:00.000-07:00

It's my husband's birthday today! Ssssh. He doesn't like a big fuss made about his birthday, something I totally do not understand since I enjoy wearing a birthday tiara and a sandwich board with "BIRTHDAY GIRL" written on it. However, he and I are going to Banff for the night tonight - squee - with no kids - double squee! We haven't even gone out for dinner, just the two of us, for months and months, and so I'm pretty excited. Bring on the wine! Bring on the appetizers! Bring on the cosmopolitans! I used to work with a guy who had a date night with his wife every single Saturday night. That actually sounds kind of exhausting to me, but a night out without kids should probably occur more often than once every six months.

Speaking of Saturday night, remember The Simpsons? (Yes, I know it's still on TV, but I haven't watched it in probably ten years, so this is a dated reference.)

Homer: Saturday night? But that's our special night!
Marge: What's so special about Saturday night?
Homer: What's so spe...oh, I don't know. A little so-called Dr. Quinn? MEDICINE WOMAN?

For the record, I LOVED Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman.

But since we are going out tonight, I baked this yesterday:

Nom nom nom.

The boys made cards for their dad using their brand-new Smencils. Are your kids into Smencils? They are very strongly scented pencils made out of 100% recycled newspaper. The boys worked very hard on these cards yesterday after school, and I inspected them when they were done. Jake's had drawings of Ben 10 aliens on it, along with coloured circles for him to smell. Mark's had elaborate animal drawings, the animals floating in a sea of bubble gum. In very small print on the front were the words "Have a happy fart."

Oh, farting. It is just so funny. I really was unprepared, prior to having little boys, for the number of hours I would have to spend a) listening to discussions about farting, b) being in rooms that have been farted in, and c) making up rules that no one, save myself, follows with regards to farting, such as no farting at the dinner table. I am the only one who complies. The other day while we were eating dinner, Jake put his chin in his palm and looked at me sweetly. He smiled softly, and I half expected little hearts to be in the place where his irises are. "What's up, sweetie?" I said. "I just farted." he replied. Jake is also famous, in our house, for suddenly yelling "Mom! Mom! Moooooooommmm! I farted, and it did NOT smell good." This happens frequently.

His brother is no better. Mark likes to stand beside me, fart noxiously, and then move away, giggling at my protests. He also informed me that he farted, very loudly, in his yoga class. I suppose that happens to the best of us. After this confession, Jake said, with great pride in his brother's achievements, "I know! I heard you! You were so loud!"

Life with boys. It stinks, literally but not figuratively.

I'm going as a witch.

2011-10-19T14:21:00.000-07:00

My dog almost caught ANOTHER squirrel today in the exact same spot as the other day. Either my dog has become an overnight hunting sensation or the squirrels that frequent our backyard are extremely dim-witted.

I have been busily preparing for our school's Halloween Family Dance. I'm happy to assist in this endeavor for two reasons: a) the coordinator is a very good friend of mine, and b) the Halloween Family Dance is, next to Christmas, the single greatest day of Mark's calendar year. He talks about it all year long. Also, it IS very fun. Costumes, dance music, and the whole thing is over at 9:00 pm. That's MY kind of a good time.

It's so fun to dress up. Halloween is everyone's favourite excuse to bring out the slutty wear and heavy makeup, which is, I think, a very fun activity. But can we all agree that Halloween costumes have become TOO slutty? I was searching for a Top Gun costume for my husband - SAUCY - which is unfortunately unavailable in his size and also unfortunately $72, which seems excessive to me. Fortunately he promises to wear oil up his chest and wear tight jeans and aviators, as in the volleyball scene. He also promises to walk in slow motion and flex a lot. But not for the Halloween Family Dance. For the Halloween Dance, he's dressing up as a vampire. But not a skanky vampire. Just a normal one.

Once I was on the costume website, though, I became interested in the costumes for women. Almost all of those costumes seemed a little more appropriate for a private party, if you know what I mean. I mean, I don't think I could show up at the Halloween Family Dance wearing this:

although it would go nicely if I did actually purchase my husband a $72 Maverick outfit. The market for slutty costumes is really mind boggling, to be honest. Have you ever wanted to portray a skanky Wednesday Addams? Here's your chance!

The details are fuzzy here, but wasn't Wednesday just a child? This seems a bit perverse. But what about this one:

What a feeling! I think I'm going to wear this to the Halloween Family Dance, grab a chair, and start pouring water on myself. That's an appropriate thing to do, right? There is a disturbing number of costumes based on Strawberry Shortcake characters:

This one is called Blueberry Muffin. I will leave it at that. But what about a character from that not-as-loved-as-the-Flintstones-but-still-kind-of-nostalgic TV show, the Jetsons? Not Jane, not Judy, but ROSIE:

Rosie is the maid. The ROBOT maid. This is actually kind of amusing. What if you're more into Disney themes? Yes, there are any number of slutty Alice in Wonderland costumes, slutty Queen of Hearts costumes, slutty Tinkerbell costumes, but this one is the winner, I think:

NEMO!!!

Dully enough, I'm going as a witch, and so I will not be purchasing any of those costumes. On a final note, I have to share this with you:

Is there a market for this? For a NOSE AND BEARD COMBO? I feel violated on so many levels, just looking at this. I mean, really? I can almost see a nipple on this sexy Osama. This sexy Osama with a NOSE AND BEARD COMBO. I have a feeling that anyone purchasing this outfit would be instantly eligible for the no-fly list, as well as the OMG YOU ARE COMPLETELY TACKY AND HORRIFYING list. If there is such a list. There should be one.

The unknown can be a scary place for a squirrel

2011-10-17T12:31:00.000-07:00

On Saturday I woke up feeling tired and achy; everyone else in the house had more or less gone through this malady, and it finally caught me. Let me tell you something: it pays to get sick on a Saturday. I had a sick day like I have only dreamed of for years and years. While my husband ran the ship, so to speak, I napped, grazed copiously all throughout the day, and lay on the couch watching two hours' worth of Corner Gas reruns. I rallied only long enough to make - and eat - a batch of guacamole, which I swear had a medicinal effect on me because I was feeling well enough to resume normal activities the very next day.

One of those activities was baking pumpkin loaf (which turned out beautifully - watch for the recipe to be posted over at the cooking blog, which I seem to be plugging a lot today). As I stirred the wets into the dries, I idly looked out the window to see my dog chasing a squirrel. The squirrel was on the wall of our detached garage; the dog was barking at it and running back and forth. "Good luck, Barkley," I sighed, "You'll never catch a squirrel."

If this was a movie about bloodthirsty hounds, ominous music would have started playing. As Barkley chased the probably idiotic squirrel back and forth along the garage wall, my husband stood beside me watching. "I think he's got it cornered," he said, "I think I should probably call him in." I did not realize that my mastermind of a Labradoodle actually was exhausting the squirrel as a hunting technique, until seconds after my husband uttered that remark, he yelled "He's got it in his mouth!"

And there was my fluffy, Gund-like dog with a squirrel in his mouth, shaking it back and forth.

My husband ran to the door to call him. I, always good in an emergency, started shrieking "BARKLEY! TREAT! TREAT!" as I shook the treat container frantically, hoping that he would let the squirrel go BEFORE coming into the house for a treat, which he did. Nervously, I went outside to make sure that there were no squirrel corpses in the backyard. Fortunately, no squirrels were harmed in this drama. However, the squirrel had evidently decided that the best place for it to be was back on the garage wall. Natural selection seems to be at play here. Eventually it scampered back up a tree, evidently leaving its scent behind as Barkley spent the rest of the day circling around the yard, standing at attention at the bottom of the trees.

Beneath this fluffy, adorable exterior lies a bloodthirsty hound. I'm actually kind of impressed. I'm looking at him in a whole new light. Perhaps this is not unrelated to my attraction to Dr. Hunt on Grey's?

Wide Open Spaces....Room To Make The Big Mistakes

2011-10-13T09:58:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I spent the afternoon volunteering in the boys' class. They had an in-class field trip where they have a visitor come in armed with materials and stories and enrichment activities - in this case, the activities were related to their "Building" unit. Each child was to build a three dimensional zoo animal and enclosure - along the lines of a diorama. Dioramas! Fun! They were looking for parent volunteers and so off I went.

As a side note: I volunteer extensively for the school but I try to avoid field trips. I tend to get anxious that I'm going to accidentally lose a child, or one of those calamities that are listed on the waivers will come to pass. But an in-class field trip - that sounded more along the lines of where my abilities lie. Also my kids wanted me to come, and since they make up over 10% of the class, I thought I had better step up.

Here are the finished products:

This is Mark's rhinoceros enclosure.

This is Jake's lion enclosure. There is a complicated explanation for all the string,

feathers, and nesting stuff. It has to do with food and bedding.

After school, I was chatting in the playground with the other moms and we were all relating amusing anecdotes about volunteering with in-class projects. I mentioned one little girl who kept using the glue stick on the materials to be glued, rather than on the cardboard to which the materials were to be glued. The results were that a googly eye was shoved deep into the glue stick, by accident; that same glue stick became covered with cotton from a cotton ball, little pieces of nesting materials were stuck on the glue stick and also mysteriously stuck on my sweater. One mom smiled and said "That's what I love about letting kids explore things on their own. That's how they learn! From making mistakes!" I nodded, smiling, but inwardly I was not totally on side. After all, I did encourage the little girl to use the glue stick properly, rather than smearing the gluey cotton all over the place.

In theory, I do agree. I do agree with letting children learn from their mistakes, and I do agree with allowing them to experience natural consequences of their actions. However, I do not agree with this all the time. I do not agree with this when three other children have to use the glue stick that is now covered with cotton ball remnants, rendering it unusable. I do not agree when there are googly eyes jammed far into the glue stick, causing the glue stick itself to explode over its plastic tubing and result in the cap getting glued onto it, resulting in no one being able to remove the cap. This is school property, people. My job as volunteer is to make sure that the building materials are not ruined by the building project. And yes, it is just a glue stick. But in these days of education cuts, we need all the glue sticks we can get.

Obviously, I opted to put my children in the regular, rather than the Montessori, stream at school.

But I did think about it for a while. Do I allow my children room to make mistakes? Am I too rigid? Should I be allowing them to suffer more consequences? I like to think I allow them freedom to do so, but do I really?

I tend to be a person who has rules for my children; rules that they are expected to follow in terms of behaviour, household chores, and manners. But maybe I don't allow them to make enough mistakes. Maybe I'm hindering them in some way. Maybe one day my kids will be seeing a therapist and complaining about my rigidity.

But maybe not. They seem to be okay. Plus, check out the game they played this morning before school!

Can you tell what this is?

They are animal towers!

It might look obscene, but they were very complex and required balancing and spatial skills. Creativity! Maybe the kids are all right, despite my rules and regulations. They figured out how to balance them all on their own, toppling a few towers in their endeavours. So I guess they are allowed to make mistakes. Maybe they won't need therapy after all.

So THIS is why people love the fall.

2011-10-10T17:58:00.000-07:00

Happy Thanksgiving, my Canadian friends! I hope you had a lovely long weekend. I spent the long weekend at my in-laws'.

Pause.

I'm all about positivity, and so I will leave it at that and simply post this picture of me eating grapes.

I seem to have my mouth full in that picture, either that or I'm not willing to show my purple stained teeth that possibly have Concord skins stuck in them.

An airport is the single greatest place to people watch, I think. We flew, rather than drove, this weekend and I amused myself by watching the world go by. I also like to examine local fashions when I'm in a different place; I like to feel like I'm some kind of fashion anthropologist. While I was admiring other people's tall boots and sweaters, I noticed a woman wearing the shortest dress I had ever seen. When she turned around I saw that it was evidently homemade from a light cotton imprinted with kittens. Then I saw a woman who looked extremely stylish from behind, with a lovely fall jacket and long scarf. When she turned around, her lovely jacket was unbuttoned to show a gigantic, overstuffed fanny pack. I speak on behalf of purses everywhere when I beseech us all to ban the fanny pack.

I woke up so exhausted this morning that I actually went back to bed rather than heading for the yoga studio; that's something that almost never happens and so I've been feeling off kilter all day. I can't figure out my exhaustion; I've certainly had a lot of sleep in the past couple of days. Either I'm fighting some sort of virus or I'm just completely burnt out from attempting to keep a pleasant demeanor in the face of passive aggressive criticisms. I tried to regain my normal energy by taking on a number of tasks today - sorting and labelling photos, baking banana bread, cleaning the house, making salsa and kale chips. While I had the kale happily dehydrating in the oven, I decided to rally the boys and rake the leaves. With raking comes jumping in the leaves:

Why yes, Mark is wearing his swimming goggles in order to "swim" through the leaves, why do you ask?

We also did some ladybug rescuing:

It's on his hand, can you see it?

How about now?

While I'm at it, here's some pictures of our scarecrows with our STILL BLOOMING flowers. This has been the mildest fall I can remember. This must be what people mean when they say they love fall. Normally I think of fall as one week of howling winds tearing all the leaves off the trees before winter sets in, but this year has been so beautiful.

My scarecrow is the girl. Her name is Rosie. My husband's scarecrow is named Dummy Jimmy Too Tall. I think Mark named him.

The boys' scarecrows are named Idiot and TV.

Usually the leaves on the Mayday tree turn brown from frost and then fall off rapidly, but this year has been so mild that they are actually changing colour.

And that, I think, is enough to be thankful for.

Dental Scaling or Pelvic Exam? Survey says...

2011-10-05T09:45:00.000-07:00

Last week I was at the dentist for a checkup and for scaling. The word "scaling" gives me the chills. I conducted a brief and informal survey among girlfriends, regarding which they would rather have: dental scaling or a pelvic exam. The results were approximately 75/25 in favour of pelvic exams. Of course, this isn't a scientifically accurate survey. The sample size was small and not representative of the total population, but I strongly agreed with the majority here. I would much, much rather endure the awkwardness of the bright lights and scootching my bottom down a little, and even the weird retractor thing, than have my teeth scaled.

People have a tendency to quote statistics, with absolute certainty, in order to prove a point. I could say, forcefully, that 75% of women prefer pelvic exams to dental scaling, but I would be incorrect. A survey of less than twenty of my girlfriends does not constitute an unbiased, random sampling, and the sample size is much less than what is considered statistically significant. This is one of my all-time pet peeves: the quoting of inaccurate statistics. Wow, I'm really a nerd. It's like I'm one step away from pulling out my mechanical pencil and pocket calculator in order to do my own calculations. Show me the data behind your statistics.

Where was I? Oh yes, the dentist. I dread it every time. My mouth resembles a crime scene afterwards, and while I realize that flossing more regularly would help matters, I still believe strongly that putting a sharp metal object forcefully against soft tissue is going to result in bleeding no matter what. My real issue is that I'm a people pleaser when it comes to my hygienist, and I end up being less than truthful when it comes to my flossing habits. There is a scene that I relate to in my friend Michal's short film Arithmetic, where Annie is reclined in the dentist chair, blood spattered all over her paper bib, and the caption is something along the lines of "There are two people Annie lies to: the dentist and her mother." I'm like that. Not that I lie to my mother. (Hi Mom, if you're reading this!). Hey, did I mention I was an extra in that film? I did? Oh.

By the way, I KNOW I have to floss more, but knowing is not the same thing as doing, as anyone can tell you who has found themselves with a mysteriously empty bag of potato chips, a bloated stomach, and crumbs all over their shirt.

I also had to take the dog to the vet for a checkup and vaccinations. Canine vaccinations are the only type of vaccinations I will ever mention on this blog. Have you ever noticed that there is very little debate over getting your dog vaccinated? Or maybe there is debate and I just haven't noticed. (Note: I don't want to know.) Anyway, I took the dog to the vet and - some of you may remember his weight struggles (he's fat) - he lost weight! He lost five pounds which is almost ten percent of his body weight! I was so happy, and I expected great praise and accolades, which did not materialize. Yes, the vet said, it's good that he's lost weight but he should really loose a couple more pounds. I was completely crestfallen. Where are my accolades? The vet, furthermore, informed me that Barkley needs to have MORE dental chews (apparently he and I have plaque in common) but that I should deduct the number of calories from his dental chews from his total daily caloric intake.

I agreed with the vet, but internally I thought no fucking way. There is no way I am going to start doing a calorie count for my fucking dog. "It's easy!" the vet said, giving Barkley a small treat, "These are ten calories each. Just deduct that from his food." I spend enough time calculating my own calories, I do not need to worry about my dog's intake. The thought of dividing my dog's food into little ten calorie portions in order to deduct that amount from his food total makes my head spin and, quite frankly, makes me fear for society. Is this where we are going, people? Are we going to expand our obsession with weight loss to include our furry friends? Because I do not want to go there.

New Haircut (Regrets, I've had a few)

2011-10-03T10:21:00.000-07:00

Friday night I had some girlfriends over to watch The Breakfast Club and eat that dinner beloved by women everywhere: the dinner made up of appetizers. In related news, I think I may have overdosed on cheese products. The Breakfast Club is one of my all-time favourite movies, but when we watched it this time, we all started to wonder about our own children and their upcoming teenage years. That was a little unnerving. Will my children be a part of the physics club and hide flare guns in their lockers due to anxiety about an F in shop class? Do they even offer shop class anymore? I'm pretty sure they won't be on the wrestling team and taping other kids' butt cheeks together, but I suppose you never know.

The next day I had a hair appointment and, despite all common sense, advice from friends, and knowledge about myself and my well-authenticated fear of change, I ended up with 2 1/2 inches less hair. It started innocently enough; I wanted to refresh my colour as it had faded to a rather unattractive orange, and I had a discussion with my hair therapist (that IS her job title) about my fears of turning into Mullet Lady. Well, she said, why don't we give it a little cut then? Nothing drastic. Remember Starsky and Hutch? DO IT.

It's HARD to take pictures of yourself. Or, it's hard for me.

Regrets, I've had a few. So as I was practicing non-attachment - it's only hair, it grows, in a month it won't be falling out of my teeny tiny bun - I attended a family dinner at my parents' house. Now, here is a bit of background information for those of you who don't already know this. Back in January I decided to give up my nightly glass of wine. I now only partake in wine consumption on evenings that I do not have to get up early for yoga the next day; in other words, Friday and Saturday evenings only. (I do practice on Sunday mornings, but not until 9:00, and there is only so much one can expect from oneself.) Yesterday, my mother asked if I wouldn't like a glass of wine, and when I declined, she looked at me incredulously and asked if I was pregnant. Pregnant! My sister-in-law suggested that since I wasn't huddled in a corner in the fetal position and sobbing, I probably WASN'T pregnant. She knows me well.

It did remind me of the pregnancy scare I had a few years back. My kids were one and two years old. I hadn't had my period in months. I had taken a number of pregnancy tests; they were all negative. Still, it's hard to ignore a symptom like not having your period for months. So one day I was grocery shopping with the two little guys in the giant Superstore cart, and I picked up yet another home pregnancy test. The most accurate home pregnancy test! the box claimed. I wrangled my kids into their five-point car seats, I started to drive home, and it hit me: what if I took the test and it was positive? What then? I would have to use the back row of the minivan. The kids would have to share a room. I would lose all remaining vestiges of my sanity. I already had a full double stroller, what would I do with a third child? I could barely get out of the house with two children, how would I manage with three? I had a complete panic attack and pulled the car over, put my head down on the steering wheel, and sobbed.

I got my period the next day. I also had validation that two was the perfect number for me.

State of Wonder, Gifts, My New Unpaid Career

2011-09-29T10:36:00.000-07:00

Here's a little piece of advice: if you are a stay-at-home mom whose children are in school, and you are worried about how to spend your time, try signing up for numerous volunteer commitments, each of which isn't too time consuming on its own, but when added together fill all your days with unpaid busyness. I'm finding my days are just flying by. Who knew? It's also been incredibly warm - hot even - and beautiful here, and so I'm completely stunned that October is in TWO DAYS, and also, did I move someplace with a good climate without knowing it?

I'm not complaining though - my life is pretty fun and flexible and despite the fact that I'm writing an advice column for our community newsletter - I kid you not, I have advice to give - I still managed to have coffee with two good friends this week and I finished reading "State of Wonder", which I recommend highly. Mostly I want to talk about it to someone. It's a fascinating book that brings up the question "How old is too old to have children"? In the book, a doctor is studying a tribe in the Amazon, the women of which continue to give birth until they die, the average life span being around 70. The thought of having a baby's head coming out of a 70 year old vagina is kind of squeamy, to me, although I guess the pregnancy hormones would make for some luscious old-lady hair. But seriously, how old is too old? I don't have any answers; although a girlfriend and I have discussed this, relative to our older husbands. Since men don't really have a biological clock, not really, is there a point where they are "too old" to have children? Way back in my long-ago youth, I was a candy striper at an old age facility, and I can't really imagine any of those people in an expectant parent state, but at what point do we get there? Discuss.

I had an interesting conversation with regards to gifts and spouses. I'm finding it's not uncommon for spouses to not give gifts to each other at birthdays, Christmas, etc. My husband and I do give each other gifts, although the gifts are generally not surprises. Mostly I like to state my preferences for certain items, and am sure to let him know what size I wear. His birthday is coming up, and although almost every single year I give him golf balls and a golf shirt, this year is going to be different! It won't be surprising to him though. I suppose we could skip the whole gift wrap and opening steps, since we both tend to be specific on the things that we like, but what would be the fun in that?

So here are our discussion topics for the day: a) how old were you when you had children, and how old is "too old" to have children, and b) do you and your spouse give each other gifts, and if so, are they ever a surprise?

Charity Birthday Parties, or the post where I have strong opinions about birthdays

2011-09-27T09:12:00.000-07:00

I frequently look at my house and feel like I'm drowning in stuff. I'm not even talking about Mark's extensive "rock collection" ("Maybe we should get him a rock polisher for Christmas!" my husband suggested cheerfully, to my horror - how many MORE rocks would we then have in the house?). I'm not talking about the fact that my fridge is threatening to implode from the sheer volume of artwork that is either festooning it via magnets or piled in a scary high stack on top of it. Those are things I can handle (although not the idea of a rock polisher, heaven forfend).

We're in an awkward stage, toy wise. The problem I'm facing right now is that my children still build complicated tracks with their wooden Thomas toys, they use both the junior Duplo Lego AND the teeny tiny big kid Lego, they play with dinosaurs AND stuffed animals, they stage car races with dozens and dozens of little Hot Wheels, they play with board games and superhero action figures. In other words, there is nothing in the house that I can in good conscience donate or otherwise get rid of. We are literally drowning in the volume of toys that we have and I have not been able to donate anything that was unused since I boxed up all the Little People sets and Mega Blocks.

So when we were planning Jake's birthday party, there was no question: no gifts. We did this last year as well; on the invitations I specified that in lieu of gifts, each guest was asked to bring a food bank donation. One of the things I most dislike about other children's parties are buying gifts for them - I never know what to get, I never know if they have something or not, and I generally feel overwhelmed and confused while trolling the aisles of the toy store. Food donations - easy. And let me tell you, people stepped up!

Having a charity birthday party is a very good way to introduce children to the concept of giving and what I consider to be the responsibility of people who are more fortunate than others. My children are, I think, extremely fortunate and lucky children; they receive many gifts from aunts and uncles, grandparents, and us. There were fifteen children at Jake's party; he would not need, and should not have, fifteen little gifts.

In order to have a successful charity party, there are a couple of things to keep in mind. First, make sure your child is in agreement - have a discussion about charities and giving and be sure to reiterate that they ARE going to get gifts from family members, just not from their little friends. We can only expect so much. Second, make sure the party is going to be a lot of fun - the focus of a birthday party, or any party, should really be the good time we are all having, rather than gifts. We held the party at the Calgary Gymnastics Centre, and it was fabulous. The kids all had a blast, there was no downtime, and there was only thirty minutes of "party room" time which is where I find parties to really drag.

Third, make sure you have good food. Since our party was from 3-5 pm, I did not want to have a huge snack for the kids right before the dinner hour, so I just served cupcakes. We had a guest with Celiac disease, and so I branched out and made both regular and gluten free cupcakes, and they were equally - but differently - delicious.

Can you tell which are gluten free? (Hint: the short ones).

The last thing to remember about having a successful charity party is do not forget the loot bags. I know. I know. Loot bags are a scourge on society, but really, you CAN have loot bags and not lose your essence of yourself if you choose carefully. I gave each child a little egg of Silly Putty - my kids once received those from a dinner guest of mine and they played with it for months after, so hooray for longevity and non-breakable-ness - an eraser shaped like a crayon, and a ton of candy. Fortunately Halloween candy has been in the stores for over a month now, so I bought several large bags of rockets, bubble gum, and candy necklaces. I gauged the party's success from the sheer joy that volume of candy brought to the guests. Our little gluten-free guest was particularly overjoyed as she opened her bag. "ROCKETS? Nicole, I'm ALLOWED to have Rockets!" she shrieked.

Success! At the end of the day, we had a giant box of food donations AND a group of happy, exhausted, and sugar-high children. What could be better?

Save the drama for your mama.

2011-09-24T19:12:00.000-07:00

I try to write quality posts and occasionally I try to write beautiful posts and yesterday I checked my statistics to see why, specifically, people visit this blog. Is it my views on parenting, on mindful living, on good karma and kindness?

Here are some of the popular search terms that have been used to find my blog:

1) Cougar moms and velour tracksuits.
2) 16 year old girls with whale tails.
3) Boys stripping girls in their house. *although this has also been spelled "boyz striping girls in there house", but that kind of spelling gives me squidgies.*
4) Boy and fack girl in the house.
5) Asam Sandler singing into ex-girlfriends intercom *That is how it is spelled. I altered neither the spelling nor the punctuation, despite my squidgies.*

All of which is to say, I must have a lot of disappointed blog visitors. Perhaps I should talk more about my velour tracksuits.

The past few days has seen a lot of sadness and difficulties for various friends and family, the details of which I am not going to go into, but I seem to be coping by baking things. There are worse coping mechanisms, I suppose (like drinking, which I am doing right this second). Tomorrow we are having a birthday party for Jake and 13 little friends, and so I have been a cupcake baking machine. We have two guests coming who are unable to eat wheat and/or gluten, and so I made a batch of gluten free cupcakes. I was a bit concerned as to how they would turn out; I read some recipes in Chatelaine magazine (don't judge, I AM a suburban Canadian mother) but I became completely overwhelmed by the sheer number of different flours and ingredients required. My dearest friend, who has a daughter with Celiac disease, suggested Pamela's Products, and I have to say, the result was not bad at all. The cupcakes were only one inch high but they were tasty. The package suggested adding an extra egg for extra light cupcakes, and I will say this: if you need to make gluten free cupcakes and there is an option to make them "extra light", ADD THE EGG. I can't imagine how dense the result would be if you, as the package suggested, added less water for a more dense cake.

So it's the birthday party tomorrow and I am sure I will have much to say about that, but for now, I think I might go sample another cupcake and refill my wineglass. I hope your weekend is going well, my lovelies.

Mullets and Me

2011-09-22T09:45:00.000-07:00

Just the other day I saw a woman, who was about my age or a little older, wearing skin tight acid wash jeans. I looked at her for a minute, trying to decide if this was a new trend and that is what the young folks are wearing these days, or if she had been wearing those jeans since the eighties. Based on their style, I would have to vote for the latter.

I've been thinking about style lately and how it changes and how it can be very confusing for women of a certain age, and by that I mean women of my age. Specifically, me. I want to look attractive and fashionable but yet I don't want to look like a crazed cougar wearing styles that are clearly not meant for me. Although, saying that, some current styles are really not suitable for anyone, i.e., jeggings. I want to buy clothes that are an investment, that will last for a long time, but not so long that I find myself wearing trendy clothes twenty three years past their prime, as in the woman with the high quality acid wash jeans.

What's a mom to wear these days? Specifically, what's a stay at home mom to wear? We all know it's a job, blah blah blah, but really - there are no rules. It's like Casual Fridays at my old place of employment; people would wear everything from mini skirts and tees to pajama pants and sandals. I came across this piece about Fabulous Moms versus Yoga Moms and I felt extremely conflicted, and slightly, but unspecifically, offended. I would like to think that those of us who come to school drop-off wearing saucy jeans and heels can associate freely with those of us who show up in, as the author quotes, "yoga pants and Birkenstocks".

Although, I have to take issue with Birkenstocks. I know, I know, Birkenstocks have changed and expanded their product selection, and I know, I know, there are many cute new Birkenstock styles out there - just like Sorel boots - but I have a very negative association with them. Intellectually I know there are cute, feminine Birkenstocks, but emotionally I associate them with my macroeconomics professor who used to walk barefoot through the filthy lecture hall, wipe his grimy feet on his own jeans, and then slide those same, slightly less dirty feet into a pair of Birkenstocks. This is the same professor who, when I wore a tight trendy t-shirt with French writing across it, said "Does your shirt say 'Look at my tits?'? Because it's working." True story. So let's agree that if we are talking about the new, cute styles of Birkenstocks, we shall call them something else. Birkencutes? Babestocks?

Where am I going with this? I don't know. I DO know that I worry about losing self-awareness about my own appearance and just looking like one of those inappropriately dressed and styled women. I don't want to end up in O magazine's makeover issue like this woman:

Business in the front, party in the back!

I mean, I'm not worried about LITERALLY turning into this woman - I certainly don't have a mullet - but this woman has had the same hairstyle since 1985 and, since no one CUTS hair like this anymore, she has been maintaining her own style. Yikes. This concerns me. I've had some variation on the long, wavy hairstyle for many, many years, the only changes have been in colour and number and length of layers. Will I one day wake up to an intervention about modernizing my haircut, like Mullet Lady? Will I one day find myself in O magazine, complaining about the inability to find someone to style my hair the way it suits me, because no stylist wants to be associated with me? Will I one day notice people staring at me, not because I'm all that and a bag of chips, but because I've become a fashion relic?

So here is my plea to you, dear readers. Don't let me turn into Mullet Lady. Please.

Struggling

2011-09-19T14:12:00.000-07:00

For his birthday, my sister-in-law and brother gave Jake a number of easy-reader books, some featuring his new favourite character, Finn McMissile. Jake picked them up and read them to me, only needing help on a few of the words. What a smart little boy, I thought.

He is a smart boy. He can read and spell things phonetically and he has exceptional aptitude for numbers and patterns. He has an incredible imagination, he builds interesting Lego structures and he can make up elaborate stories and scenarios. He is very bright.

But he doesn't think so.

He has trouble with his printing and his fine motor skills - his printing is very neat and accurate, but it is difficult for him and takes a great deal of effort. He has seen occupational therapists and he has a tutor; he has hyper flexible joints and so pencil control is difficult. I don't know if you have had a child in Grade One, but the curriculum is very heavy on printing, colouring, and drawing.

The first couple weeks of school have been fine; I've expected Jake to be more tired than he is. I've expected him to have difficulty adjusting to the new routines, but he hasn't. But it's coming out in different ways, I'm finding, it's coming out as anxiety about doing well at school. He seems to feel that if he cannot do something perfectly, the very first time, then he is not good at that thing and he never will be.

It's very frustrating. Even more frustrating is that I am kind of the same way. I was a very anxious child; I needed to be perfect at everything I did, I bit my nails to the quick for two decades, I had problems sleeping, I was constantly worried that some disaster would befall - maybe the house would burn down while I was in bed, maybe ferocious animals would escape from the zoo and eat me alive, maybe every one of my friends would move away and I would have no one to talk to.

I also remember erasing all my work and starting over because it didn't look quite right. I remember that feeling and I think about Jake feeling that way and it makes me feel ill.

When our children struggle in the same exact way we struggled, we have the tendency to forget important points: that struggles are character building, that struggles make us who we are, that struggles are part of life. What I need to do is allow Jake to struggle - with help and support, of course, always with encouragement - but what I want to do is erase his struggles altogether.

It makes me just feel like crying, baby, 'cause baby, something beautiful's dying.

2011-09-16T09:21:00.000-07:00

"There's a new Tim Hortons commercial that's going to make you cry," my husband called from the living room. "I've already seen it AND cried this morning." I replied. Oh, Tim Hortons and their tear-jerking commercials. Years after it first aired, my husband can still say, stiffly, "I come watch" and I will tear up.

But it's not just Tim Hortons' commercials. I'm an emotional wreck these days. In other words, I should not have, in hindsight, spent the afternoon of Jake's sixth birthday watching videos of him and his brother from when they were small. What was I thinking? I wasn't, clearly. I'm suffering from some kind of pre-empty-nest syndrome. Last night there was a barbeque at the school and when a friend asked if I was going, I replied that no, I was just going to stay home and be sad.

What a pill. Fortunately, Top Gun was on TV and, like a moth to a flame, I found myself watching it. It's not even a guilty pleasure. It's just a pleasure. They don't make movies like that anymore. I have been watching it for twenty-five years and it just never gets old. "The plaque for the alternates is down the hall in the ladies' room." STILL FUNNY. It makes me want to go visit a bar near an air force base just to see if the pickup lines "I'm a pilot. Actually, a naval aviator." would still be used. Of course, I'm not sure I fit the demographic that those delivering the pickup lines would be looking for, but one could hope. Never have I been serenaded by a group of naval aviators singing "You've Lost That Loving Feeling" but it could totally happen.

There has always been much talk about the glossy, oiled-up, homoerotic volleyball scene ("Playing...playing with the boys!") and every time I see that movie I rewind that scene at least three times. Iceman...because that's the way he flies, ice cold with no mistakes. Whew! I saw that movie in my formative years and I swear it set me up for a lifelong enjoyment of the bad boy/asshole. No soft and sensitive guy for me, it seems, which is probably a good thing. I think I have enough softness and sensitivity to go around. Of course, after watching the movie I felt like pounding away on my piano and yelling to my husband "Hey you big stud! Take me to bed or lose me forever!" So maybe I'm not totally soft and sensitive.

The first time I saw Top Gun it was in an ice-cold theatre on a hot summer night in Estevan, Saskatchewan. Eleven-year-old me was fascinated by it. I longed for a life of adventure, a life beyond my young and boring existence. Now I'm thirty-six, with my happy and comfortable life that I love, my life which is largely devoid of adventure. But when that opening music plays, I long to roll down the windows of the minivan and drive really fast down the highway. The highway to the danger zone.

And now we are six

2011-09-15T09:43:00.000-07:00

"This is the greatest day of my life!" Jake said this morning. "I got Finn McMissile toys and I learned how to button up my pants!" He stood on one foot for a minute and added thoughtfully, "I don't really feel older though. I could still stand like this when I was just five."

Nostalgia and almost-birthdays.

2011-09-12T12:34:00.000-07:00

I know this past weekend was a tough one for many of you, and so please accept my virtual hugs and kisses. I did not watch the news all weekend, and I largely steered clear of the Internet, but I did think about those of you for whom this past weekend was very, very difficult.

The past few weeks have been unseasonably - I mean, really, truly, unseasonably - hot, and I've been loving every second of it. Tank tops in September? Who knew that such a phenomenon was possible? It all came to a crashing halt today, which is fine because I'm gearing up for a busy week. I have no time for such mundane things as enjoying the weather. My husband is heading out of town, I have the first school council/ parent association meeting of the year, it's Jake's birthday, and I must procure many, many items of a baked goods nature.

This time of the year always seems very busy. I have no time for reminiscing about Jake's birthday, it seems. Six years ago today, I was wallowing around like a giant panda. Six years ago today I was eating such quality foodstuffs as Cheez Whiz on toast several times a day. Six years ago today I felt as if the baby's head might actually pop right out of my vagina if I walked too quickly. Six years ago today I wondered why everyone in the world was so annoying, and why they were all out to get me with their annoying voices and mannerisms.

It's probably better NOT to reminisce too much. Who wants to live in the past, anyway?

I did see a woman in the grocery store today with a small girl, perhaps she was three years old. The little girl was adorable, shrieking with excitement in the produce section: "Carrots, Mama, we're getting carrots! They're orange! Carrots! Peppers! I have little tomatoes!" I was reminded of my days of grocery shopping with Jake. I spent the rest of my trip awash in nostalgia until we got to the lineup. The lineup that had a trifecta of incredibly slow and inefficient people: the cashier, the bagger, and the little old lady with what appeared to be several hundred coupons and who wanted to pay with every single penny she had in her little vinyl purse. I took the opportunity to read US magazine and catch up on all those people who I have no idea a) who they are or b) why they are famous. The little girl and her mother were in front of me, and the little girl was restless. She asked to get out of the cart, she tried to help put groceries on the conveyor, she lay down on the floor, she got accidentally stepped on by her mother, she started sobbing for all of humanity. I smiled at her mother, who looked frazzled and tired, I tried to make up for the crabby comments I could hear from the woman behind me.

And just like that, my nostalgic feelings dissipated and I went to pick my big, big boys up from school for lunch.

"Pa Ingalls Was Such a Massive Dickhead"

2011-09-09T07:36:00.000-07:00

Few things, I find, are more offensive and soul-destroying than trying to find parking in the busy Costco lot and then finding some spots, only to discover at the last minute that there are several giant carts stranded in the vacant parking spots, the vacant parking spots that are mere steps from the parking lot cart corral, which is totally devoid of carts. Quite honestly, it makes me sad for the state of humanity. Can we not all walk five metres to return our giant Costco carts to the cart corral? Why? Why is this an issue? Are Costco shoppers just completely depleted after their trips and the extra steps are just too much to take? Does Costco just destroy people's souls so much that they cannot return their carts to the corral, but instead leave them where they lie and rush home to consume recently purchased extra-large bags of potato chips?

I still managed to return my cart to the corral, although I did feel like my soul was being swallowed when I was in Costco, as usual. For one thing, I sustained an arm injury while attempting to lift a giant box of San Pellegrino. The very tender skin of my inner forearm got stuck between two of the boxes, which was very painful and also led to the unfortunate result that I couldn't actually move one of the boxes, since my arm was painfully stuck. Moreover, after this debacle, I discovered that Christmas decorations and other assorted Christmas-related items were on display. On September 7. As if I didn't feel like time was fleeting enough. Not half an hour prior to witnessing this early Christmas display, I had dropped the boys off at school after lunch. They insisted that they could get to their door by themselves, so I watched as Mark led Jake through the playground, placing his hand so gently on Jake's shoulder. And then I cried. I did not need to see the Christmas display, Costco.

So I felt a gloom permeate the air as I narrowed my eyes at the Christmas display, but then fortunately remembered the most cheering remark I had heard - possibly the most cheering remark I had heard in my entire life - after my last blog post. Beck can be credited with what is, most likely, the greatest Little House on the Prairie quote of all time:

"Pa Ingalls was such a massive dickhead."

I cannot help but feel that she has summarized the entire series quite admirably. From my friend at Hodgepodge and Strawberries came this fabulous quote about Ma Ingalls:

"His wife was either a laudanum addict or a saint."

And that is nearly all one needs to know about Little House on the Prairie. There have been some questions regarding the appropriateness or otherwise of reading these books aloud to small children, and I would say that, despite my sarcasm, they are great reading. Some things to note that may need editing/ teachable moments/ beforehand preparation:

1) As mentioned before, Pa throws the family into financial ruin by building a fancy house - with glass windows and a stove, my stars! - on credit, to be paid back with the lucrative wheat crop which never materializes. This right there could be used as a teachable moment given the state of the world's economy. Stay in the damn sod dugout, Ingalls family. (On the Banks of Plum Creek)

2) When the Ingalls family moves from Wisconsin to Kansas, they are moving into Indian Territory. The government is supposed to give them the land that belongs to the Indians, but in the end it doesn't. There is a lot of racism, not subtle, in this book. This could be used as a teachable moment regarding past attitudes towards non-whites in North America. (Little House on the Prairie)

3) Several older boys plan to beat the new teacher and break up the school, and are supported in this endeavor by their parents, who are bragging to the community that their sons are going to give the teacher a beating of a lifetime. Previously they beat a teacher so badly that he died of his injuries. Oh boy! Manslaughter! Happily, Mr. Wilder - a gangsta, for sure - provides the new teacher with a bullwhip which he unleashes on those boys. Revenge, Little House style. (Farmer Boy)

4) Bored with the quietness of their lives, Pa and his cronies dress up in blackface and put on a show for the whole town. The townspeople think this is the greatest thing ever. Much time is spent applauding this showcase of talent. (Little Town on the Prairie)

5) Laura - who is fifteen and forced to work as a teacher, which she hates, so that her blind sister Mary can attend the College for the Blind - is billeted at a house where the wife is driven insane with hatred for her husband who forced her to move from civilization to some god-forsaken shanty in the middle of the prairie. This woman pulls a knife on her husband in the middle of the night, threatening to stab everyone in the house right then and there if he doesn't let her move back to her home. It's a little creepy. (These Happy Golden Years)

Despite all this, the books are definitely worth a read. Little House in the Big Woods is an especially cozy family book. After reading it as a child, I kind of wished WE would have a pig slaughter just so my dad could inflate the pig's bladder and I could play with it like a balloon. And if six year old me could feel that way, imagine how delightful these stories truly are. Despite the manslaughter, insanity, racism, and poor economic choices.

The grasshoppers are going to eat all the wheat!

2011-09-07T10:45:00.000-07:00

Did you read the Little House on the Prairie books? I was delighted by them as a child. As a child I could just imagine the sheer joy of finding an orange, a stick of candy, a tiny homemade cake - made with WHITE SUGAR - and a penny in my stocking at Christmas. I could imagine sleeping in an attic with all my possessions in a little box and my dress hanging on a nail. I was completely charmed by these books.

As an adult, though. Can you even imagine feeling that the home in the woods of Wisconsin, where all your family resides, is just too populated, and so you think that the optimal plan is to pack up your wife and kids and start a new life in Kansas? And then - THEN - when it turns out that white settlers are not allowed there, you get back in the covered wagon and head to Minnesota, where you go into incredible debt building a fancy big house with the idea that you will pay it back when you harvest your first amazing wheat crop? But then the amazing wheat crop never materializes because it keeps getting eaten by grasshoppers? And so you have to walk two hundred miles just to get some work so that your family won't starve, but in doing so you are leaving them alone and possibly you will never come back, leaving your wife a widow with three children at the mercy of the elements and neighbours?

It kind of makes parenting in the modern world seem like a cakewalk, no?

I mean, what's my biggest concern here? Gee, this unseasonable and wonderful heat is not going to last forever. Guess I better order some snow boots for Mark. It doesn't really have the same urgency as we had better harvest all this extra hay in case there are blizzards every three days that will prevent the trains getting through with supplies and we have to twist the hay into sticks to burn it so that we don't freeze to death!

Looking back at those books, I wonder about Ma Ingalls. Talk about vulnerability; if anything had happened to Pa, what would she have done? How would she have coped? I suppose she would have had to marry a neighbouring bachelor with the hopes that he would be kind to the children. Pa Ingalls and his disregard for socialization, along with his insatiable wanderlust set the family up for poverty and lack of opportunity. It makes for a good story though.

Don't it make my brown eyes bluuuuueeee.

2011-09-04T10:47:00.000-07:00

So I've been blue, due to a number of factors, the most pressing being disappointment over not being offered a writing contract that I had my heart set on. I've been in mourning about it, wallowing and eating all manner of bad things, and reading my most favourite comfort book, Diary of a Provincial Lady. That book never fails to cheer me up. It's like chocolate cake and macaroni and cheese for the mind. It is possibly the wittiest book ever written, and contains such gems as:

Move about after dinner, and meet acquaintance whose name I have forgotten, but connect with literature. I ask if he has published anything lately. He says that his work is not, and never can be, for publication. Thought passes through my mind to the effect that this attitude might with advantage be adopted by many others.

Right? Mark said "I'm sorry you're sad you can't write for those people. But you can still write at home! On your computer!" True.

Do you have a comfort book? I once dated a guy who had a comfort movie. Whenever he was feeling ill or down, he would watch Rudy. The thought of it makes me snicker, and not in the kindest way. Remember the scene - if you ever had the misfortune to watch said film - when all the players brought their jerseys to the coach. "It's for Rudy, Coach."

It just occurred to me: maybe I'm like Rudy. I do have a lot of heart. That's depressing.

It also occurs to me that perhaps I just need an excuse, at this time of year, to have an emotional breakdown. Remember last year? When I had a complete breakdown at the fact that my printer wasn't working and ended up sobbing, on the phone for hours with the Dell representative who kept speaking in soothing tones and asking if maybe I should get myself a drink of water and not to worry, he was going to to take care of everything? I'm a mental case.

Not helping matters is the fact that we are all a tiny bit sick. Nothing full blown, nothing major, but the boys both woke up Friday morning with slight runny noses. Two things: a) that was fast, normally the first cold of the year occurs within the second week of school, not the second day, and b) five years old is NOT too young for a man-cold. Jake became completely indignant that he was going to go to school, despite a tiny sniffle and slightly watery eyes. "I can't BELIEVE this," he said, "This is the SECOND TIME I've gone to school like this!" I related this amusing anecdote to my husband but ended up having to explain the concept of the man-cold to him, which was somewhat awkward. I tried to make the explanation as general as possible.

And how was the first day of school? It was excellent. Both boys are, as anticipated, in the same class at school. The benefits of this arrangement far outweigh the negatives, not the least of which is that I don't have to be room parent for two separate classrooms and, with any luck, I will only receive ONE copy of all the notices that come home from school. Also the boys are ecstatic to be together, and their teacher is fabulous, one in a million.

On the way home from dropping the boys at school, I saw a woman with a very small boy, standing on the sidewalk watching a wood chipper at work. That brought me back, intensely. I don't know how many hours I spent watching various large machinery at work, boys in tow. I don't know how many times I would take them outside to watch the garbage truck pick up the trash, or watch sidewalk repairs, or to the nearby construction site where a large office building was being built. "Diggies! Diggies! Happy! Happy!" one-year-old Jake would say from the stroller, clapping his hands. A gas station in our neighbourhood was demolished, and believe me, I spent days watching the machinery tear down the buildings and dig out the contaminated soil. It got so that the crew would wave when they saw the three of us walking up the street. My jeans would be caked with mud from carrying Jake, his muddy rubber boots bumping against my thighs. I would be tired, so tired, but would stand there with my fascinated boys, daydreaming about other things. And now we're in a whole new chapter.

"What grade are you guys in?"

Pretty Girls

2011-08-31T18:09:00.000-07:00

I turned the furnace on today; it's been chilly and pouring rain -it even snowed in the mountains - and seems fitting, somehow, for the end of summer vacation. Frankly, it's a bit depressing. But not as depressing as this:

This t-shirt was for sale at JC Penney - was, but not anymore. Someone at JC Penney, after a public uproar, decided that girls sized 7-16 should probably not be advertising that they are too pretty for homework; something about their core values. Regardless, the shirt was for sale, and someone, somewhere in the JC Penney corporation must have felt that it was at some point appropriate, just as someone at Old Navy decided that this shirt was appropriate for boys:

Similar idea, but without the public outcry, and also without the focus on physical appearance. There's the rub. Celebration of idiocy and underachievement is socially acceptable, it seems, until we bring the cult of the pretty into the picture.

We like to at least give lip service to the idea that appearances don't matter. It's what's inside that counts - that is what I tell my children all the time, and of course it's true - but also true is that appearances DO matter. When I was in university studying economics, I read an academic article about how beautiful people earn more money, are promoted more often and more easily, and in general are afforded more advantages. I was appalled, of course, I was outraged and angry, but I also knew that the restaurant in which I waitressed part-time would not hire anyone for their front-house staff who did not have a certain look. Any applicants falling short of that would be considered for a job in the kitchen.

The ugly side to this is that pretty and smart are frequently considered to be mutually exclusive, as in the JC Penney shirt, or this one from Amazon:

If a grown, female mathematician was wearing this, I would consider it amusing in an ironic way, the same way I considered that guy wearing a Vagitarian t-shirt to be amusing in an ironic way. But the thought of children wearing a shirt like this, children who see things in black and white and who may equate smart with ugly and therefore may be less inclined to strive for high academic achievements, the thought of that makes me ill.

There's nothing wrong with being pretty, or striving to be pretty, but passing along the idea that pretty girls do not have to be responsible for homework, or math, or anything else requiring thought or effort, is pathetic.

The day I defended my master's thesis, I had a celebratory lunch with several of my fellow grad students. I had a 4.0 GPA, I studied all the time. I prided myself on my work ethic. As we sat in the lounge, I mentioned how exhausted I was. A male student smirked at me and said "Why? Did you sleep with the defence committee? Is that how you get A's?"

It is possible to be pretty and do math.

Where will we be when the summer's gone?

2011-08-29T15:27:00.000-07:00

Have I mentioned that it has been - wait for it - unseasonably hot around here? Honestly, it's beautiful, and every day I have a sneaking feeling that I have been transported to a different city without my knowledge. Today it was - wait for it - thirty degrees Celcius which is both highly abnormal and very welcome. Sadly, the days of capri pants and tank tops are going to come to a screeching halt tomorrow given the forecast of rain and cool temperatures, but that's okay. I'm now ready for the kids to go back to school, which is happening Thursay.

The kids are also very ready to go back to school. Mark has been making up his own math worksheets, and is asking me to put little checkmarks beside each correct answer. Jake has been creating incredibly complex and difficult to follow stories, and doing home reading of his own accord. It's a sign.

And the talking, my god, the talking. It's like someone set the children to "Loud" and "Rambling". Part of it is that my husband was not working last week and is now back to work and MY WORD THE CHILDREN MUST FIND AN OUTLET FOR THEIR INCESSANT CONVERSATION. And by conversation, I mean spouting random facts about Cars 2, bodies of water, and Canadian wild animals, along with non-stop questions about those topics and also complicated explanations for "games" in which I am to pretend I am someone who has a pet river otter, or a pet wolf, and then the "wolf" and "river otter" compete for my attention. At this point I think my brain has liquified. But still I participate in these "games", thinking that wine sounds nice but I can't have any until Friday and it is only Monday, dammit.

Yesterday I was walking my dog and I ran into a woman who lives in the neighbourhood who I met once, briefly, a few years ago. She told me that her daughter had graduated high school and her son was a year away from graduation and that she is also now, sadly, widowed, and so she was feeling extremely empty-nested. Wow. I was startled by all that information and also felt that maybe I was not appreciating all the time with my children over the past couple of days and that I should get home, pronto, and cherish the moments.

But I can't cherish the moments right now because there is SO MUCH NOISE. Plus right now the kids are arguing about what is more destructive: bombs or fire. They are getting very emotional and worked up about this apocalyptic argument. "But fire would burn everything up!" "But bombs would blow everything up!" "Fire!" "Bombs!" I don't even know the context of the disagreement, and to be honest, I prefer not to find out.

T minus 7

2011-08-25T17:30:00.000-07:00

My husband has been away on a golf trip and yesterday I did something I haven't done since my single-girl days: I had popcorn for dinner. I announced it to the kids that we were going to have pancakes and popcorn for dinner, and that announcement was met with silent, nervous smiles. "Do you mean, we're going to have breakfast for dinner and THEN have popcorn later?" Jake ventured. No. I assured him that popcorn was on the menu, and there was some mild cheering, followed by "Okay, but you said we're having pancakes too, right? I mean, popcorn for dinner doesn't really sound that HEALTHY."

I'd feel much more smug about their health conscious attitudes if these weren't the same children who would, if allowed, eat chicken fingers and fries daily for the rest of their lives.

It's just one week until school starts and I feel somewhat compelled to cram as much fun as possible into the remaining days, and so yesterday we had a lovely day with friends at the local amusement park. It was hot and sunny, the kids had a blast, and the day was only slightly marred by the disappointing "prize" won by Mark at the fishing game. Instead of a hoped-for tiny, crappy stuffed animal, he won a pair of crappy, star-shaped glasses. Much sadness followed, as well as a vow to never play the fishing game again. Would that I could believe that.

It was unusually hot, and so the boys played in the sprinkler for hours after we got home. I sat on the deck with a cold beer and watched them, thinking that this is truly the life. There are times when being a stay-at-home mom can feel like some kind of sentence, but summer days like that are pure gold.

Speaking of gold, prior to my husband's golf trip we took the boys for a day trip to Lake Louise and Moraine Lake; quite possibly the most beautiful area in the world, and one that we haven't visited with kids before. It was a great day, although it was much, much colder than the city. Fortunately I had packed jackets. I also packed my thirteen year old, heavy duty leather hiking boots. My husband looked askance at them. "We're not really doing hard-core hiking", he said "Why don't you just pack some practical shoes?" Um, because I have no practical shoes? Perhaps it's time to go shopping.

The magic is GONE

2011-08-22T19:49:00.000-07:00

I realize it was only a few short days ago when I was waxing melancholic about the end of summer, and how much I was going to miss the boys, and while that is still true in theory, the reality is that suddenly the children seem ready to go back to school. Suddenly I am ready for the children to go back to school. We have ten days left, and I plan on enjoying all of those days, but for the love of god, I am now ready for the regular school routine. THE MAGIC IS GONE, people. This may or may not have anything to do with my children suddenly becoming the world's neediest children ever. Mom, look, Mom, Mom, Mom, I drew a picture, Mom, Mom, it's a picture of a roller coaster, Mom, Mom, Mom, do you like it? Mom? Mom? Do you wish you could GO on that roller coaster? Mom? Mom? Can I have a snack? Can I have a treat? Can I have a juice? Mom? Mom? Can I play Starfall? Can we play Go Fish? Can we go bike riding? Right now? Mom? Mom? Are yetis and bigfoots the same exact thing? I don't think they are. Do you think they are? Mom?

Speaking of back to school, I bought the boys' school shoes on the weekend. Back to school shopping isn't a big deal for me; in general I only really need to purchase shoes and pants with intact knees. Although it's August, and it has been an absolutely lovely summer - the best weather we've had for years - it is also the season to start thinking about snow pants and winter boots. I do not like to be too far into September without snow pants and winter boots, just in case. To that end, I have been browsing Sears online, as they have excellent snow pants and winter boots. They also supply hours of amusement. Did you know you can purchase machine washable bathroom carpeting?

Image from Sears.ca

Does the carpet match the (shower) curtains? Why, yes, it does.

You can also purchase something called a Vibration Platform.

Image from Sears.ca

I don't know what that is, but I'm sure it's something great!

While browsing the fitness section, I discovered this:

Image from Sears.ca

I think this means the apocalypse is upon us.

Incredibly, there is an entire subsection in the women's clothing section devoted to tunics. Tunics, it seems, deserve a category all to themselves. Thinking about this, it seems self-evident: a tunic, after all, is more than just a shirt. It's not a dress. It's nothing but a...tunic. Still, does it or does it not seem amusing that there are so many tunics available for sale that they comprise an entire clothing category?

Speaking of Sears, my friend at Hodgepodge and Strawberries wrote about the Sears Wish Book. If it seems early to be thinking about snow pants and winter boots, then it seems REALLY early to be thinking about Christmas, but her post filled me with nostalgia and happiness only obtainable through the Wish Book. Sno-cone machines! Gifts under $10! Pajamas with matching slippers!

I just wish I had a Wish Book. Failing that, check out these images from the Wish Book published the year I was born:

This guy is bringing sexy back. I think he grew that moustache specifically to tickle the ladies, if you know what I mean, and I think you do.

Never underestimate the fashion influence that was Little House on the Prairie.

The caption alone on this makes me feel a little insecure in my womanhood. Sophisticated nightdressing? I'm writing this wearing yellow pajamas with pink flowers on them. I think I need some sophisticated nightdressing. I think it would make me irresistable, in the sophisticated bedroom. Perhaps I would also need a satin-like bedcover to go with the nylon nightdresses, in which case I had better do some shopping!

Updates and a meme!

2011-08-19T17:25:00.000-07:00

I feel like I, perhaps, left my dear readers hanging; I will make amends by updating you on the goings-on in the Boyhouse.

1) Mark has been using an inhaler for a week, and he has NOT COUGHED FOR A WEEK. Happy coincidence? Related: I have been sleeping uninterrupted through the night. Not once have I woken up and listened to coughing for two hours!

2) I found a new esthetician. I chose this particular place because of the incredibly convenient hours, but they also advertised "pain-free" waxing, of which I was deeply skeptical. Now, you may or may not believe me, but the waxing was actually PAIN-FREE! For every ending there is a beginning, I suppose.

3) Related to aging and fleeting time:
a) INXS' "Devil Inside" was played on the local "oldies" station, and
b) While in the pharmaceutical section of Wal-Mart, I noticed three ladies who appeared to be in their sixties giggling and talking to one another with regards to their favourite product. The product in question? Personal lubricant.

I will leave it at that.

Marilyn over at A Lot of Loves tagged me in a meme, about seven posts that I've written. I love memes! I especially love them on Friday nights when I have a big glass of wine beside me. I had to dig through a whole lot of archives, and discovered posts I had forgotten that I had even read! But here goes!

Most Beautiful Post
This was tricky because I don't tend to think I write particularly beautiful posts, but I do like this one about happiness with children (plus it has super cute pictures of my kids as babies!), and I also like this one about my very grumpy grandpa.

Most Popular Post
My post that has the most pageviews is this one, and I'm going to guess that its popularity is based on the fact that I reference "mom jeans". My second most popular post referenced Scaredy Squirrel, which just goes to show that in order to gain popularity you need name-drop a little.

Most Controversial Post
I'm not huge on controversy around here, but my post on breastfeeding spurred some discussion. Breastfeeding = controversy, AM I RIGHT? If you want to ignite some flames, just bring up breastfeeding! But I urge you, my dear readers, to always be kind, especially to hormonal and sleep-deprived new mothers who may, years later, still ache about certain memories.

Most Helpful Post
Oooh, this is a tough one. I don't feel my posts are particularly helpful OR informative, unless you want to commisserate about weird things. However, here is my public service announcement about what NOT to say to pregnant women. I urge you to read the comments.

Post Whose Success Surprised You
Well, obviously the one about Scaredy Squirrel, because I discussed DEAD SQUIRRELS in my neighbourhood. Not exactly that interesting. Kind of revolting, really. I was also surprised at the success of my varicose-vein stripping update, but I guess it was popular because I used the word "stripping" in the title. I imagine the people who were googling "stripping" were probably somewhat disappointed when they ended up at my blog.

Post That You Didn't Feel Got The Attention It Deserved
Hey, I'm just happy to be here. I'm happy that people read my blog at all. However, early on in my blogging days, I wrote this about Woodstock, Ann Landers, and Alice Munro, and I really liked it.

Post That You Are Most Proud Of
Honestly, I have no idea. My favourite posts are always the ones leading up to Christmas, but I found this little gem in the archives. It's not exactly fine literature, but it pretty much sums up life in the Boyhouse.

Melancholy thoughts about back to school and the transformative power of a new pair of panties.

2011-08-16T15:51:00.000-07:00

Two years ago, when Mark was starting kindergarten, I wrote this. One year ago, when Jake was starting kindergarten, I wrote this. I find the differences in the pieces to be very amusing - in the first one I'm all "Buy some new panties! Drink some wine!" while the second one is "My baby birds are leaving the nest! Wah!" Maybe I need to buy some new panties and drink some wine because I'm feeling a tad melancholy about the imminent end of summer. Sixteen days until school! Sixteen days until, with the exception of the lunch hour, the boys are gone all day long.

It's not like I'm not looking forward to a little space and the idea of buying groceries without two children in tow, asking to buy cupcakes and asking to push the cart and then accidentally running into things with the cart and then picking up the scattered items off the filthy grocery store floor and then sticking their heads in the garbage cans to ascertain how stinky the garbage cans are and then having a prolonged conversation with the somewhat slow-witted carryout guy about whether a centaur can be properly referred to as a man-horse. I'm also not wishing to stop time or that I had my babies back or that I had another baby - HEAVEN FORBID. But I'm just going to miss the boys. That's all. I'm going to miss them and that's all I'm going to say about that.

I had a hair appointment today and I was struck, as I always am, by how dull my life must appear to the average young woman. The sweet, eighteen year old shampoo girl always chats with me and asks me many questions about my life, and I can't help but feel that my answers must fill her with chills about aging. Don't get me wrong - I love small talk, I am the QUEEN of small talk, but I found myself thinking with nostalgia about the previous shampoo girl who was terribly shy and barely spoke to me. What did you do this weekend, she asked, what's up for the rest of the day, what are you doing for the rest of the summer? She seemed somewhat nonplussed by my boring answers and went back to applying conditioner.

It's not that I find my life dull to live, but I do think it must seem quite dull to the sweet and perky shampoo girl, who usually regales me with information as to the best clubs to go to for dancing and the best time to go - not before 10 pm. Dancing? Today is the 34th anniversary of Elvis' death and I have had Kentucky Rain stuck in my head all day long. Dancing and clubbing do not seem particularly relevant. Related: I found out today that Anne Bancroft played Mrs. Robinson at the age of 36! THIRTY SIX! I am thirty six! Also related: the shampoo girl asked what my natural hair colour was and when I answered grey she smiled and said "I mean, what was it BEFORE grey?" Um, I'm not sure? It's been grey for a really long time. Sigh. The baby birds are leaving the nest and I'm the same age as Mrs. Robinson. I am definitely going to need some new panties and wine.