I never slept through Money Never Sleeps

The boys had a day off of school today, and it went the way such days often go: with happiness distributed like a double bell curve, peaking in the mid-morning while pajamas are still on, bottoming out in the early afternoon, and then peaking again, after some activities instigated by myself, only to start the slippery slope back down again.  Mark has a love-hate relationship with days off: on the one hand, he enjoys the freedom to just play unrushed, but on the other hand he really misses the structure of school.  And I run a pretty structured house, it’s not all hippy-dippy around here; meals are eaten at the same time, bedtime and rising times are kept the same, clothes are still expected to be worn, as opposed to pajamas.  Mark started to spiral downwards right after lunch, becoming irritable and high-needs until I suggested he make Valentines for his class.  Glitter and sticker backings soon overtook the table and happiness reigned once more.

On Saturday night I watched Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps, which is remarkable for the sole reason that I watched it in its entirety and did not fall asleep.  I very rarely see the end - or middle - of movies because I generally fall asleep or, alternately, get bored and start reading, which means I have a very fuzzy view of most films released in the past ten years.  For example, the other night my husband was watching the movie Blow, which we had seen together a few years ago.  I watched a bit with him, unable to remember how it ended, only to discover that it has a very sad ending.  I watched the final scene with tears running down my face, while my husband reminded me that the man in question was a hardened, criminal drug lord, even if it was sad his daughter never visited him in prison.  It is surreal watching movies that you know, intellectually, that you have seen before but can only remember small snippets of.  The last movie I saw in a theatre was Pirates of the Caribbean Part Two, and I slept through nearly the whole thing, waking occasionally to see that weird guy with a squid head and a scene where Captain Jack was being chased around an island.  Although I may have dreamed that part.  Was Johnny Depp naked?  And feeding me grapes?  No?  Then I guess I dreamed it.

But Money Never Sleeps was an excellent movie; I would highly recommend it, especially if you are interested in financial markets.  If you aren’t, then I wouldn’t recommend it at all.  It was a very interesting and entertaining view of the 2008 market correction, and I found myself strangely attracted to Michael Douglas, which is nothing short of disturbing given that he is a senior citizen.  Evidently I’ve turned into my mother, who has always thought that Sam Elliott is the bee’s knees, and my response would be “Oh GOD, Mother, he is so OLD, how can you LIKE HIM?”  Well now.

My husband also loved Money Never Sleeps, which is not surprising given that the original Wall Street was a “motivating” movie for him.  Yes, my husband found Wall Street, greed is good, to be “motivating”.  I am not sure how I feel about that, but I guess it’s better than Rocky, or something of that genre.  Although a guy I once dated used to watch Rudy as a motivational movie.  He used to get so choked up in the part where the teammates bring their jerseys in “It’s for Rudy, Coach.”  I remember laughingly telling that story to a male co-worker, then noticed that HE was getting teary eyed as I talked about Rudy finally getting to play.  All of which is to say I just don’t understand.

Warning: This Post Written Under The Influence

I am having one of those days where I seem to be on the go and busy all day, but investigation of the activities that have kept me on the go and busy all day is completely boring and depressing: I spent an hour grocery shopping and half that time putting the groceries away, I changed all the sheets and did four loads of laundry, it took me twenty minutes to clean up the dog’s fecal matter in the backyard, all the while I was marvelling at the sheer volume of said fecal matter.  I became extremely excited at the arrival of my new compression stockings, and I realized that I myself have become boring and depressing, due to my obsession with my freakishly bad varicose veins and impending surgery.  I’ve become like someone’s elderly aunt at a family dinner; the one who regales the company with tales of her varying, and revolting health complaints.  Will you have some more salad, Aunty?  No dear.  Remember my irritable bowel?  Well, raw vegetables really inflame it.  Well, would you like some dessert?  No dear.  Remember my acid reflux?  Sugars repeat on me all night long.  Of course, I don’t sleep anyway, due to my restless leg syndrome and hemorrhoids. 

Well, it’s Friday.  The upside of not drinking wine during the week anymore is that by the time Friday comes around, I’m delirious with anticipation.  So I’m drinking wine right now while writing, because it is 6:30 and I just couldn’t wait any longer.  Also the boys are performing science experiments with vinegar, dish soap, baking soda, and polyacrymolide crystals and, much as I love their scientific curiosity, by this time of the week such experiments feel very draining to what is left of my energy and sanity. 

Last night my husband, after a trying few weeks at work, announced to me that his new goal is to become a complete asshole.  How does one respond to that?  I informed him that he probably has already reached his goal; after all, if one’s GOAL is to become an asshole, that probably indicates that you already are one. 

Speaking of assholes, over the past two days I have witnessed no fewer than ten cars get stuck in the exact same spot in the exact same snowbank in the alley behind the school.  This week has seen a reprieve in the cold weather, and so the deep drifts have become soft and treacherous.  The first person I witnessed getting stuck was a friend of mine – NOT an asshole, I hasten to point out – and I sprinted over to help push him out.  He, and another dad who was assisting, vehemently protested against my help.  The neighbour who was spectating announced loudly that I was going to injure myself.  I’m not sure if I emanate an aura of extreme fragility or extreme incompetence, but in any case, I steered the car as the guys pushed.  Ah, chivalry.  I do appreciate it, although I have to remind my readers that I once fixed the gutters BY MYSELF in the pouring rain.  I am woman, hear me roar, and I am capable of pushing cars out of snowbanks.  I have also, on very rare occasions, mowed the lawn, although while growing up my father was concerned that if I operated a lawnmower I would surely sever my own foot off. 

I’m guessing this is enough tipsy randomness for one night.  I am off to pour myself another glass of wine, and possibly unclog some test tubes – in the writing of this post the experiments seem to have become ever more rowdy.  Happy Friday to you all, and stay tuned for next week’s posts where I will discuss a friend’s recent discoveries of her old copies of Sweet Valley High (remember the Dairi Burger?) and another friend and her school’s suspect fundraising endeavours.  Cheers!

Stripping! (my varicose veins) Boom chicka wah wah.

When I was pregnant with Jake I started to develop varicose veins.  My calves are full of what I would call normal-looking varicose veins, puffy and purple.  My left leg, however, looks like a miniature boa constrictor somehow found its way under my skin and is attempting to suffocate my knee and thigh.  It’s not attractive.

For someone with my heightened sense of vanity, you would think that these veins would bother me from a cosmetic point of view, but they don’t.  I live in a city where 97% of the time I am perfectly comfortable wearing jeans, and for the other 3% of the time – or if I’m vacationing somewhere warm – I am comfortable in Capri pants.  I wear skirts only in the winter, when I can pair them with tights and boots.  The only time my legs are ever exposed in public is while swimming or at the beach, and I have found that the way to distract people from looking at the train wreck which is my leg is by wearing a bikini and showing a lot of cleavage. 

So I could happily go on living with my varicose veins if they weren’t so painful, if my leg didn’t feel like someone had run over it with a truck at the end of the day, which is how I found myself for a consult with a vein surgeon yesterday afternoon.

People, nothing keeps you humble like standing on a platform, wearing only your panties, under fluorescent lighting under the scrutiny of a medical professional.  I had always thought my vein was kind of ugly in a unique sort of way, and that viewpoint was solidified by the surgeon’s response, “Wow, that IS bad.  This is really rare.  I’ve never seen a case like this in someone so young.”

I took some consolation in being referred to as “young”, but then I felt kind of an appalled sort of reverence for my vein, like I was watching myself star in a reality show about freaks of nature, especially when the surgeon told me that veins like mine are normally seen on women in their 70s.  Way to go, veins!  You’re overachievers!  You’re not content with being just regular varicose veins; you are striving to be number one!  Hooray!

The long and the short of it is I have to have surgery, which I am coming to accept, although last night I clearly lost my mind and started googling “varicose vein stripping” and then found myself spiraling into despair.  I also found myself becoming an insane control freak, flipping through my calendar and fretting if the surgery will be on parent-teacher interviews and if so WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?  Today I’ve regained perspective, and I’m trying to look on the bright side: no more pain, better yoga practice, the ability to wear skirts in the summer. 

I’ll probably still show lots of cleavage at the beach.  After all, I’ll want to distract from my cellulite!

"Child abuse": a little rant

How was your weekend?  Mine was quite lovely filled with lots of socializing – hello, fulfilled New Year’s Resolution! – and food.  Much delicious food, most of which was made by me.  Yesterday I made my friend Happy Geek’s favourite pasta salad, and now I am ruing the day that I discovered said recipe, as it was delicious and I ate the entire batch at dinner, my husband and children having opted for the ever popular “breakfast for supper” menu. 

I have a number of blog friends that I follow, and most of them are mothers.  What I do not follow, however, are any of the “parenting forums” that are rife on the internet.  I never, never read debates about child rearing or any of the issues that go with, because I find them inflammatory and negative.  I like to stay in my happy little world, for one thing, and for another, most of the child rearing issues that are most impassioned are the ones that deal with things I have already dealt with, such as breast feeding, diapering styles, and sleeping through the night.  I made my peace with my own decisions long ago and my children seem to be fine.  They are healthy, they have long been toilet trained, and they sleep just fine.  Of course, Jake did not sleep through the night until he was four and a half years old, but hey, he does now.

It was nearly six years ago that I read a debate on a parenting forum, with regards to breast versus formula feeding.  As always with this topic, there were many emotions involved.  One woman wrote, and I remember this so clearly, “You can formula feed all you want.  I myself do not subscribe to child abuse.”

Of course a comment like that would come from someone who has clearly low self esteem, someone who would speak so cruelly to other people, someone who has little space in their minds for empathy.  I remembered that comment and then swore to never read another parenting debate again, because even if an individual is crazy, and mean-spirited, those kinds of emotions have a way of glomming on to other people, and negativity breeds negativity. 

Then this past week I happened onto another debate, completely by accident.  It was a discussion about take-out food.  We very rarely get take-out at our house, we eat at restaurants once in a while, I try to cut out most of our processed foods in favour of whole foods, but I realize that there is flexibility needed in the world and having chicken fingers and fries in your freezer does not mean that your status as “good mother” will be revoked.  But in this debate, a woman – maybe it was the same woman? – stated that feeding McDonald’s to your children was akin to child abuse.

Now, I don’t eat at McDonald’s.  My children don’t, as a rule, eat at McDonald’s.  But here’s the thing: I highly doubt that anyone who has gone through the tragedy that is child abuse would compare their horrific experiences to formula feeding or a Big Mac.  I think that a Happy Meal is in no way comparable to fear and pain and trauma stemming from child abuse.  When I hear things like this it infuriates me; such insecure comments minimize important issues and are simply meant to be divisive.

We’re all doing our best. 

International Hug Day! Smooch!

Today is International Hug Day!  What an ending to a week that started off with the Saddest Day of the Year.  Here’s a question: how is the date of International Hug Day actually decided, and by whom?  Not that it matters; I plan on ambushing all my friends with giant hugs all day long.  Well, except the friend whose daughter had the stomach flu yesterday.  Germ phobia trumps International Hug Day.

I’ve been having somewhat of a strange week.  You know the days when your kids are annoying, your husband is a jerk, everyone is stupid, you are completely uncreative and will never accomplish anything, ever, the world is completely depressing and life is wholly unendurable?  And then you look at the calendar, do some back-counting, and it dawns on you.  Like St. Paul on the road to Damascus, it’s like the blinding light and suddenly it All Makes Sense.  It’s not you, it’s me and my hormonal derangement.  Throw a full moon in there and you have my situation, and now you can sit for a minute and let that Too Much Information just sink in and perhaps feel a pang of sympathy for the poor souls who share my living quarters.

This video pretty much sums it up.  Her face is actually a perfect replica of my facial expression.

Remember ParticipAction?  The word still strikes terror into my I-don’t-feel-well-I-have-my-period-I-have-to-sit-out-of-gym-class heart.  Years of ParticipAction and I only ever got those “Participant” stickers, never a badge.  Side note: my husband actually once won the Award of Excellence, and that is how I knew I had to procreate with him.  In fact, when he told me that I think I ripped off all my clothes right there, so arousing did I find that information.  Recently my kids asked me if there was anything I didn’t like at school, and “GYM” was my answer.  They couldn’t believe it!  How could I not enjoy gym?  When I recall gym class I recall doing the 4K run in the freezing cold, standing outside in the gusting wind in a dry brown field during Track and Field, a module in which there was absolutely nothing I was competent, let alone good at.  I recall the dirty, smelly gym, my inability to throw a ball and my screaming with terror and ducking when a ball was thrown my way.  Gym class and I did not get along.

But I saw this article about ParticipAction and its new approach to activity and personal goal setting, and truthfully I think it is a good idea.  It seems much less scarring than the old approach, and certainly it’s a step in the right direction in our childhood obesity, inactive, video game world.  I know that my kids do love gym class, and perhaps that’s because gym is much nicer now – no more “last-one-chosen” team selections, a lot more emphasis on fun things.  Or maybe the boys take more after their father.  That was my hope, after all.

These boots were made for walking in the winter.

I am perpetually cold.  I wear a minimum of two layers at any given time for ninety percent of the year.  The other ten percent belongs to the days that are spent vacationing in warmer climes and the two to three weeks a year in Calgary that temperatures actually warrant the removal of a sweater. 

It's worse in the winter, of course, and my daily schedule of drop-offs and pick-ups does not help matters.  Jake's kindergarten class lets out at 11:35, but the rest of the school does not break for lunch until 12:00, which means I spend 25 minutes standing in the freezing, windy playground waiting to pick up Mark, only to rush back to the school 55 minutes later.  The chill settles into my body for the remainder of the day.

It's not like I don't dress for the weather.  When it comes to winter outerwear, I essentially bypass anything that doesn't appear to hold up in arctic conditions.  Here's an example: my coat.  Look at the size of my coat! 

It's so huge it requires its own area code.  And what's that on my feet?

Meet my new Sorel boots.  When I think of Sorel boots I think of those gargantuan white moon boots, but someone told me about these and I think they are pretty cute.  The name is especially precious, "Joan of Arctic Boots".  I was so excited when these arrived - I had ordered online, as is my wont - and when I put them on it was hard to know who enjoyed them more, me or my dog.  That's Barkley standing fuzzily behind me.  He appeared to think my giant boots were alive, and got busy sniffing and licking them frantically.  

I appear to be using Jedi mind tricks to get him to settle and stop harrassing the boots.

I love these boots and my feet are warmer than they have ever been, but I have one minor complaint: they are heavy.  Last week it was so cold, minus thirty and windy, that I did not walk the dog for four days in a row.  Fortunately he is extraordinarily lazy, so he didn't seem to mind much, but eventually I had to brave the weather, don my boots, and walk.

Remember back in the day when people would walk briskly and/or jog with those ridiculous ankle and wrist weights, pumping their arms so as to maximize their calorie burn?  It felt like I was wearing ankle weights.  Actually, it felt like I was wearing cement shoes.  Should I ever receive the kiss of death ("You broke my heart, Fredo") I should avoid wearing these boots.  Now, it has been many, many years since I set foot in a gym, but after a half hour walk with the dog I felt like I had spent that time doing leg presses, or maybe squats.

So if you're looking to get some shakily tired leg muscles, and you live in the frozen north, perhaps this is the solution?  Plus they are very cute.  Even if my dog thinks they are his new best friends. 

Blue Monday Cures

Today is Blue Monday, the day that is scientifically and mathematically proven to be the most depressing of the year.  So let’s fight the power, shall we? 

If the best way to spread Christmas cheer is by singing (implied: Christmas songs) loud for all to hear, then C(x) = f(singing), then it follows that the best way to spread non-Christmas cheer is by singing (implied: non-Christmas songs) loud for all to hear, i.e., NC(x) = f(singing N).  So here is your challenge, if you choose to accept it and you are feeling the effects of Blue Monday: sing Tonight’s the Night as loudly, earnestly, and passionately as possible.  You’ll feel better immediately.

 Whenever I think of Tonight’s the Night I always visualize the vinyl record playing, a guy clad only in his leopard print briefs, swaying his hips sensually to the music, blow drying his feathery hair with a large roller brush, singing passionately.  Tonight’s the night, gonna be all right, cause I’m in love with you and ain’t nobody gonna STOP US NOW.  Sometimes I imagine a poster of a red bathing suit clad Farrah Fawcett in the background, or maybe a KISS poster. 

I always wonder if Rod Stewart sings his songs to his various girlfriends/wives.  I wonder if he sang it to this woman just before he impregnated her:

Photo from The Daily Mail

That article shows why it would be difficult to be a celebrity, or married to a celebrity (since I'm not actually sure if she is a celebrity or not).  She looks gorgeous, right?  Yet the comment from The Daily Mail is

Although it was the perfect dress to give her bump plenty of room, it was less than supportive around her bosom which has massively increased as the pregnancy has developed.

Well, thank you Daily Mail.  Bosom?  This is not the 1800's, we don't generally refer to it as "bosom" anymore.  Also, clearly the author has never been pregnant, because if there is one thing pregnant women agree on unequivocally, it is the gigantic increase in their bra sizes.  We are all shocked and often dismayed at the enormous breasts we grow, and the bra sizes that we thought were mythical are ours.  Even my one girlfriend who was amazed that she was finally in a B cup, even she was astonished at the massive increase in her bosom.

Honestly, I give this woman kudos for being a gorgeous, ripely pregnant woman being out and about and not wearing a muumuu, house slippers and a pained expression, the garb of any woman in their ninth month of pregnancy.  The article goes on to say 

She didn't appear to be feeling the cool weather either...(she) went bare-legged and wore flip-flops.

Again, really?  Pregnancy was the one and only time in my life that I wasn't perpetually cold, and remember how difficult it was to put on shoes?  So yes, Daily Mail, I suppose she probably wasn't feeling the cool weather as being pregnant is akin to having your own internal furnace turned to "the fires of hell".  But maybe that's just me.

On reading this "article", such as it is, two other things strike me: a) Rod Stewart is 66, and b) he has seven other children, including a five year old.  That's spreading the musical genes around, no?  I think it would be strange to have such a spread in age between children, but then again I suppose that he is not likely the one who is doing the night feeding and diaper changing.  But maybe he is, I shouldn't judge.

I shouldn't judge because I do like his music, sadly.  I especially love to sing If You Want My Body in a Scottish accent, a la Mike Myers in So I Married An Axe Murderer.  I was doing that in my car recently when my friend, of jewelry and belt buckle making fame, walked by.  That was humbling, although she was very non-judgemental about the whole situation.  But I say to you, if you are blue today, on this bluest of Mondays, try it.  Watch this video, sing along, and see if you don't feel immediately well and happy.        

Nicole's 300th Episode!

It’s my 300th blog post!  If this were a sitcom, I would totally make this a clip show.  As it is, I looked back through some of my archives and discovered the following things: a) I write a lot about being insane and germ-phobic, b) I talk about the weather as much as someone who is in their eighties, and c) my children have not changed much in the past three years. That’s weird.  I came across this post, which made me realize that my children’s speaking styles have really not altered since August 2008, which means that this is not a phase.

I wanted to make my 300th post profound and erudite, perhaps talking about the superiority or otherwise of Tiger Mothers (which I am not, sadly, being Scottish-Norwegian, a mixed heritage that combines the world’s worst cuisines. What could possibly be worse than haggis and lutefisk? Absolutely nothing.)  My friend Nan beat me to it with her post on Trekkie Mother Superiority, and although I have never watched an episode of Star Trek in my life, I still found this entertaining enough not to compete with.  I mean, what am I going to counter with?  Why Scottish-Norwegian vegetarian crazy germ phobic overly emotional flakey math geek yogi mothers are superior?  Because we carry around a lot of hand sanitizer, tissues, and fruit leather?  Because our kids say to each other “Uh oh, it’s a moon day! Be extra nice to Mom.”?  Because we tear up when our kids count by twos or say things like “Problem solving and arithmetic are the best parts of school!”?


Sigh.


As a side note, I recently said to a male friend of mine “I think you're average.  No, I'm just being mean,” and then I started laughing at my own hysterical joke while he stared at me like I just had grown another head, one with much nicer hair.  After an awkward moment of silence, he said, absurdly, “Oh. I guess I was thinking of medians.” I felt like I had made a dirty joke at my grandma’s Bible study group. Actually, my grandma would totally laugh at dirty jokes. She’s pretty fun.

But speaking of flakiness, rather than awkward math jokes, my whole world is coming crashing down as we speak.  Of course I'm talking about the possible alteration of zodiac signs.  This is distressing news to say the least, as not only will I be an Aries - which I decidedly am NOT - I'm not even sure if my husband and I will be astrologically compatible anymore!  DOOM.  Fortunately a friend (whose birthday is today!  Happy birthday my friend!  Sorry you are cleaning up toddler barf instead of celebrating.) sent me a link regarding this very important issue and I have discovered that I can, happily, disregard any alterations due to star alignments, orbits of the earth, blah blah blah.  Whatever, I'm still a Taurus.  My marriage is still intact.  Thank you, birthday friend, for talking me down from my ledge.

So, it appears that my 300th post is not profound and erudite, but what can I say?  It's Friday, I'm going to have a glass of wine and some chocolates, and toast myself!  Cheers!

Censorship: Dire Straits, Little House, and Huckleberry Finn

Did you hear that “Money for Nothing” is now banned on Canadian radio stations?  Banned!  This is incredibly startling news for me, given that the song originally came out in 1985.  So, twenty-six years later, it has been decided that the word “faggot” – when used by derogatory men who are moving the singer’s fantastic possessions including but not limited to a colour TV and a microwave oven  – is unacceptable and the song must be taken off the air.  Really.  Have you heard “Shake That” by Eminem?  It is possibly the freakiest song ever, given the details about a) getting so drunk that one barfs and then gets drunk again, immediately, b) going to a strip club, c) popping the date rape drug into one of the strippers champagne glasses, d) looking for a slut to fuck in a Hummer truck.  Among other things.  As far as I know, that song is still on the radio, but the word “fuck” is censored.  Thank goodness we have standards.

Censorship is a sticky subject.  Clearly hatred and derogatory terms are not acceptable in this day and age, but is retroactively changing art and literature a fix?  There’s a whole debate currently raging about changing parts of Huckleberry Finn, a novel I never liked, but recognize its importance in American literature.  Is sanitizing art really the thing to do?

Here’s the thing: the n-word currently is used in nearly every hip-hop song by Kanye West and Jay-Z, and a lot of other artists whose names I do not know because I’m pretty out of the loop and I mostly listen to radio stations that play songs like the Pina Colada song and Margaritaville.  Also that song Santa Maria, about everyone on the yacht getting loaded.  I hear that song all the time.  But if the n-word is erased from Huckleberry Finn, then shouldn’t it be taken from rap and hip-hop songs?  Where does it stop?  Should that entire musical genre be banned?

I remember reading Laura Ingalls Wilder books when I was a child.  There was a lot of abject racism in those books, especially in Little House on the Prairie, where the Ingalls family moves to Indian Territory.  The plot of the book is that settlers move to Kansas to take the land from the Indians, and are pretty angry that they are forced to move at the end of the book, as the land is going to remain with the Indians.  There is a lot of fear and hatred in that book.  There are a lot of non-flattering descriptions in that book, about Indians wearing skunk pelts and smelling badly, about Indians stealing all the corn bread and Pa’s tobacco, about terrifying war cries keeping the Ingalls family awake at night. 

But yet it is a time piece.  Those feelings were real.  Those things did happen; settlers did fear and, possibly, hate Indians, white settlers believed that the land was inherently theirs and not the Indians’.  The whites in the book say frequently that the only good Indian is a dead Indian, which is horrifying to modern ears.  But what I also remember about that book is that Pa realizes that there are good people and bad people, whites and Indians both, and he shows immense respect for one person in particular, referred to as the “Osage”.  I remember the Osage catching and killing a panther that was on the prowl. 

“Laura asked if a panther would carry off a little papoose and kill and eat her, too, and Pa said yes.  Probably that was why the Indian had killed that panther.”

Despite the racist undertones, there is a thread of common humanity in that book.  Reading this book today, it strikes me that it is better to use art and literature as tools to teach about the roots of racism – fear and ignorance come to mind – rather than erase and sanitize.   What do you think?

Where the hell is my invincible summer?

“Mom!  It’s going to be hot outside!” Jake shrieked from the living room this morning, where the seven-day weather forecast was being shown on the “news”.  “Look!  It says it’s going to be sunny!”  I had to explain the difference between sunny and actual heat, but the conversation didn’t really take and I have to admit that my children are dyed-in-the-wool Calgarians and will one day be possibly jogging in shorts in sub-zero temperatures.  But it’s sunny!  So what if my legs are purple and my knees are shot?  The SUN IS SHINING!

I will admit the blue sky does look pretty.

This week is a typical one for January in Calgary, frigidly cold and windy.  I seem to be spiraling into the true definition of insanity as I keep checking the online weather forecast, only to find that it is exactly the same as when I last checked it thirty minutes ago.  Evidently I think that if I just refresh that forecast enough times, eventually it will be different.  Meanwhile I’m constantly wearing a coat that looks like a comforter with a belt and a hood, and I actually ordered – get this – SOREL BOOTS.  They’re cute Sorel boots, but still.  I can’t wait for their arrival as my current winter boots are just not getting the job done.  It’s fricking freezing , Mr. Bigglesworth. 

In other news, Mark asked me last night what the word “sperm” meant.  I’m glad I took a moment to reflect and ask him why he was asking, since the word was being used in conjunction with “whale”.  That was close.  Can you imagine the trauma?  One minute he’s talking about his new favourite animal, and the next minute his mother is talking about reproductive systems?  “And then when a mommy and daddy love each other very much…” “Gross!  What does that have to do with whales?”   

I’m not sure what’s going on, but since school started last week Mark has been permanently stuck on “chatter”.  The child will not stop talking.  Every single sentence starts with “Hey Mom!” and unfortunately that is repeated until I respond.  “Hey Mom hey Mom hey Mom hey Mom”.  Finally I will respond, remembering to be very kind in my voice and not at all show irritation because he is trying to communicate with me and I want to be a very good mother, even though he will not stop talking, and he will spew out a fact about whales, eagles, his toy tiger named Tigie and his imaginary trip around the globe, or Bakugan.  Alternately he will completely forget what he was going to say, only to start over again in sixty seconds or less.  It’s a bit tiring. 

But it’s nice too.  It’s nice that there is so much he wants to share with me, and I’m trying to remember to be present in the moment, even if the moment is filled with “Fun Facts” and pulling on layer after layer of winter clothing, eagerly awaiting the arrival of my Sorel boots.

Fun Fact: Did you know that killer whales are part of the dolphin family?  I did.

Makeup, Wine, and Say Anything

I live in a neighbourhood with a lot of senior citizens, so I’m pretty used to opening my mailbox to find flyers from McInnis and Holloway about planning my own funeral so that things will go just the way I imagine.  Not that I imagine my funeral much, but it’s nice to know that the funeral people are so accommodating. 

These flyers unnerve me a bit, but on Thursday I opened my mail to find something much more disturbing: an envelope addressed specifically to me, containing a subscription card to a magazine catering and celebrating “older women.”  Ahem.  I have a feeling this has something to do with my recently purchased subscription to Chatelaine, which confirms my status as a suburban Canadian mom.  I’m reading the recipes and beauty hints, people.  I actually considered making red velvet cupcakes with beets – a superfood! – but then remembered that cupcakes are sacred and that vegetables should not be pureed into them.  Especially beets.

But back to celebrating older women.  I like older women.  I think that there are few things more beautiful than a face with smile lines and happy wrinkles.  I truly think that inner beauty starts to show externally as we age.  However, I don’t consider myself an older woman just yet.  Give me a few years, magazine people!

I have been feeling fairly youthful this week - despite a conversation with some friends with regards to fruitily-scented makeup phenomenons of our early years.  Does anyone remember Kissing Potion?  Ah, you couldn't really say you had arrived until you smeared your lips with that gooey, chemical strawberry-flavoured liquid.  It's been probably twenty-five years since my Kissing Potion days, although I have remained a lipgloss and lipstick junkie to this day. 

Are you a makeup person?  I most definitely am.  I am such a makeup person that I'm surprised that not everyone else is.  One of my good friends, who is lovely, almost never wears makeup and I was shocked to discover this.  I just assumed, because she is so pretty, that she wore makeup, but on close examination and questioning, I discovered she doesn't.  Then I discovered that many, many women, whose lovely faces I admire, never wear makeup!  It was honestly a shocking discovery.  Before you think that I am being crazy and vain and obviously my own insecurities are driving my makeup addiction, let me tell you what happened the one time I showed up at school drop-off makeup free and with my hair in a ponytail.  Five - FIVE - people came up to me and asked if I was okay.  Wow, you look tired today!  That's something no woman wants to hear.

But there is a reason I'm feeling youthful, and if you know me at all, you may be shocked to learn that I have given up drinking wine on weekdays.  I know!  I'm saving all my love, for yooouuuu, and by you I mean the weekend, and by love, I mean wine.  I have to say, I had a lot more energy this week and I'm attributing it to that.  My husband suggested that I drink a week's worth of wine in one night and then live-blog.  Despite the entertainment value that such a scheme would possess, I just don't think I'm up to drinking eight glasses in one sitting. 

Apropos of nothing, "Saving All My Love For You" has reminded me of that great Whitney classic "Greatest Love of All."  One of my favourite movie moments ever: in Say Anything, the graduation scene where the guy is singing that song?  "They can't take away MY DIGNITY."  Alas, my dignity was gone with this post when I brought up Kissing Potion.

*EDITED TO ADD*
I was just voted Site of the Week over at Canadian Moms!  I'm so excited!  Thanks, everyone over at that fabulous site!  Love you guys!

All the cool kids are doing it!

And so will I - a Year in Review.  Yes, I know it is the sixth of January and most year in reviews have already been posted, but I was far too busy writing about people who eat toilet paper and watching When Harry Met Sally.

So what happened in 2010 over at the Boy House?

January

I made a resolution to learn how to bake bread, and did so immediately, learning two important things: a) baking bread is not as hard as I thought it would be, and b) the key to New Year Resolution Success is to aim low.

I also ranted about the weird things people say to pregnant women and posted a picture of me with an extra seventy pounds to love.

Yowza.  I still had seven weeks to go at that point.  SEVEN WEEKS.

February

We got really, really excited about the Olympics.  We also went on our first ever winter vacation and became a parody of Canadians as the kids got off the plane wearing t-shirts emblazoned with Team Canada logos, and instantly started running around shrieking in amazement, "Mom, look!  There are FLOWERS!  And they're REAL!  And the grass is GREEN!  And there's no SNOW!"

March

Mark turned six!  I had my usual crises with regards to birthday party planning and Daylight Savings Time.  I cleaned out the office and found a whole box of mix tapes, some labeled "Party Mix" and one that was made for my husband from one of his old girlfriends that included songs from Richard Marx.  Hee.

April

I turned 35!  I celebrated by chaperoning on a field trip to the firehall, and cemented my cougar-like status by volunteering to try on the firefighter outfit, discovering just how heavy said outfit is, and actually saying to the young and attractive firefighter "Wow, you guys must be in great shape."  Coo-coo-coo-choo, Mrs. Robinson.  It also snowed a lot and I wrote about attractive movie characters who would be terrible to be married to, i.e., Ralph Fiennes in the English Patient.



My friend lent me a tiara for my birthday, fulfilling my lifelong dream of birthday crown-wearing.



May

Jake's pre-Kindergarten class had a Mother's Day tea in which they sang a song that went "May there always be sunshine, may there always be blue skies, may there always be mama, may there always be me", and I still tear up thinking about it.  I also cried a lot thinking about this Tim Horton's commercial and I got way too excited about the woman with the MBA with a concentration in economics winning Miss USA.  Clearly May is an emotional roller-coaster of a month for me.

It was still snowing in May.

June

It was really cold.  On Father's Day weekend - and Super Soccer Saturday weekend - I attended a yoga weekend workshop.  Happy Father's Day!  Now take care of the kids all weekend.  The kids finished school and my husband came up with a plan in case my kids ever decide to be protesters at a G-20 Summit. 

My two favourite pictures of Mark ever taken.  He's getting his groove on at the end-of-school-Stampede-breakfast.  Note that it is June and Jake is wearing his fleece jacket.

July

It was raining and cold and I decided to make yarn octopuses, which turned out as well as any craft I make does.  Terribly.  We went to the Okanagan for some sunshine.  The cold and rain made me become Miss Carpe Diem, and so any day with slightly above average temperatures had me running the kids to the pool.

The yarn octopuses, Moppy and Bum, doing a duet of Heart and Soul.

August

It was still cold and rainy.  I wrote a lot about fashion, especially the jeans with zippered ankles that came out that made me feel like I was wearing turquoise slacks and a coordinating blouse, hobbling around with my walker and my Scotch mints, with a tissue in my sleeve.  Also - and my friend just reminded me of this yesterday - I saw a guy wearing a t-shirt that said "Vagitarian".  I still laugh evilly thinking about it.  Vagitarian.  Says the guy who lives in his mom's basement.

September

Mark started Grade One and Jake started Kindergarten.  We got hardwood installed by two attractive young whipper-snappers which led to many "hardwood" jokes.  Also I came home to find that they had taken out my drawers to move my dresser with ease, and my panty drawer was proudly on display for all to see.  So I had to show my panties to get hardwood.  Hee.  Also, Jake turned five!

Too cool for school!  Note the boxes of hardwood at right.

October

In typical October fashion we seemed to have a lot of viruses, dead squirrels, and excitement about Halloween.  Also I went on a two-night vacation with my husband and no kids!  And we all survived!  Actually the boys had the time of their lives and still talk about how awesome it was that Grandma picked them up at school.

Boo, I'm a scary witch!  For real.

November

It snowed a lot, I got ready for Christmas, I ran the Scholastic Book Fair, Mark barfed.  That pretty much sums up November.

A foam finger!  It says "We're #1 - bp".

December

I blogged almost exclusively about Christmas, Christmas songs, Christmas baking, and my new awesome sexy bitch boots.

Whew!  If you're still reading this, thank you!!!  So 2010 was a great year, and here's to a wondeful 2011 for all of us.

Reality TV, or Signs of the Apocalypse

I frequently think that nothing is more indicative to the downfall of society as reality television.  I’m always, always startled to think that these shows are being watched by someone.  For example, it has come to my attention that there is a new show coming out featuring people who, among other things, like to eat toilet paper and taste dish soap.  Really.  Wasn’t the concept of putting people in a house together to fight and hot tub and copulate and compete for a spouse who would never actually turn out to be a spouse bad enough?  Now there are shows about people with dramatically peculiar eating habits?  This is the reason I like Jeopardy.  Virtually everything else on television is a scary indictor of the apocalypse.  Plus I like to fantasize that I’m actually on Jeopardy.  I like to think about what I would wear if I was a contestant (probably a black sweater).  I like to imagine myself saying “I’m going to make this a true Daily Double, Alex.”  Alas, I would probably never win at Jeopardy given my poor knowledge of US history and presidents. 

Another indication that the four horses are going to come riding in at any minute is the proliferation of drivel-like magazines lining the checkout counter at Wal-Mart.  Yesterday the kids were back at school and so I dropped them off to go pick up light bulbs, Kleenex, and dish soap (that I am not tempted to taste in the least.  Who are these people, anyway?).  Hilariously, I ran into several other moms who were shopping for similar items, proving once again that we stay-at-home moms are a glamourous people, we who upon shaking off the shackles of child care immediately head towards the allure of the roll-back.  In the lineup, I saw the following headlines: 1) Someone named Heidi is having more plastic surgery, 2) Dr. Oz has a “#1 Fat Cure”, and 3) No matter what they say, Oprah and Gayle are totally lesbians.  My reaction?  1) Who is this Heidi?, 2) “Fat CURE”?  Does the word “cure” seem strange to anyone else?  3) Why is it relevant in any way to anyone if Oprah and Gayle are, in fact, lovers?  WHO CARES? 

So I stood there in line feeling like my brain cells were rapidly disintegrating, a feeling that seemed to be confirmed soon after when I smiled to myself at the abandoned items that were grouped together at the next till.  Really, one should not laugh, but I found myself laughing on the inside at the still-life grouping of a Heavy Duty Rubber Sheet, a box of Extra-Large Depends, and a gigantic container of Sour Patch Kids. 

Maybe I need my own reality show.  Real Housewives of Calgary Who Like Jeopardy and Laugh at Stupid Things at Wal-Mart.

I hate you, Harry. I really hate you.

Happy New Year!  How did you spend New Year’s Eve?  After taking the kids out for a very early dinner and putting them to bed at the regular time my husband, in what can only be described as an overwhelming display of love and affection, watched When Harry Met Sally with me, while I, in an overwhelming display of self-restraint, did not repeat the dialogue word for word.  Then I went to bed at the wild hour of 10:30.

Today has been a very pleasant day, started with a nice Bailey’s and coffee, and filled with doing small but satisfying jobs of organization.  Yesterday I left my chaotic and slightly cabin-fevered household to go to the mall and I was faced with the amazing phenomenon that is Boxing Week.  Christmas cards 75% off!  Lingerie and sleepwear 70% off!  Jacob – 50% off the entire store!  I’ve mentioned before that I’m neither a Handbag nor a Shoe Person, but I am a Sweater Person and so I spent some time clearing my dresser of various ill-fitting and worn out items to make room for my new purchases, despite my husband’s assertion that I probably did not need any more black sweaters.  There is no such thing as Too Many Black Sweaters, I say. 

I also performed a job that I was not relishing but needed to be done: clearing the artwork off the refrigerator.  I kid you not; I took 112 pieces of artwork off the fridge.  One hundred and twelve.  Then I became instantly emotional at the sight of my actual fridge and put 32 back on.  I feel for those people who are hoarders.  Mark may have drawn 25 pictures of Muk Muk and his (fictional) little brother Muk Mike, but every single one of them is adorable to me.  And Jake’s drawing of a Thanksgiving turkey alongside his depictions of alien invasions?  Priceless.  I know that eventually some of them will need to live out their lives in our recycling bin, but I’m not ready for that job.

I know I already stated my New Year’s resolution – to enjoy my friendships, socialize, and drink more wine (with friends), but then I heard of a friend of my husband’s, whose resolution was to make one person happy every day and then by the time ten years passed, she will have made the population of a small town happy!  Beautiful, right?  I immediately resolved to do that as well but then started overanalyzing: would it count if you made the same people happy over and over?  Do you have to make a different person happy every day?  What if you don’t make it out of the house one day and you see no one?  Do you need to make two people happy the next day?  My mind started spinning out of control, making this lovely notion into a complex obligation.  However, I still think it’s a beautiful idea, and I’m going to try to spread much happiness in 2011. Also perhaps I will attempt to not buy any more black sweaters.  Scratch that last one – never going to happen.