2011 Year in Review at the Boyhouse

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

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

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...

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!

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!

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.

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.

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.

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

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?

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!

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.