Monthly Archives: June 2010

YAAAA-HOOOOOO!

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That’s what we say here in Calgary during Stampede time. For those of you who know Calgary, yes, I realize it is only June. BUT the kids’ school had a year-end party in the form of a Stampede Breakfast. For those of you who do not know Calgary, essentially in July during the Stampede everywhere you turn there are free pancake breakfasts complete with entertainment of varying quality. Also the entire city dons western wear, which can be a terribly frightening thing. I remember back in the day when I worked, certain colleagues – who just seemed like regular people – would show up to work wearing skintight Wranglers and shirts emblazoned with pictures of wolves howling at the moon, or a desert landscape at sunset. I’m not judging this particular style, although it is not my fashion cup of tea, but what I found alarming was that my regular, seemingly normal co-workers had whole other lives, ones that involved a lot of cowboy fantasies. A male colleague confessed that he had many, many sexual fantasies involving, of all things, rodeo trick riders and barrel racers. Two things: that is far too much information to have about someone with whom I had a working relationship, and also, I had no idea that rodeo competitors were a source of fantasy. I just didn’t know. I mean, schoolgirls, nurses, flight attendants…but trick riders? Someone might as well have told me that quantitative analysts were the bomb, that would have been just as startling. I was just totally taken aback by that information, and by the fact that a Stampede party and the accompanying drinks led to my reception of that information.

However, now that I’m not working, I’m always up for a good Stampede party, even one in June. The sun came out just in time; my kids could care less about the actual food, but there was a DJ who was playing such songs as YMCA and Who Let the Dogs Out. Who can stop their dancing feet with those tunes? I certainly cannot, and neither, apparently, can my kids:

Mark’s checking out the crowd, Jake is getting jiggy with it.


Mark’s starting to get into it.


Mark looks deflated. Jake is still grooving.


Maybe he was just resting. Check out the sweet moves! Jake, apparently, is embarking on his very own chicken dance.


This may be my all-time favourite picture of Mark. And really, is there anything better than disco dancing at 8:30 in the morning? Given my love of dancing and also my love of going to bed early, I can say with authority that it was a perfect party.

Time to Get a Life

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Last night I stood on the soccer field in the pouring rain, watching the Green Geckos run, herd-like, after the ball and slipping and falling on the soggy, wet grass. It’s cold here, as it often is in June, and it seems to be sapping my energy and also my personality. On the “news” this morning, the weatherman mentioned that the average temperature for this time of year is 20 degrees Celsius and for some reason this enraged me beyond belief. I wondered aloud how that average was derived, because to average 20 degrees, the temperature must have at some point been above 20 degrees, and when has this occurred?

Note to self: having a heated and one-sided debate with the TV weatherman regarding his data and how he obtains his “average temperature” is neither healthy nor productive. Neither is looking up temperatures for the past ten years on the internet, stopping only when a) your data source goes only back ten years, and b) realizing that you really need to get a life.

Speaking of getting a life, Today’s Parent magazine arrived yesterday and on the cover it says “Surprising Marriage Advice: Get a Life!” It spoke to me. I haven’t actually read it yet, given that I have been busy with normal daily life and also trying to figure out where the City TV meteorologist gets his data, in a crazed way. In addition, I have been writing a piece about sex and I have had a little anxiety about it – people are going to know I have sex! Like the two kids and a twelve year monogamous relationship wasn’t a giveaway. Like I’m actually sixteen years old and trying to figure out how to hide birth control pills from my parents – is a school bag better than my sock drawer? Hoo boy. I really do need to get a life. Plus it’s going to improve my marriage, apparently. Must read the article to figure out how.

The rain has not been dampening the kids’ spirits, happily. We have been busy having a living room campout today, complete with marshmallows stuck on chopsticks and pool noodles, which they have been pretending to swim across the floor with. Very fun. Too bad this wholesome play wasn’t occurring on Monday, when a sweet yogi friend came by with her adorable three-month-old daughter. No, the boys decided they would tell our guest all about their penchant for guns, battles, and killing. Nothing says good mother like having your children talk about how they want to destroy Mickey Mouse, of all fictional characters to choose. Maybe I should go read that Today’s Parent. And also get a life.

Inch by inch, row by row

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On Friday I went to a neighbourhood volunteer appreciation dinner with a friend who is a lot of fun and excellent company. I have to admit that I was a bit leery to go at first; it was to take place in our local sportsplex, and I had visions of a potluck meal on long tables in a cold, florescent-lit room festively decorated with tin foil on the wall, but it was nothing like that at all. It was very fun and I won a door prize: a ten piece French white corningware set! I was excited about that, even more excited when I saw what some of the other prizes were; a friend of mine won a large plaster lawn ornament in the shape of a bear cub lying on a log, so I felt like I won the door prize lottery.

My neighbourhood was established in the early 1960s, and there are many people here who are original house owners. My street, in particular, is chock-full of seniors. There are very few children, as evidenced by our annual lack of trick-or-treaters and the plethora of grandparent-style lawn ornaments and swan-shaped flower pots. The boys were playing in the sprinkler a few weeks ago, shrieking and laughing, and I asked my elderly next-door-neighbour if they were bothering her. She responded sarcastically “Yes. I hate the sound of children’s laughter.” Then she told me about the years when the street teemed with children, and a summer’s day would be filled with noise and chaos and now it’s just my two, at the end of our long, senior-filled street.

Walking my dog through the neighbourhood during the day has given me occasion to meet a lot of my retired neighbours: generally the people I see are the husbands, relegated to the front yard to get out from underfoot, working on their immaculate lawns and always happy to stop and chat and pet my dog and ask about the boys. Those yards are always maintained, the walks are shovelled in the winter and swept in the summer, the grass is thick and green and the gardens are filled with perennials and also annuals I associate with old people: marigolds and petunias, evenly spaced and orderly. Then there are the yards of the people who have grown too old and infirm to keep up with them, overgrown and weedy, the gardens that were once nicely shaped and are now shaggy looking, a few perennials valiantly peeking through the crab grass and dandelions that are choking them out. These are the people who won’t leave their homes, despite interventions from family members they are determined to stay put.

A man on our street died recently, in such a gruesome and horrible way that I once again promised myself that if I am ever elderly and alone, I will hightail it to the nearest old folk’s home where I will take up shuffleboard and cards and eat soft, sweet desserts every night and flirt with the male orderlies. I will grow African violets in little ceramic pots and hope that someone is digging the weeds out of my beloved flower gardens.

Oh, Blanche

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Rue McClanahan died! I always secretly thought that I would be like a non-slutty Blanche Devereaux when I am old: reeking of Chanel Number 5, making suggestive jokes in response to normal conversation, wearing support stockings and bright lipstick.

Query: have I already turned into a non-slutty Blanche Devereaux? I thought I had a few more years. In any case I’m not wearing bright, loose fitting but cleavage revealing tops, and I shall NEVER wear stockings with open toed shoes.

I don’t know what this says about me, but I loved the Golden Girls. I’m not sure what about four seniors living in Florida appealed to ten-year-old me, but I sure did love it. If it was on right now, I would probably watch it, if it were not for the inevitable ridiculing I would endure from my husband.

I have much, much more to say about many topics – not just my childhood conviction that I would be Blanche Devereaux – but I have been unable to write anything this week, given that I have been busy, busy, busy. Doing what, you may ask. In addition to the Scholastic Book Fair that I have been helping to run, there has been soccer, and my nemesis, soccer scheduling, and I need to leave the house in fifteen minutes for a kindergarten orientation, at which I am supposed to welcome the parents and remind them, ridiculously, not to jaywalk, but to use the crosswalks safely. Jaywalking – and parking illegally – is actually a significant problem at our school, one which leads to heated discussions and calls to bylaw officers and, once, an irate garbageman whose truck was blocked by all the illegal parkers. Is anyone still reading this?

* sound of crickets chirping *

Now I’m going to go put on some bright lipstick and Chanel Number 5 and head out!