Monthly Archives: January 2011

Warning: This Post Written Under The Influence

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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.

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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

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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!

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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.

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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

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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!

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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!