Monthly Archives: March 2013

Hippos and Spring

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Important Boyhouse update for those of you who have been reading for a while: we visited the zoo yesterday for the first time since the tragic (for us) euthanasia of Foggy the Hippo.  There is a new hippo; his name is Ghost, courtesy of his Halloween birthday, and he is Foggy’s grandson.  I wasn’t sure how the zoo visit would go, since Jake still tears up at the mention of Foggy and he started crying in the car a few weeks ago because a song came on the radio; apparently it was the very song we heard driving home from the zoo after Foggy’s death.  A zoo trip was in the works however; we had a day with no plans, we were all excited to see what turned out to be a very underwhelming “Penguin Walk”, and the day promised to be sunny and mild.

After visiting the penguins and the Canadian Wilds, we started our death march towards the hippo enclosure.  Jake was completely silent, while Mark and I chattered on about how nothing could ever take Foggy’s place in our hearts, but maybe Ghost was a nice hippo, and anyway, there were other animals to see in the African Savannah display.  Giraffes!  Meercats!  Giant pythons!  Jake silently entered the enclosure and peeked through the glass barrier at the hippo pool below.

And – I kid you not – Ghost the hippo immediately poked his head out of the water, turned to Jake’s direction, and wiggled his ears.  He then, in a surprisingly agile move, spun around in the water, looked in Jake’s direction again, and sprayed water out of his nose.

Jake assumed that this hippo behaviour was solely for his benefit, and of course I encouraged this.  Ghost then dove underwater and surfaced in the middle of the pool, directly in front of us.  Sparky, the other hippo, joined him.  “I guess he really likes me!” Jake said happily.  What’s not to like?

All is well in the Boyhouse.  You may notice that Jake is wearing his winter coat.  The sun was shining, the snow was melting, and it was about eight degrees Celcius which was enough to prompt many, many people to wear shorts, t-shirts, and flip flops.  FLIP FLOPS.  A few hardy individuals were seen to be wearing tank tops; meanwhile I felt pretty footloose and fancy free to be wearing my “light” winter jacket.

Mark’s coat is unzipped!  Spring!

I have started, slowly, to bring out spring/fall weight jackets and footwear.  I set out the rain boots and put winter boots in an easily-accessible-but-still-kind-of-away location downstairs.  Yesterday, after the vivid success of the dehydrated pineapple, I went to the grocery store to pick up five more pineapples in my bid to look like someone who needs more tropical things in her life, wearing only a spring weight coat and kicky little ankle boots in place of my usual knee high ones.  I felt slightly naked; my calves especially felt exposed, despite my jeans.  There are buds swelling on the lilac bush, my tenacious daylilies near the back door are pushing their little green sprouts through the thawing earth.  It feels, ever so tenuously, like spring is in the air.  I know, I know that there will be more snow, I know that it will be below freezing at night for many weeks to come, but at the moment everything feels fresh and new.  It feels like spring is poking its head up and wiggling its ears at me.  It’s enough.

Spring Break! Put your (paint covered) hands up!

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It’s only, technically, day two of Spring Break and it is the Most Exciting Spring Break Ever.  Yesterday I looked out the window to see a Canada Post truck parked in the middle of our road and a delivery man struggling up our sidewalk with a giant box addressed to me. 


What is it, you may be asking yourself.  It’s an early birthday present!  A food dehydrator!  I’ve wanted one for a long time, and was completely surprised.  Welcome to Dehydration Nation!


I spent the rest of the day spinning off the earth with excitement, and reading the user’s manual.  I felt dangerously like Crazy Eddie from Friends, the guy who was briefly Chandler’s roommate and who dehydrated everything.  This is a strawberry!  This is a cantaloupe!  Pineapples were on sale last week at my local grocery store, and fortuitously I had picked one up.  You’re first, Mr. Pineapple.

Mark kept stealing pieces, and I felt bad telling my child to lay off the fruit.

It’s in the dehydrator right now, and the entire downstairs, according to the boys, smells exactly like Maui.  It’s a very pleasing smell, and I hope the end result will be tasty as well. 

This morning I took the boys to the dentist, which was as pleasant as could be hoped.  There was a high degree of agitation in the five minute drive to the dentist, and much slumping and sighing in the waiting room, but it turns out that asking for the fluoride to be brushed on, instead of using those little trays can turn an entire dental visit around.  Who knew that fluoride trays could be the cause of so much sadness?  To celebrate our excellent visit, I took the boys to Colour Me Mine, where you can choose a piece of pottery to paint, and the Colour Me Mine people glaze and fire it for you. 

 
 
 
So far, spring break has been pretty excellent.  Next up: cleaning up the dog’s fecal matter in the melting backyard.  This is the downside of the exciting spring melt.  But the snow is melting, the sun is shining, and my house smells like pineapple!  Things don’t get much better than that.

Nine Feels Fine

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Mark was born on our second wedding anniversary, after a pre-eclampsia diagnosis, a three week bedrest, minor panic, and a startlingly short labour.  I learned that not everything always goes as planned.

 
He was a seriously cute baby with super spiky hair.  I learned how to eat and cook one-handed.
 
 
 
He was a cheery and happy baby.  I learned the words to Goodnight Moon, Hand Hand Fingers Thumb, and Mr Brown Can Moo off by heart.

 
A few short months after this picture was taken, he became a big brother.  I learned that having one baby was actually pretty easy.

 
By age two, he knew the makes and models of all vehicles in our neighbourhood.  I learned the difference between a Ford F150 and a Chevy Silverado.
 
 
At age three, he loved everything with wheels.  I learned everything I needed to know about heavy machinery.

 
At age four he loved dinosaurs.  I learned all about even the most obscure dinosaurs, including the periods they lived in.

 
At age five, he lost teeth, discovered a love of science experiments, and learned to read.  I learned that when your child starts school, it’s not necessary to be on every single committee, even when you are asked to be.

 
By age six, he decided he wanted to be a businessman when he grew up.  I learned how to be a soccer mom and to always keep a sleeping bag in the car.
 
 
At seven, he started swimming for real.  I learned that being the mom of school aged kids was pretty awesome.
 
 
At eight, he loved video games and books, animals and golfing, sand and sun and snow alike.  I learned about Geronimo Stilton, Pokemon, and Phineas and Ferb.
 

Today, at age nine, he is smart and silly, the classroom peacemaker who also loves karate and battles.  He’s a great brother, an awesome kid, and I’m proud of him every day.  Because of him, I learned how to be a mom.

Come to think of it, Superman is a douche

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There is this strange phenomenon I’ve noticed this winter: no matter what the weather is like at all other times of the day, it will surely become much, much worse at school pickup time. I’m not sure what it is about the 3:30-4:00 time slot, but lately it’s been nothing but gale force winds, snow, and icy cold. It’s a wee bit depressing to be standing out in the playground, bundled up like I actually am in the Arctic, watching kids walk backwards because the wind and snow in their faces is just too much.  Also, my finger-that-was-nearly-and-unknowingly-amputated-whilst-carrying-groceries is now doing this alarming thing where it spontaneously goes numb, and the cold is just not helping that. 

Today the sun came out – thank goodness – and although it’s still woolly mammoth cold and we have had snow on the ground since October and we probably will have snow on the ground for weeks to come, spring IS coming.  I think.  No, it is.  One day I will put on footwear that are not boots, and a top that is not a thick sweater layered over a long sleeved shirt, and I will wear a coat that is not big and puffy.  One day.  It’s coming.

Meanwhile, this morning Jake used the word “douchey” to describe Superman.  I was both impressed by his apt description and startled by the inappropriateness of a seven year old usage of the word.  We had a rather involved discussion about the time and place to use a word such as “douchey”; i.e., not at school.  It’s true, though.  Superman is a bit of a douche.  I’m more of a Batman girl myself.  Or Wolverine. 

When you live with a housefull of boys, these are things that actually come up in conversation on a semi-regular basis: the ranking and ordering of favourite superheroes and WHY, what foods lead to the most odorous of intestinal gas, which Pokemon character is the fastest and which is the strongest, and how double light sabers are far superior to regular light sabers.  And, apparently, how douchey Superman is.

One of my husband’s colleagues was in a Superman movie when he was a kid, and we recently watched a clip of it on youtube.  “Superman was here!” a woman exclaimed to Clark Kent, who looks totally different from Superman because he is wearing glasses and regular clothes.  Dude, at least all the other superheroes have some sort of mask on. 

Speaking of the Man of Steel, I’m in a bit of a swoony mood this week because Saturday is my wedding anniversary!  We will have been married for eleven years, and the traditional gift for eleven years of marriage is steel!  So I will be looking forward to the receipt of my new car, a la The Price is Right.  A NEW CAR!  Kidding, I will not be receiving a new car for my anniversary, but I may be receiving a piece of steel, if you know what I mean.

Some euphemisms just don’t work.

This week, in anticipation, I have been using my favourite set of dishtowels, because I am a total hausfrau who celebrates life events via dishtowel usage.  Remember this set I bought from anthropologie, that was likely meant for a wedding shower gift but I bought for myself because it’s so awesome?

This makes me as happy as a material item possibly can.  It makes me happy every time I look at it.  I am living happily ever after, I smile to myself as I polish an apple.  Not everything from anthropologie is so awesome though.  I get the catalogue in the mail, and this was on the very last page:

anthropologie.com

If you have been searching for that elusive blue toile romper, look no more!  It can be yours for only $168. 

anthropologie.com

Old lady comfort outfits, represent.  All this needs is a white cardigan with a tissue in the sleeve to complete the look.

Maybe I need an outfit like that.  I was looking swoonily at our wedding photos, and was struck, as I often am, at how very young I looked:

Eleven years later, and I look like this:

advanced style


Marriage has aged me!  Or maybe it’s all the talk about superhero douchery.

The toll of shopping at Costco

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Congratulations to Maggie, for winning the random draw!  I picked up the prize yesterday on my trip to Costco.  Can you spot it in my minivan?

No, silly, it’s NOT the case of tetra pak almond milk.  Nor is it the giant family size package of Snapea Crisps – those are ALL for me, family size be damned.  I don’t share my Snapea Crisps (although, this isn’t a point of contention in my house.  I am the only person who appreciates their snacktacular attributes.)  You’ll just have to wait and see, Maggie!

A few weeks back I was shopping with a girlfriend and she reached into her bag to pull out her wallet, when something popped out and fell onto the floor.  We both reached for it and started laughing hysterically when it became apparent that said object was an o.b. tampon.  You’d think we were in junior high, gauging by our level of merriment.  Although, truth be told, if that had happened in junior high, we would have probably died of embarrassment.

I thought of this incident with amusement yesterday while shopping in Costco.  I was in the feminine products aisle, and the gigantic boxes of Tampax Super were stacked underneath the gigantic boxes of Tampax Regular.  I selected a box of Regular but I also needed Super – SUPER!  I know, my feminine mystique is going to take a bit of a beating here – and so I tried to shimmy a box from beneath the flats of Regular.  Slowly and nightmarishly, all the Regular tampons started to tip over onto me.  Now, as a person who has a (probably irrational) fear of being crushed to death in a warehouse setting, this was a bit alarming.  I tried to push the boxes back but several still tumbled to the floor.  Fortunately for me, a box of Super also fell to the floor so I had only to replace the gigantic scattered Tampax boxes and wheel my giant cart away, relieved that I now possessed a two year supply of tampons and that I probably would not have to endure narrowly missing death by tampon crushing until early 2015. 

There are a few more humiliating ways to die – I’m thinking specifically of death via heart attack while on the toilet, Elvis-style – but death by crushing in a warehouse would be one of the worst.  Especially, somehow, death by crushing by giant pallets of tampons.

I actually really like grocery shopping, but the loading up of the van and the unloading of the van and then the putting away of the groceries are big negatives to me.  You may be saying to yourself why don’t you get your kids to help? but they are generally in school when I shop (see also: why I like grocery shopping) but even if they weren’t, the baskets that I load the Costco offerings in are probably half their body weight.  Yesterday was cold and snowy and grey, and by the time I had unpacked my giant cart into the van, driven home, and started to bring the groceries into the house, I was pretty cold.

Slight digression: remember, people, that I have what is called Raynaud’s Syndrome, which is characterized by poor circulation and cold, somewhat painful, purple hands and feet.  By the time I reached home my hands were numb and cold, but since that is their normal state in the winter, I kept calm and carried on.

Once everything was neatly put away, everything in its place, I washed my hands.  Hmm, I thought, my right index finger sure must be cold.  Even the warm water isn’t helping.  Then I looked at my right index finger, which was enormously swollen, purple, and had a giant dent in it.  It started to feel like it was going to explode.  Huh.  I realized that I must have pinched it somehow, bringing in the baskets of groceries, but my hands were so numb I didn’t even realize it was happening. 

If that isn’t reason enough to move to a warm climate, I don’t know what is.  I am a Delicate Flower who needs warmth and sunshine to bloom, people.  Or at least for me to not accidentally and unknowingly injure myself.  It’s still pretty painful today, but what was more alarming is that I was typing away this morning and it spontaneously went completely pins-and-needles numb and tingly.  And I tell you this: do not google these symptoms or you may think that you have somehow become gangrenous or the like.  Is my finger going to fall off? you may nervously ask yourself.  Fortunately I have feeling in my finger now, thanks to me turning up the heat and anxiously washing the floors, on the belief that moving around might increase circulation.

Last night while I was waiting for the boys at karate, I tried to take a picture of my finger.  I discovered that a) it is very hard to take a picture of one’s right hand when one is right handed, and b) I’m not going to become a hand model any time soon.

There’s an old adage that you can tell the age of a woman by looking at her hands.  By this picture, one might think I’m one hundred years old.  The waiting room at the karate dojo DOES look a lot like a nursing home.  I’m just watching my stories, dearie.

Lego, Eyelashes, and an IMPORTANT QUESTION

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This morning Jake was playing with his Star Wars Lego when I heard a frustrated yell.  The back window had fallen out of his Palpatine’s Arrest set, and when he tried to fix it, a couple of other pieces came off.  There was no time to figure things out before school, and so I decided I would try to fix it before he came home from lunch.

This is not, by any means, the first time I had attempted to build or fix Lego.  I will start by saying that I am not gifted in the Lego area.  I can barely build a simple box house, and those Star Wars sets are very complicated.  This is probably somehow related to my complete inability to catch a ball without flailing my arms and shrieking.  However, I remembered where all of the instructions manuals were kept, and so I flipped to what seemed to be the appropriate page and bravely began.

Shortly after that, I burst into tears. 

Happily, when Jake got home at lunch and I showed him my attempt, he said cheerfully that I did a great job, and he didn’t really need the window to open anyway.  He never really used that window anyway!

What a sweetheart.  I have a School Council meeting tonight, and I have a feeling his dad is going to be kept busy fixing the window.

Speaking of bursting into tears and having to subsequently fix my mascara, the other day I was shopping and saw a display for a mascara called “The Falsies”, and although the word “Falsies” makes me think of bra-stuffing, I was intrigued.  I had read a few reviews about this mascara and I thought I should try it.  I am going to have amazing, traffic stopping eyelashes, I thought, although to be honest I’m not sure how eyelashes would stop traffic, especially if a person has light sensitive eyes and wears sunglasses all the time, as I do.  Nonetheless!  I have a few girlfriends who regularly get false eyelashes applied – the kind that last for a few weeks – and they look amazing.  So amazing that when I’m talking to them I get completely distracted by their eyelashes and forget what we are talking about.  I’m like one of those guys who can’t take their eyes off your breasts, but with eyelashes.  I briefly thought about getting them myself but decided against it.  Although I’m high maintenance that is a line I just cannot cross, so this mascara called out to me.

Isn’t it funny what you think buying a product is going to be a glorious, life changing experience?  I get that sometimes.  A new pair of panties equals a new lease on life!  New lipstick?  Transformative.  I am a new woman because of this scented hand cream!  So I could hardly wait to try out my new mascara which would give me false lash glam instantly. 

People.  Building hopes up too high can only lead to disappointment in the end.  I wish I could say I was fluttering my enormous eyelashes at you right now, but I’m not.  I mean, the mascara is fine.  Possibly slightly better than my regular mascara.  There is nothing inherently wrong with the mascara, although there might be something wrong with me in falling for the advertising.  I tried to take a picture of my eyes, but have you ever tried to do that?  I looked like I was preparing to make my own tinfoil hat, or that I lived in a small apartment with one hundred pets who were all named Pookie.  So you will have to take my word for it; my eyelashes look nice, but not LIFE CHANGING.  Certainly not traffic stopping.  No one is going to become distracted by my eyelashes while talking to me.

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Some of you know that I’m currently working on a cookbook, filled to the brim with lovely vegan and vegetarian recipes.  It’s an exciting project, and now that Justin Timberlake is singing the praises of coming on down to Veganville, I hope it will be a popular project as well.  Nothing like a little advertising by JT.  In any case, I realized I have a very biased and warped view of the world since I have so many vegetarian and vegan friends; it’s like I live in my own little meatless bubble.  As my husband said to me the other night, most people actually eat meat, Nicole.  Not everyone loves beans as much as you do.  I’m beginning to realize this is true!  So my question for all you meat-eaters is this: how often, if ever, do you cook/serve/eat meatless meals?  If never, why not?  Please leave your answer in the comments.  Maybe we can make it a giveaway!  Random person will win a prize!  Prize to be determined, I promise it won’t be a can of beans, or a tube of mascara.

Don’t masquerade with the guy in shades.

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This morning I was driving to the yoga shala, and the radio was playing Sunglasses at Night.  Boy in the Box was one of my favourite albums back in 1985, and so I turned it up and sang along.  I pulled into a parking stall, still singing.  You’ve gone to bed with a guy in shades, oh no.  Then I turned off the car, went into the shala and did my practice.  An hour and a half later I got back into the car, turned it on, and Sunglasses at Night was on the radio.  Again.  At the exact same part of the song as it was when I turned the car off.  You’ve gone to bed with a guy in shades, oh no.  I sat motionless for a moment, feeling like I was in some surreal universe.  Where am I?  Did I actually GO into the shala?  Did I record Sunglasses at Night on a CD and not realize it?  WHAT IS HAPPENING?  It was, I should mention, the same radio station, which means that a hit from 1985 was played twice in less than a two hour period.  Very strange beginning to the day.

Speaking of strange and also going to bed with a guy in shades, I heard George Michael’s I Want Your Sex on the radio the other day.  Feel free to make a comment about the nature of the radio stations I listen to at this time.  Anyway, I clearly remember when I Want Your Sex came out and how terribly shocking it was at the time, back in the day before Eminem and Nate Dogg wanted a bitch with double-D’s to fuck in the back of a Hummer truck, or Rihanna was looking for a guy to go downtown, or even when Nelly wanted someone to fuck him good AND suck him good.  George Michael was scandalous back in 1987, but here’s the thing: I find the expression I want your sex to be very strange indeed.  You want my…sex?  Is this something anyone has ever said in the history of time?  I mean, until Bruno Mars recently intoned that your sex takes me to paradise.  Bruno, do you mean having sex with you takes me to paradise?  Because that would make a lot more sense.

You can tell that it’s Friday, can’t you?  Suddenly things are getting X-rated around here.  Unrelated to my strange thought processes spurred by hits from the mid-to-late eighties, it’s International Women’s Day!  International Women’s Day, and I just typed an entire paragraph about inappropriate song lyrics.  Anyway, it turns out I’m going to be spending International Women’s Day evening with a couple of my favourite girlfriends, who are coming over to taste test some new recipes.  One of them is chocolate pudding made out of cauliflower.  I know what you’re thinking, but it is actually pretty good, and it’s not just me saying that – Jake told me it was not bad, which I consider to be a win, given he was aware of the ingredients.

This is not to say my kids don’t like vegetables; they do, just not cauliflower.  Does anyone really like cauliflower?  I like it roasted, but other than that, it is a pretty lame vegetable.  It doesn’t even have a pretty colour and YES, I realize I am focussing on appearances, but it doesn’t taste great either.  I like vegetables that are beautiful inside and out, if you know what I mean.

I had something lovely to say here about inner and outer beauty, but Patio Lanterns just came on the radio, which may be the worst song ever written, other than Might As Well Go For A Soda, and so now I have lost that train of thought.  Patio Lanterns, for the love of god.  Is there a worse song?  Because right now even Macarthur Park seems awesome.

In any case, have a lovely International Women’s Day, let’s celebrate each other and how far we’ve come.  xoxo