Monthly Archives: May 2013

Sweep, sweep, hurry, hard!

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You won’t believe it, but it has been actually hot here the past couple of days.  Not just warm, but HOT.  It’s beautiful.  Nothing teaches you to carpe diem like a hot day in Calgary.  It’s like the whole city is well aware that such a gift may not ever happen again, and so everyone is outside frantically enjoying the sunshine.  Seize the day, goddammit!  I’ve noticed a lot of sunburned faces around, which is also typical of this city where people take a few weeks to realize that yes, there is such a thing as sunscreen. 

A lot of those red faces were at the school.  Yesterday was Music Monday and I went to watch 430 students singing on the hill behind the school.  It couldn’t have been more perfect, and as a side note: is there anything that Chris Hadfield cannot do?  The guy is the whole package, moustache and all.  He writes songs, he orbits in space, he plays the guitar – seriously, what an amazing man.

I brought freezies to the playground yesterday after school and enjoyed feeling the sun while the kids played.  I checked Mark’s agenda and in there was a note reminding all parents about appropriate clothing for warm weather, reminders about hats, sunscreen, and water bottles.  There was also a reminder about shorts – how short is too short? – and that there are no spaghetti straps permitted in the classroom; tank top straps must be two-finger-widths at minimum.  I’d never received this particular note before, and I didn’t get one from Jake’s class, so I have to assume Grade 3/4 is the age when these rules start to be enforced.  After all, I’ve seen plenty of kindergarteners in sundresses with skinny straps. 

It reminded me so much of Swistle’s Middle School Dress Code post that I had to go read it again.  This is my very favourite paragraph from that post:

I can HEAR in the newsletter that the middle school staff does not WANT to make a dress code. They want to say, “Wear REASONABLE clothing, please, and let’s get on with the day.” But no: the children push and Push and PUSH, until the staff is FORCED to say things such as “Shoulders of tops must be at least three (3) inches wide.” I’m sure that in the beginning they were thinking, as I am, “What’s wrong with a tank top?” And many VERY HEADACHEY days later, it’s “three inches” and then needing to spell out that “three” = 3.

I just didn’t realize I would be facing this in Grade 3.  Of course, I can be as flip as I like about it, since my own children are wearing t-shirts that have the 2010 Vancouver Olympic mascots on them and nearly knee-length cargo shorts.  I am not likely ever going to have to worry about them wearing spaghetti straps and short shorts to school, and because of this I feel very fortunate.

Slight digression: I’ve always found sleeveless shirts on men to be kind of vile, outside of a gym or yoga studio or athletic activity.  I think it’s the armpit hair.  Anyone else feel this way, or is this going to be another of those issues that divides us, like shorts?  We can all still be friends, no matter what our view on shorts are.  This isn’t O Magazine.

There is one thing that is very trying about this weather, and that is the very dry dead grass that is everywhere.  Green grass is only just starting to sprout, and so the dead grass is literally everywhere.  It was all over my blanket that I took to Music Monday, it’s inexplicably all over the kids’ clothing, and the dog, the DOG keeps rolling around outside and bringing in vast quantities of it.  The dog isn’t due for his day at the groomer’s for another two weeks, and so his giant fuzziness is constantly shedding dead grass all the live long day.  I cannot stand the sight of it, which means I am sweeping the floor constantly.  “I’m in a battle with the grass,” I said casually to the boys, who immediately jumped on the word “battle”.  They immediately began describing the video game that could be based on my life.  Mom versus grass.  My weaponry is a broom and sometimes the vinegar-and-water spray bottle and mop.  Level up!  I swept up the grass.  There’s more grass!  I’m losing lives!  Get out the broom! 

Anyone want to get in on the lamest, most housewifely video game idea ever?  Anyone?  I was a little saddened by the apparent turn my life has taken here; I mean, my superpower is sweeping up dead grass with a broom.  This is what my life has come down to. 

More, More, More

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Has it been a weirdly long week?  Not a bad week, but a long week?  On Tuesday I told Mark that he had better get his library books together for school, to which he answered that library was on Thursday.  I knew that but honestly thought it was Thursday.  Wednesday I was planning for Friday, which I thought was the next day.  The fact that it’s the third of May is not helping matters either; I feel like I’m in a weird time warp in which I don’t have any idea what day, month, or year it is.  I realized this morning that there is only seven weeks left of school, which was shocking.  Time is slipping, slipping, slipping into the future, my kids are getting older and I’m getting older too, and the cat’s in the cradle with the silver spoon.

Speaking of getting older, I received – completely unsolicited – a copy of More magazine in the mail.  More!  The magazine for mature women.  I was very startled to see it in my mailbox, with my name and address on it, being I didn’t subscribe to it.  I realized this must be some kind of promotional item; perhaps since I actually have a subscription to the mature suburban Canadian women’s magazine Canadian Living I am actually on some kind of mailing list.  For mature women.  More magazine!  I scoffed a bit, picked it up, and then realized that I really am this demographic now.  Much more so than, say, Cosmopolitan.  Not that I’ve read Cosmo in years – I know all the sexy tricks, Cosmo.  I don’t need any more lists. – but it is a little startling when you realize that you’re more More than Cosmo, is all I’m saying.   

Anyway.  It’s Friday.  I’ve been busy in the kitchen all morning, preparing for some girlfriends to taste test some new recipes.  I’ve also been doing a little bit of taste testing myself, in other words, I’m feeling a bit FULL.  There’s not much that I love more than preparing desserts and appetizers for my open-minded girlfriends, while singing along to the station that plays all the ballads from the 1970s.  Cause I’m easy…I’m easy like Sunday morning. 

Segueing right into the eighties, I was heading into the grocery store (because where else do I go?) and I saw this amazing license plate.

If that doesn’t immediately make your day just a little bit brighter, then I don’t know what will.  That is the single greatest license plate/ car combination ever, better even than 1Bruce1 or HotCarl.  I wondered who owned this fantastic vehicle; perhaps a sexy, hirsute, moustachioed man.  I was not at all disappointed when the owner approached:

 
I kid.  I did not see the owner, mostly because I felt it might be weird and stalker-ish to stand at the car waiting for someone to bring out their groceries.  I did keep looking for Hawaiian shirts in the Co-Op, but alas, none were to be found. 
 
I have only ever seen one episode of Magnum PI.  I know!  You would think that I would be more up on that, but you would be wrong.  I’m sure there are reruns playing somewhere but I seem to be too busy these days watching and re-watching Mad Men episodes and making Tom and Lorenzo-like notes on the fashions.  How did Betty become so frumpy?  Is Megan wearing hair extensions?  Is it weird to have a crush on Henry Francis?  He’s wearing a Christmas sweater!  What is WRONG with me?
 
But back to Magnum.  My husband watched it a lot in the eighties, and every time he hears Phil Collins’ In The Air Tonight he says “Best. Magnum. Ever.”  Then he explains the plot to me and I think it sounds interesting and maybe I should watch it, and then I end up wondering if I could wear a gypsy scarf as a headband like Megan did that one time or would that look weird.  So I will probably go through my entire life without actually watching Magnum PI but still enjoying photos like this:
 
 
Remember back in the day when men didn’t shave and/ or wax their chests?
 
Somewhere hidden in a family album is a photograph of my mother in the late eighties, standing next to a life size cardboard cutout of Tom Selleck.  If I didn’t think my mother would disown me I would blow it up and frame it, or at least post it here.  However, I like to maintain good relations with my mother and so I will leave that photo where it lies.  My mother is a big fan of the moustachioed man, given her penchant for Tom Selleck and the famously stached Sam Elliot.  But I shall not make fun of her mature women fantasies because I picked up a copy of People at my hair salon and flipped to the men who were deemed to be “Sexy at (fill in the age decade)”.  I realized that the only appealing demographic was the Sexy at Fifty category.  HENRY FRANCIS?  I guess I am ready for More magazine after all.