Author Archives: Nicole Boyhouse

PMS or Dreadful New Personality?

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One of the interesting things about being in my forties and starting the slow boat to periomenopause is that I have only the vaguest idea of when my Ladies’ Holiday will land, which means that I have the alarming experience of not knowing if My Mood is the result of the upcoming aforementioned Holiday, or if I have this whole new awful personality.

Now, before I get to what I am going to call The Coleslaw Incident, I feel that I need to digress a moment. Because of the vast amount of time I spend in the kitchen, both because a) I enjoy it and b) I am a food blogger, my family has become terribly spoiled, like one of those wretched turn-of-the-21st-century Park Avenue children, but with food. Examples: a) my children are surprised that you can purchase items like Caesar salad dressing and spaghetti sauce already made, b) there are no fewer than five homemade ice cream flavours in the freezer at any given time, c) they think store-bought ice cream is a depressing imitation of homemade, and d) when we are out of homemade jam, Jake refuses to eat any at all, preferring plain peanut butter toast to the apparent atrocity that is a spoonful of Smucker’s. But for every rule there is an exception, and in this case, it is coleslaw.

Coleslaw is something I do not eat. I don’t like it, I don’t like the texture, I don’t like the taste. My husband and kids, however, love it but have had problems trying to land on the perfect recipe. They’ve tried cookbooks, the internet, and my mother-in-law, but have been unable to get the perfect coleslaw dressing. That is, until we were at a barbeque at a friend’s house. My husband asked the hostess how to make the dressing on her coleslaw, and her response was, “Are you serious? It’s PC brand from Superstore.”

So here we were coming up to Father’s Day weekend, and my husband decided on Thursday that he wanted to spend his Father’s Day cooking a brisket for eight hours on the charcoal grill, and he would also make a coleslaw to go with it. I’m not sure why he wanted to spend all day grilling but hey, it’s his day. I eat neither of those things, but it’s not my special day, so whatever floats the boat. The kids were thrilled with the prospect of grilled meat and coleslaw.

Thursday night I came home from my yoga teacher training, and my husband asked if I had happened to pick up a bottle of coleslaw dressing. Now, in my defense, I had no notice that this was needed and also, it was almost 9:30 on a Thursday. Those who know me well know that it isn’t well advised to talk to me after nine o’clock on any day. I’m basically in a coma by then, or extremely put out that I am still vertical. Since I had just gotten home, it was the latter.

My husband suggested that I could maybe pick up a bottle, since no other kind would do. Normally, I would say okay, and pop out to the store as soon as it was convenient. But as I said, I was exhausted, it’s nearing the end of June, there are teacher gifts and end-of-school celebrations, I am busy with teacher training and staining the deck every spare moment, and as always, there is much to do keeping up with the one million things that come up in a household and when working from home. Going to Superstore to get coleslaw dressing seemed to be a bridge too far. And for some reason, in my sleep-deprived mind, this seemed less like a request than an Accusation That I Am Not Properly Running The Household Because We Are Out Of Coleslaw Dressing And All Is Ashes. As I melted down a little, my husband suggested that I must be kind of tired, and maybe should go to bed.

The next day, I was cognizant of my over-the-top irritation but that didn’t stop me from being irritable. My husband suggested that perhaps my Ladies’ Holidays were due, which led, as you can imagine, to MORE irritation. Sadly, in retrospect, he was wrong. It is just my horrible new personality.

But I carved out a few extra minutes in my Friday, and decided to run over to Superstore for the dressing. After all, I thought, with just one item I could pop in and pop out, and in total, including driving time, it would be thirty minutes out of my day. I could spend thirty minutes to make three people in the house very happy, especially with it being Father’s Day and all. So I drove over, ran in, grabbed a bottle of dressing and four pounds of strawberries – I am not made of stone, who among us can go into Superstore and get only one thing – and then hopped over to the 12 Items or Less line. There were only three people in front of me and not one had more than four things, so it seemed to be the place to be.

In retrospect, I should have been suspicious that people were avoiding that line.

It turns out the fellow at the front of the line had been there a while. By the time I had set down my items, he was in the midst of debating credit card usage, wondering why they didn’t take Visa, contemplating an application for a PC Mastercard, asking about PC Points, and thinking seriously about The Deal of the Day. Finally he finished buying his Romaine lettuce and box of crackers, asked for cash back, and slowly made his way out of there. The woman in front of me looked at me, rolled her eyes, and sighed loudly, which summarized the scenario quite nicely. The next guy? I knew we were in trouble when he brought out a flyer and started pointing to specific pictures and loudly asking questions.

I like to think of myself as a fairly patient person. If I am behind an elderly person who is fumbling with getting the exact change and who takes 20 minutes to buy a carton of eggs, I have all the time in the world; after all, we may all be that person one day if we are lucky. If I have a mother with small screaming children behind me in line I will always give up my spot for her because I was that person not so terribly long ago. But when I pop in to get one (okay, two) things at Superstore and someone is taking that much time in the express line because they are unaware of and are debating the store policy on credit cards, well.

I am happy to report that I did make it out alive, but not without doing some ujjayi breathing and thinking there will be a time after Superstore. And even more happy to report that my efforts were not in vain; the coleslaw was enjoyed by all. I also managed to catch up on sleep on the weekend and so was Much Less Irritable. Maybe I don’t have a terrible new personality after all.

Birdie Turf War

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Here we are, with less than two weeks left in the school year, and I can hardly believe it. I can hardly believe that 2016 is half over, I can hardly believe that, after seven years of Stampede Breakfasts at the school, last week’s was my second-to-last one, I can hardly believe that as of next Friday I will have kids at two different schools, I can just hardly believe the flight of time. I understand, now, how older relatives would never remember my age or grade when I was a kid, or would say things like “You’ve grown!” in a shocked way, because it’s really shocking, it is, how fast things go.

As I said, last week was the annual Stampede Breakfast, and it’s Mark’s last one. I compared a photo of the boys with one from their first breakfast, when they were in kindergarten and pre-K, and Landslide. That, coupled with the boys attending the city-wide Patrol Picnic, had me feeling very Sunrise, Sunset. 

The end of the school year always feels so poignant, doesn’t it? And I love summer, I love the fairly unstructured days and spending extra time with the boys – before they don’t want to anymore! –  but, of course, it comes with its own challenges too.

Speaking of challenges, there is something going on in my backyard. It’s like a gang war, or something, but with birds.

We have a number of large trees and big shrubs, and during the winter my spirea is always full of dozens of little chickadees. Unfortunately, every time I pass by the shrub to take out the garbage or recycling, they panic and fly away as a group, which gives me heart palpitations. A hundred little birds scattering loudly the second you pass by has that effect. Generally, by the time I’ve actually put the recycling in the bin, they have settled back down in the shrub. I pass by on the way back to the house and the scattering happens all over again.

Those little chickadees disappear in the spring, and happily enough, the robins take over. They’re so cute, hopping and flying around the yard, and I’m always happy to see them. There are a number of them usually, but last week I noticed that there were none hanging out in the yard. Instead, about fifty magpies had taken their place. They must have nested in one of our trees, because there were magpies on the lawn, on the fence, on the deck, on the garage roof, all screaming their scream-like chirps, from before sunrise to late evening. I’d watch from the kitchen window as two magpies sat on the garage and another dive bombed them, beak open, screaming all the time. They would chase each other and gang up on each other, and I wondered if there was some kind of turf war going on. It was like the Jets and the Sharks, but with fewer switchblades and more flying.

It was kind of unnerving, all these birds fighting each other for days.

Then I was headed out on an errand, and in my alley were two giant crows. Now, I am kind of terrified of crows, because a) they are huge, b) they are very smart, and c) I have seen The Birds. Who wants their eyes pecked out? Not me.

Anyway, these crows were dive bombing something in the alley. I looked and gasped. That “something” was a robin. People, that robin DIED right before my very eyes. The crows swooped and swooped, and the robin went from hopping to wing-twitching to dead, in less than a minute. Then the crows flew away, leaving me to wonder why. Why did they kill the robin, if they weren’t even going to eat it? My husband had the grisly suggestion that it was a warning to the other robins. Don’t mess with the crows.

And now his watch has ended.

Fortunately/ unfortunately by the time I returned from my errand, the robin’s little body was gone. Either some of the neighbourhood wildlife had a feast, or one of my neighbours saw it and cleaned it up; if I was a betting woman I would put my money on the former.

I was a bit nervous on a whole other level, though, because I thought if the crows could gang up on a robin, they could certainly take on the magpies. Then, theoretically, my yard could be rid of the magpies but filled with crows. I wasn’t loving the magpie gang warfare, but at least I could be fairly confident that I wouldn’t be pecked to death by them. If fifty CROWS decided my yard was the place to be, I think I would never leave my house again.

As suddenly as all this birdie drama started, it stopped. Suddenly, there are no magpies in the yard, nor any crows in the alley. A couple little robins are hopping around in the yard, and splashing in my neighbour’s bird bath. I put the sprinkler on the trees and garden, and was heartened by the sight of several robins enjoying the spray. I don’t know how this happened, but I am not asking questions. Maybe the crows WERE putting out a warning, but not to other robins; maybe it was a you’re next signal to the magpies.

A friend (HI STEPHANIE) told me that in the Buddhist faith crows are considered to be protectors. Maybe, in a bizarrely violent way, they were protecting the robins from the magpies, who, as we all know, are the assholes of the bird world. Perhaps I should make my peace with the crows. So long as they don’t peck my eyes out, they can hang out on my fence, or “Castle Black,” as I’m calling it.

Nicole’s Favourite Things: Beachy Keen, Jelly Bean

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We are having a heat wave! It’s hot and sunny and it’s supposed to break and be rainy just in time for the weekend. We are in the midst of re-staining our deck; I am doing a little bit every day to take advantage of the hot weather. Hopefully it won’t rain all weekend so my husband can get some staining done as well. It is so warm that I am wearing a ridiculous pair of booty shorts, along with an old shirt of my husband’s, to stain in. Fortunately none of my neighbours have come by to chat while I’m wearing what looks like just a man’s t-shirt. Maybe they are scared off by my (very bad) singing along to “80s Smash Hits” on Spotify. I can call you Betty, and Betty when you call me you can CALL ME AL. Oh call me Al!

But all this heat makes me think of the beach, which makes me think of an epiphany I had during spring break. No, I’m not going to talk about beach bodies or bikini bodies or any of that, although I admit I dislike the latest trend, which is to “get a summer body.” People. There is so much wrong with “summer bodies versus winter bodies,” mostly that this is a very unhealthy way of thinking. We should be thinking health and fitness rather than aesthetics, for one thing. I know that’s pretty rich, coming from me, for whom 80% of my weight loss/ maintenance motivation is to be able to wear all my clothes, but I like to think of that as more of a financial consideration than an aesthetic one.

But the other thing is, other than summer clothes being more revealing than winter ones, generally speaking, summer clothes are also much more forgiving and generous than winter clothes. At least, this is the case in my wardrobe. My summer clothes tend to be stretchy fabrics with elastic waistbands, whereas my winter clothes have a lot of buttons and zippers.

But I digress! I said I wasn’t going to talk about this and then I ended up talking about it. Let’s focus on health, blah blah, blah, but what I really wanted to talk about is BEACH WEAR.

Anyway, back to my epiphany. For years I’ve been buying bikinis at Old Navy; at the end of the season their mix and match pieces are incredibly cheap, and so I would stock up. Mostly what I would purchase was string bikini pieces, the kind that are basically two triangles of fabric with string, but this past spring I realized that I can no longer wear them. Well, I CAN. I can put them on and wear them, yes, but a) they are not flattering anymore, and b) with my children edging towards adolescence, I’m cognizant of the “embarrassing mom” factor.

Further to part a), one thing I have really noticed about being in my forties – well, and thirties, I guess – is that the girls just aren’t what they used to be. Gravity and, um, deflation has taken its toll and those $7 bikini tops are just not going to cut it anymore. I need something with significantly more engineering and lift; but not too much lift, as I found out the hard way after purchasing a Victoria’s Secret bikini. Too much lift means that wardrobe malfunctions can occur in a completely unexpected way, i.e., lifting oneself right out of a highly engineered bikini top.

Wardrobe malfunctions are also tied to part b) in which I do not want to be the embarrassing mom or one who scars her sons for life. And so, although I strongly agree that you should WEAR WHAT YOU WANT TO WEAR AT THE BEACH, EVERYONE ELSE’S OPINION BE DAMNED, I am no longer wearing my skimpy bikinis.

Which brings me to…

Nicole’s Favourite Things, The Beach Edition

The Elusive “Supportive and Sort of Modest” Bikini

Before I get to this, I should give a caveat: I realize not everyone likes or wants to wear a bikini. It is my bathing suit of choice for a few reasons: a) one piece suits never fit me correctly and I get appalling wedgies/ camel toe no matter what, not to mention that the thought of stripping down to absolutely nothing and possibly having my swimsuit touch the floor of a public washroom every time I need to use it makes me feel a bit queasy, and b) because I’m quite tall tankinis don’t fit me that well either, or they ride up in a bikini-like fashion while I am in the water. Therefore, bikinis are my choice BUT DON’T WORRY, I AM NOT SHAMING ANYONE FOR THEIR SWIMSUIT PREFERENCES.

Just wanted to make that clear, after my eyebrow post/ eyebrowgate.

So no more string bikinis, instead I have taken to wearing halter tops or bandeaux, because of greater coverage and less chance of slippage. I bought each of these pieces separately from La Vie En Rose Aqua, and I love them. This is what I wear when I’m actually going to be in the water, swimming or just splashing around with the kids. I have even worn them on a waterslide and wasn’t arrested for indecent exposure, which I will consider a major win.

Bikini2016

This suit I also purchased from La Vie En Rose Aqua, and I love it very much. The skirted bottom is perfect for (TMI ALERT) that time when you are due for a bikini wax and/ or perhaps didn’t have time for your regular grooming routine. If you don’t get waxes or have a regular grooming routine, that is okay too. No one is judging you. Please let’s not start a war about waxing our nether regions. Anyway. It’s a little more modest, and the top is an absolutely perfect fit. The straps come off if you’re into the strapless look, but as I’m concerned about possible flashing, I keep mine on.

bikini

There are two issues I want to note about this suit. Maybe it’s the skirt, maybe it’s the crocheted fabric, but it is NOT ideal for swimming. If your modus operandi is to just hang out on the beach and read a book, like mine generally is, then this is the suit for you. The fabric/ skirt gets a little weighed down in the water and it is not comfortable. But, like I said, it’s the perfect hang-out-and-read-or-maybe-dangle-your-feet-in-the-water-bathing-suit.

Secondly, my husband HATES this look. Hates it. He thinks skirted bathing suits in general and this one in particular look “matronly.” It’s not like I need his approval on what I’m wearing to the beach, but I would prefer that my husband thinks “My wife looks super hot” rather than “My wife looks matronly” and so I note this as a potential downside. But hey, technically I am a matron, so there we go. I also think it’s a cute look and not at all embarrassing for the preteen/ teen boy set, which is my goal at the moment.

Big Floppy Hats

My other goal is to look as little like a raisin and/ or an apple doll as possible, and so I wear a big floppy hat at the beach. I generally do not like wearing hats but I make an exception for the giant floppy type. For one thing, it keeps the sun off my already-wrinkly face and shoulders, and for another, it is very cooling. I feel like I have my own beach umbrella on my head, in the best way possible.

bigshort

NOTE: This book is so good! Highly recommend.

This hat I purchased at Swimco, and it is specifically meant for travel. It is foldable, squishable, and looks good even after folding and squishing.

travelhat

This hat is neither foldable nor squishable, but I like it for trips to the pool or road trips to my in-laws’ house. It’s actually bigger than the black one, so I get even more shade with it. Got to protect that skin!

gianthat

Cute Cover-Up

coverup

Further to sun protection, this lightweight cover-up is perfect for the beach. This is as bohemian as I get, style-wise. I purchased this from (whisper) Venus, which in hindsight I probably wouldn’t do again due to customs fees that I didn’t anticipate. Still, it’s cute. I saw a girl on the beach wearing a lightweight oversized white men’s shirt, with the sleeves rolled up, and I desperately wished I had done that. It was an adorable look and once this (unexpectedly expensive) cover-up gives up the ghost, I think that’s what I will do.

Beachy Keen Reads

As I said I love reading while the kids and husband play in the water; The Big Short is, as noted above, excellent, but some lighter reads are fun too. I just finished a book that I had picked up at Chapters for $2.99 and it was worth all that and even more. I kid, it was really fun. It is “Love and Other Foreign Words” and I’m kind of suspicious that it might be a YA read, but it is very fun nonetheless. Look it up, it’s definitely a poolside/ beach book. Other favourite beach reads are “Why Not Me” by Mindy Kaling, “Memoirs of a Geisha,” and, for some reason “The Godfather.” Seriously, I take “The Godfather” with me on every vacation. I do not know why.

godfather

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This was my first “Favourite Things” since Alison passed. This one’s for you, Alison. Lots of frivolity, lots of love. xoxo

Who cares about eyebrows?

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Remember that old Seinfeld episode wherein Jerry and Elaine are trying to set George up with Elaine’s friend Cynthia? Elaine is talking about all of Cynthia’s good points, and adds that she has great eyebrows.

Jerry: Who cares about eyebrows?

Elaine: Women KILL for eyebrows like that. Do you know that? I mean, women pluck their real eyebrows out of their head, one by ONE, until they’re BALD, Jerry, bald above the eyes, and then they paint in these eyebrows to look like that.

Later, Jerry broaches the subject of a setup to George, who is reticent because, as he puts it, being set up on a date is one step away from an escort service, or possibly a prostitute. Oh, George. To sweeten the deal, Jerry begins to list all of Cynthia’s physical attributes, adding that she has great eyebrows. Women, he says, kill for eyebrows like that.

George: Who cares about eyebrows?

 

Who indeed? Well, I do, but more on that in a moment.

Are you on Instagram? I am, but inconsistently. Days can go by and I will forget all about it. My posts aren’t terribly compelling, either, they are mainly photos of a) food, b) my dog, c) something blooming in my garden, and d) the occasional selfie thrown in on a good hair day. I particularly post selfies when I am fresh from the salon, since my beloved hair therapist always blows my hair straight, which I never do in my regular life. I suppose I like to have photographic proof of the one day every five weeks when I have shiny, perfectly straight hair.

While I was at my in-laws’ house on the May long weekend, I received notification that someone had commented on one of my Instagram posts. Hooray, comment! Since my posts are so sporadic I always get excited when someone comments. I was a little confused, though, because the comment was from someone I didn’t know and the post in question was from mid-April.

But wait! Before I get to that, I want to note something. I am a person who can take constructive criticism. I try to stay reasonable and non-defensive – it’s a work in progress, yes, but I really try to look at criticism in an objective way. This is especially true if the constructive criticism/ helpful hint comes from a person I know well and love. If a friend has a comment about makeup, or a suggestion about a wrinkle cream, or anything at all, I will look at it objectively, see if it has any merit and, if so, incorporate it into my life.

As an example, someone mentioned a miracle wrinkle reducer to me, upon looking at my forehead wrinkle. I sadly did not write it down and cannot remember for the life of me a) who mentioned it to me or b) what was the product. If it was you, please tell me, because the forehead situation is dire.

Another example: I mentioned to my hair therapist that I was thinking of going to my natural dark brown, to which she said Not on my watch, Nicole. Her reasoning was sound: every five weeks I go insane, loathing the roots that I have, and if my hair was darker my loathing would be that much greater. Well, I like being a feisty redhead anyway, so I took her advice and here I am, in mid-April, with fresh colour and straightened hair.

instagramhair

And so when I opened my Instagram to read the comment left to me by someone I do not know, I was a bit surprised. I enjoyed the part about having beautiful hair and a wonderful complexion, particularly since I did not use a filter on that photo, as you can probably tell by the forehead wrinkles and undereye circles. And yet.

Let your brows grow in. They look as abused as my poor dying plants I’m constantly forgetting to water. You’ll be amazed.

I immediately went into the bathroom and peered at my eyebrows. It’s true, I have a few eyebrow hairs that are going grey to match my startling roots, but I didn’t think that they were particularly ABUSED looking. I didn’t think they were analogous to dead, unwatered plants. In fact, I thought in that photo they were looking particularly healthy, but I found myself second-guessing everything. Are my eyebrows all wrong?

Here’s the thing, if I let my eyebrows grow in, I feel it would be disastrous. My natural eyebrows are a cross between Martin Scorcese and Bert from Sesame Street, which is not a look I want to cultivate. If someone is comparing me to Bert from Sesame Street, I would like it to be because I’m boring and I like grey, not because of my unibrow.

Don’t worry; I didn’t let that comment destroy my self-esteem or anything. I’m not fishing for eyebrow-related compliments, but I did think it was a pretty strange thing to comment on. I never comment on stranger’s photos, and I would certainly never post a negative comment about something as strange as eyebrows. I was more puzzled than anything.

Then it hit me: maybe eyebrows are the new eyelashes. A while back there were a bunch of eyelash parties – analogous to Tupperware parties, but with eyelashes, I guess, I’ve never been to one myself – and now I’m wondering if the same is true for eyebrows. Are eyebrow regrowth products the newest Multi Level Marketing thing?

If my hypothesis is correct, then I have a gentle suggestion for eyebrow representatives everywhere: don’t go on Instagram and randomly tell people their eyebrows are terrible. Because really, who cares about eyebrows?

(I do. But still.)

Tea for Two (and more)

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Last week was the Volunteer Tea at the school. I go every year but I don’t really look forward to it, if you know what I mean. I don’t dread it or anything, but it has always felt like more of a duty than a great pleasure or celebration. With the exception of the year Jake was in kindergarten, my children have never been involved in the performances, and so it’s mostly just a morning of drinking bad coffee and watching other people’s children. Which is fine! I always like seeing my friends’ kids perform and I always, always enjoy the completely adorable kindergarten performance, but, well, you know.

This year was different. For one thing, I am VERY COGNIZANT of the fact that I have only one more year left at the school, which makes me enjoy things a lot more. For another, Mark was the emcee for the tea, which was the first time ever he had emceed. I was PRETTY EXCITED when he told me of his moment in the spotlight, although that excitement was slightly dimmed by the fact that he had already known for two weeks and hadn’t thought to tell me.

This is the conversation we had a few weeks ago.

Mark: Are you going to the Volunteer Tea?

Me: Of course, I go every year.

Mark: Oh good, because I’m the emcee.

Me: OMGOMGOMG THAT’S AWESOME I’M SO PROUD OF YOU AND I’M SO EXCITED! Did you just find this out today?

Mark: No, Ms. H. asked me a couple weeks ago.

Me: Why didn’t you tell me?

Mark: I AM telling you.

Mark and his emcee partner did a great job, and the highlight for me was winning a door prize and having Mark call out my name – he was so excited. The door prize, by the way, was a begonia. I had already put in all my bedding plants so I really had to squeeze it in, but it looks beautiful.

And, of course, the kindergarten performance was a delight. The three morning kindergarten classes filed in and it took way longer for them to get set up for their song-and-dance routine than the actual routine, which is quite entertaining in itself. Okay, you stand there, now we are making a circle, remember, face your partner. I just love how some kids get really into it, and others sort of stand there and mouth the occasional word.

Speaking of which, one of the Grade One/ Two classes performed a song about different Canadian coins, which is one of those tenacious earworms. I was humming along for days: the beaver, oh! The beaver! A little part of history…But I digress. I was mentally picking out my friends’ kids in the class and smiling at the enthusiasm of the hand gestures, when I noticed a boy in the back row standing stock still. I kept my eye on him as he looked side to side, and then began slowly edging back, behind the boy beside him, who was taller. It was super stealthy; he edged inch by inch until he was completely behind the other boy. I assume he thought he was hidden from view. The gig was kind of up when the other boy realized something was happening, turned around, and jumped a little to see someone right behind him. Since they were on the top row of risers I was a little nervous it would all end with someone falling off but luckily, no such incident occurred.

In addition to hosting the Volunteer Tea, later on the same day the school hosts a Senior’s Tea for the elderly in our community, of which there are many. All the morning’s performances were to be repeated in the afternoon for the seniors’ entertainment, and Mark and his partner were, of course, emceeing as well. As in most senior’s groups, there is a dearth of men; however, Mark mentioned that there was one elderly fellow who chatted with him for a bit. The festivities were about to start, and Mark asked him to take a seat. “Okay!” the old man said. “We’re a little short at home. Which one should I take?” Ah, old man humour. Who can resist it?

I knew for a fact that my sweet next door neighbour was at the tea, and so I asked Mark if he had seen her.

Me: Did you talk to Mrs. G?

Mark: I don’t know. Maybe.

Me: What do you mean, maybe?

Mark: Well, I said hi to everyone who came in the door.

Me: Well, did you SEE Mrs. G?

Mark: I’ve got to be honest with you, Mom. All those old ladies? They look alike to me. I can’t tell them apart.

Me: Oh.

Mark: Well, they all have short grey hair and glasses and they all had kind of the same clothes, so I just really didn’t know. And there were so many of them!

Well. At any rate, by all accounts the tea was a success. We followed it with one of those very busy, productive weekends that had me crossing things off the to-do list like crazy. I even helped my husband clean the eavestroughs. Every year, it’s the same. My husband briefly considers hiring someone to clean the eavestroughs. Then he says that he’s not going to pay “some asshole” $90 for something he can do himself. (Note: it’s always “some asshole.”) Then, midway through cleaning out the disgusting debris, while I hold the ladder and try not to get disgusting debris dripped on my person, he says Why didn’t I just HIRE someone to do this? By the time the job is finished, however, he says he is GLAD he never hired anyone, and it’s not so bad, while I scrub off whatever has dripped on me and track pine needles everywhere. Ah, it’s nice to know what to expect in life, sometimes, isn’t it? Just like an old man joke, it’s nice sometimes to know the punchline.

Wild Thing

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I just got back yesterday from an extra-long weekend at my in-laws’ house, and I have a question: how is it possible to have an absolute mountain of laundry when I actually DID two loads of laundry over the weekend? The answer is that there is no answer. There is only laundry.

I’m feeling a bit drained from all the driving, and then the rush to get groceries and prepare for this very short week, and…I guess I’m just feeling a bit drained in general. The weekend was nice, albeit a bit cool and a bit rainy, although it snowed quite a bit in Calgary and so I will not complain about it. Because of the cooler weather we took the kids to a movie: Angry Birds. It wasn’t the worst movie I have ever seen, but that’s about as positive as I can get about it.

Today I went to the garden centre to pick up my annual flowers, and let me tell you a secret: the Wednesday after the long weekend is PRIME plant purchasing time. I think they must get a big shipment in after the long weekend depletion (although – was anyone actually buying flowers in the snow? I don’t know.). In any case, “kid in a candy store” does not adequately describe my feelings when I’m in the garden centre. It’s all I can do to not gather up tables of plants in my arms and run out of the store. Even though I felt like I was spinning around and dancing like Maria von Trapp in the Alps, I was actually quite well behaved and kept reminding myself that I didn’t have enough room to take EVERYTHING I wanted home.

Well, technically I would have to remove the entire front lawn if I did take home everything I wanted, but that’s another story.

I love the garden centre with all my being. It feels like Christmas in there. I walk around with a huge smile on my face, talking to all the old people who shop there on weekdays. Just like with groceries, it’s me and the elderly. I love how all the old ladies dress up to go to the garden centre, in floral dresses or nice slacks, with tan nylons and open toed white sandals. Their white cardigans match their shoes and handbags, and their husbands push the cart for them, looking pained. Then there are the old men that are flying solo in the bedding plants; I always get into flirty chats with them regarding the newfangled wave petunias or those new impatiens that actually need part sun, rather than full shade. Good times. Flirting with the elderly seems to be a pastime of mine now; I feel quite youthful and a little bit wild, with my snapdragons and osteopermum that I might just plant together, I don’t know.

Anyway, enough of my depravity.

Despite the snow, the gardens and yard look so wonderful right now. For one thing, the lilacs all bloomed last week, which must be a new record:

lilac

The little yellow leopard’s bane, which my neighbour gave me years ago and which did not bloom at all last year, are in bloom:

buddha

And it’s almost Barkley’s birthday! He’s going to be eight on Monday.

barkley

I have much to tell you, mostly about weird comments regarding my eyebrows and also weird comments regarding my makeup, but that shall have to wait for another day. Those flowers aren’t going to plant themselves! xo

Shameless Name-Dropping Post

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I don’t pay too much attention to celebrities, it’s true, but I have to admit even I have a tendency to get star struck sometimes. If I very much admire someone, or if I think someone is incredibly talented, then all bets are off. I saw Colin Mochrie in Las Vegas in 2000 and I actually went up to him, introduced myself, and told him that “all of Canada was proud of him.” I once sat at a table with David Pelletier; I admired him greatly. I watched the whole gold medal debacle in a bar in Houston, and all the kind Texans assured me that Canada was robbed. I didn’t say this to David Pelletier, but then again, I didn’t get to say too much to him as he spent the dinner texting Jamie Sale about babysitting arrangements and, possibly, how lame his tablemates were.

David Pelletier

I met Jim Cuddy at the same function, in 2008, and I still refer to him as “my boyfriend.”

JimCuddy

My friend and I once specifically took our kids to the zoo just because Will and Kate were going to be there, and we took photos of their motorcade from the gorilla viewing area, which made it look like we were creeping in the bushes (we weren’t).

willandkate2

So when my friend and fellow YMC’er Ashley asked if I wanted to meet Catriona Lemay Doan, I pounced on it.

Well, to be totally honest, I was a wee bit more excited about seeing Ashley than I was to meet the three-time Olympic medalist and “fastest woman on ice.” You see, there are many, many benefits to working digitally from home with people all across the country, but there is a huge drawback: I rarely get to see those wonderful people in the flesh. So when Ashley – who lives in Halifax – said she was going to be in Calgary, and I was ALSO going to see her the following week in Toronto, well. I was pretty excited, is all I’m saying.

ashley

But there is something very cool about meeting an Olympian. For one thing, I am probably the farthest thing ever from being an Olympic athlete, i.e., I am terrible at all sports. So I very much admire people who devote their lives to sport and become elite athletes: a) they are incredibly gifted, and b) they are incredibly hard-working.

Catriona Lemay Doan is both of these things. She is also suffering from osteoarthritis in her toes – all those years on the ice! – as well as shoulder issues. She had partnered with Ashley’s company, InnoviCares, to talk about chronic pain management.

As an aside, I only just found out what Ashley’s company does, even though she’s been working there a while. It provides a free card for customers to get discounts on certain pharmaceuticals. Now, as any good economist knows, there is no such thing as a free lunch, so I questioned Ashley extensively about this. I mean, if it’s free to the consumers, and the consumers are getting free savings, someone has to be footing the bill. Who is it? It turns out that the pharmaceutical companies fund this, so if you already need these medications, this card would be a good idea. I do not have any specific prescriptions, but Ashley told me that they are starting to get into the vitamin and supplement market, and I do love a good supplement. It works with your existing drug plan, and I know that some of my relatives are on some of the covered medications, so I’m going to suggest it to them.

Anyway, I was pretty excited to meet Catriona, who is absolutely gorgeous in person – both physically and on the inside too. She is a warm, lovely person who immediately made me feel like a friend. We chatted for a long time, and although we started talking health care and how athletes usually have such a short term goal in mind that they often discount long-term effects of their sport on their physical well being, conversations turned to kids, schools, and food.

Things Catriona Lemay Doan and I Have In Common


1) We were both born in the 70s, although she’s a few years older than I am.

2) We are the same height.

3) We have kids who are similar age.

4) Her kids go to school with my friend’s kids; in fact, her daughter is in the same class as Mark’s preschool buddy. That’s like two degrees of separation!

5) She used to live in the next neighbourhood over from mine.

6) We both grew up on the Prairies.

Ways In Which Catriona Lemay Doan and I Differ

1)  She is an Olympic athlete.

2) She is not vegetarian.

3) I’ve never been a commentator at any Olympics, although I did get to attend a couple of events during the 1988 Olympics.

See? More similarities than differences! It’s a small world after all, we are all sisters under the skin, etc.

Also, medals are really heavy.

Catriona