I Smell Sex and…Tofu

Yesterday I bit the inside of my lip very hard, so hard I drew blood, and that spot has swollen up in my mouth such that normal chewing has led to me accidentally re-biting it over and over again. At this point I am begging my own teeth for mercy and considering a liquids-only diet, if only to cut out chewing.

So far this week has been one long domestic duty after another. Yesterday I went to Costco and ran into a friend; we chatted for a while and then she glanced at my cart. “My god!” she said, “Is this a NORMAL trip for you? Do you always have so much fruit?” Well, yes. And my Costco produce trips are not going to get any smaller, since my husband just bought me a juicer as an early birthday gift! Juice for everyone! My liquids-only-no-more-chewing diet is going to really take off; now all I need is a few good recipes. Ideas and tips, all you intrepid juicers out there?

Today I was grocery shopping at my old-people Co-Op to pick up the things that I can’t get at Costco, and lo, there were two young people there. Young people! At the “all seniors all the time” Co-Op! Not only that but these two individuals were young men who were clearly unaccustomed to grocery shopping of any kind. I saw them in the dairy section, and then I saw them in the produce section. I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation as I scrutinized red peppers and packets of basil; from their discussion I realized that they were grocery shopping to make dinner for their girlfriends. It was absolutely adorable, and I felt that full-heart feeling I get when I witness young love, like I’m a withered up old crone who receives vicarious joy from others’ youth and romance.

“Now, the problem is, I don’t know how we’re going to find balsamic vinegar,” one said to the other after a prolonged discussion about whether these are Roma tomatoes or not, and is sheep’s feta okay? I leapt into action and said the balsamic vinegar is right over there, down that aisle. “That one right in front of us?” the other fellow asked, pointing at the cereal and peanut butter aisle. No. I showed them and told them exactly where in the aisle to find it. Hey, the Co-Op is designed for the elderly in my elderly community; they rearrange nothing, ever, and I have been frequenting that place for fourteen years. I could pretty much draw a map to every item available.

Back in our romantic courting days, my husband used to cook all the time. I rarely, if ever, made dinner back then. My husband would cook, and grocery shop, and my oh my, is it getting hot in here? There’s not much sexier than having dinner made for you, now is there? If that was his seduction plan then it worked, every time. These days he mostly grills giant cuts of meat on the barbeque for the kids, and bemoans my vegetarianism. Well, and he buys juicers and other small appliances for me, which is also very sexy in its own way. Especially since I somehow just bit my inner lip AGAIN and I’m not even eating anything.

The other day we were having breakfast-for-supper, a weekly occurrence in my house, and I made a tofu scramble. For those of you who don’t know, it’s like a vegan version of scrambled eggs. I was creating a recipe and so was throwing things together and making notes about additions. I served up a small portion for him to sample and, I will tell you, I was pretty startled at his reaction. “Damn! This is great! This is really good!” he said as I stared at him in disbelief. Given that he was just cooking a pound of bacon for himself and the boys, I felt this to be quite a testament to the tastiness of the dish. Either that or he was trying to get busy with me. Or – OR – he was bedazzled by my new Victoria’s Secret push-up bra. Either way. Tofu. Enjoyed by my husband.

If he had wanted to romance me he could hardly have improved upon this.

After I helped them find the balsamic vinegar, the young guys at Co-Op thanked me effusively. I smiled at them as they eagerly unloaded their groceries in the”12 Items Or Less” line, when I noticed one of them had a giant hickey on his neck. Aww. Godspeed, young man. May your dinner be excellent.

The Long and Winding Road to Hana

Oh, you guys, the sun has come out. The glacier in my back yard is shrinking, the boys are wearing t-shirts, and there are teeny tiny sprouts of green coming up in the warmest and sunniest part of my garden. Daylilies, those tenacious little sweethearts. I think they would probably survive nuclear fallout, but nonetheless I’m always ecstatic when they appear in the spring. It truly feels like spring around here and yes, I’m sure we’ll get a few more snowstorms, and yes, the ground is still kind of frozen, but SPRING.

The first time we went to Maui, my very good friend Joanne and her family were there as well, staying in the same complex as we were. One day my friend and I decided that we would make the trip to the other side of the island to practice yoga with Nancy Gilgoff. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the Ashtanga tradition, Nancy is basically the mother of Ashtanga yoga in the Western world, and is the personification of “maitri”, or loving-kindness. She really embodies the whole yoga tradition, but she isn’t your typical modern yogi. She isn’t on social media, she doesn’t advertise, and in fact, you cannot even find the address of her studio on her website.

Joanne’s husband drove us across the island to the studio early in the morning so we could take practice with Nancy. We drove through a town and then down a little two-lane road and then turned onto a dirt road, after the sign for “Organic Tomatoes”, which was our only marker. When we got there we all sat silently for a moment, until her husband broke the reverie. “I’ll just wait here to make sure you aren’t going to be eaten by cannibals or something.” For the studio was really a barn on stilts in the middle of a deserted field, with wild vegetation all around. When I used the washroom I noticed a hand-written sign that reprimanded any woman practicing while menstruating, and that feminine products should never be left in the garbage can but wrapped up and taken with you, because otherwise they attract rats. Rats – eeek! I took my non-menstruating self and had a lovely and memorable practice with the lovely and wonderful Nancy and my dear friend Joanne.

It’s funny: I live in a quiet little neighbourhood in a big city, and it’s easy to be insular about other ways of living. Nancy, for example, could be a book-writing, YouTube video-starring, social media yogi darling, and yet, she isn’t. She lives a quiet life pretty much off the grid, except when she’s travelling to teach. She basically built her life the way she wanted it and I love that about her.

I was thinking about this because when we were recently in Maui, we decided to drive the celebrated Road to Hana. We read up on it and were warned that it was very curvy and windy. Ha! We laughed at that. After all, we drove the back way to Whistler, once, and also to Nelson, and would it really be that bad? YES. Yes it was. I lost count of the number of one-lane bridges and literally hairpin turns. It was exhausting and yet, some of the scenery we saw was the most beautiful I have ever seen.

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Waterfalls! Black sand beaches! Mysterious caves with legends about murdered Hawaiian princesses! It was pretty amazing and worth the tedium of the drive.

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We drove the extra ten miles to see the “Sacred Pools” – waterfalls cascading into several “swimmable” pools. By the time we made the extra ten miles, which took forty-five minutes, we were all hot and bedraggled and pretty excited for a swim. Off we went on a short hike to the pools!

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Alas! When we got there I read a sign that said the pools frequently harbor a certain bacteria that is especially prevalent after rainfall – and rain had been falling – and that bacteria could cause flu-like symptoms or DEATH. Well. We were only halfway through our holiday, and I certainly wasn’t going to risk flu-like symptoms or DEATH. There were a number of people swimming but we stayed out, sweatily photographing the lovely scenery.

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Pretty! Although, the water even looks bacteria-y.

While we drove that long and winding road, we would see little houses every now and then, with a fruit stand or a flower stand nearby. These were people living off the grid, truly in the middle of nowhere. They made Nancy Gilgoff look like a Wall Street broker.

Speaking of Wall Street, I read The Wolf of Wall Street on vacation, and it was hands down one of the most terrible books I have ever read. Gross, disgusting, and left me with a feeling of self-loathing because I had BOUGHT the damn book and CONTRIBUTED to the author’s wealth. The author should rot in jail, or burn in hell, although he’s now making tons of money with his book, movie rights, and career as a motivational speaker. (I live in a van…down by the river.) Not only was the author a criminal who made millions by ripping people off via stock market manipulation, he also ratted out his employees who he demanded loyalty from, which as we know from every mafia movie ever made is the worst crime one can commit.  The book itself was so bad I kept reading it only because I thought with all the hype that it would get better. I also thought there would be some semblance of explanation for his rise from call-connector to Wall Street superstar but no. If you’re thinking about reading it, DON’T. Learn from my mistakes.

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The scenery was nice, at least.

Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy

I hear that it has been the coldest, longest, grossest winter since 1978, nation-wide. I think all those people who cheerily say how much they love winter are even down in the dumps about it. So I’m a little shy to say that I skipped out on the last two weeks – missing snow and minus-double-digit temperatures – to go on vacation.

maui

 

I flew home on the red-eye last night and I’m playing the Eye of the Tiger in my mind to JUST KEEP GOING. So far, on VERY little sleep, I’ve managed to unpack, put away the suitcases, buy groceries, get the boys to school for the afternoon, go to the bank, pick up the dog, do some laundry, and return a few urgent phone calls. Is it me or does anyone else find it strange to answer phone calls in this day and age? Don’t we just text?

We got home to a depressing icy grey fog in the air, the grey sky matching the grey ground and my hands are already cracked and peeling. However! It was a wonderful vacation in the sun, the best yet, and I feel very blessed to have gone. It was wonderful and warm, and this is the vacation that the children will remember that their mother a) boogie boarded, and b) swam underwater. I know! Crazy talk. Evidently I need to do these things more frequently not only because they are fun, but also because my boys were amazed at my mad swimming skilz. “I didn’t KNOW you could swim!” they kept saying, like I had just crossed the English Channel, rather than swam under their legs in a pool.

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I’ll have lots of things to share with you but quite frankly I’m having a hard time stringing two words together. We got to the Maui airport at 7:15 last night and were in line for an hour waiting just to drop our bags, since we’d already checked in online. The lineup for people checking in was insane, and one sunburned man in a pink golf shirt with a giant fanny pack emblazoned with the Masters logo tried to cut the queue. He was sent back, much to his chagrin, and then started yelling at the OTHER people in the lineup to GO GO GO when it was their turn. Later I saw him screaming at an airport employee because it erroneously said that our flight had already boarded and departed, although clearly it had not. Imagine my alarm, then, when that same man sat in the seat next to me and Jake. However he was extremely cordial and jovial with me, which is when I could smell his breath. He was obviously very drunk which really explained his erratic behaviour, although it did not lessen my alarm. Whenever Jake shifted in his sleep and got too close to Mr. Goodtimez, I startled awake to ensure that he didn’t accidentally kick him or raise his ire in any way. It was not restful in the least, especially when Mr. Goodtimez fell asleep with his hand clutching a drink. I couldn’t imagine the results being very pleasant if Jake happened to wake him up by accidental elbow nudging. In fact closer to our arrival at YYC, he ate a couple snack bags of Cheezies, licked his fingers grossly, then threw the empty balled up bags at his wife in the row ahead of us to get her attention.

I was very happy to land, although I am now exhausted. My to-do list for the day is mostly done, however, and part of it is that I packed lightly so naturally there is not much to unpack. Of course, my definition of “pack lightly” is a bit different than my husband’s.

 

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Can you tell whose pile is whose?

And I did not buy either of these shirts, but I wanted to, so very badly.

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Oh! And I had an Elvis sighting.

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I AM Lady Mary!

Did you know that Bill Clinton is vegan? Probably you did, but it was news to me. Between him and Justin Timberlake I feel like I can make a case to my husband that not all vegans are crazy hobos. Now, how to get them to start reading my Yummy Mummy blog…although chances are neither of them are actually in the kitchen preparing their own quinoa.

Yesterday I was walking the dog and I met up with an older woman who I often see at the offleash. We chatted for a while and I mentioned something about the boys. She looked a bit taken aback and asked me how old my children are; when I answered she told me that she was shocked because she thought I was a 21 year old university student. That was both startling and flattering, although I did wonder a teensy bit if she is in need of cataract removal. In any event I shall take a compliment however it comes.

It is ridiculous, but I’m really into those Buzzfeed quizzes right now. Apparently the actress most suited to play me in the movie version of my life is Emma Stone. Emma Stone! I wonder who the other options are and also how boring a movie about my life would be. Hoo boy! I can’t imagine that being a box office smash. According to Buzzfeed I am also a saucy combination of Lady Mary, Brigette Bardot, and R2D2. I actually think I’m more of a C-3P0 than R2 but let’s not split hairs here.

The other day I was at the hair salon, reading In Style and thinking such intellectual thoughts such as I thought Sarah Jessica Parker already HAD a shoe line, and Eva Longoria looks better without bangs. I came across this advertisement for Guess jeans and I was completely disoriented as to the date of publication.

Guess

 

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not out to judge anyone, mostly because I probably did have a (less-cleavage-revealing) outfit like this in the early nineties. Admit it, you did too. But in this day and age! Have we learned nothing? Are we doomed to repeat the same fashion mistakes over and over? Denim.Overall.Shorts. What is next for humanity? THIS IS AN OUTRAGE.

Not to mention the return of the high waisted pants. They are everywhere. Witness this evidence from my local mall:

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We are mere moments away from tapestry vests and pleated jeans, mark my words. ONE DAY SOON we will be going out for girls’ night out and it’s going to look like this:

 

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Speaking of nine-inch zippers, it’s almost my wedding anniversary! We will have been married for twelve years, which – thank you, Lynn, for pointing this out – is our silk/ linen anniversary. I wonder if my husband would like a silk shirt, circa 1991. I’m going to go ahead and guess NO on that one. The modern gift for the twelfth anniversary is pearl. Heh. Feels like it has all the makings of a good dirty joke but I shall refrain. However, notice the jewelry I’m wearing here:

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The Wearing of the Green (Eyed Monster)

This weekend my husband was watching “The Wolverine”. Remember the lengths I went to in order to obtain that video? It turns out I was actually uninterested in watching it, and so I puttered around the kitchen, making cookies and banana bread while my husband – who must be the world’s most confident man – would call me in to the living room occasionally to watch a scene or two. The scenes that he was bringing my attention to were solely gratuitous shirtless fight sequences. “Nicole! You’ve got to come see this!” he would say and then we would both watch in awe. How much did that man train in preparation for that movie? By all accounts the movie was kind of terrible, but the parts I saw were just fine.

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It’s a little bit funny that I should objectify the male body so much when I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about the objectification of the female body. Remember that “What’s Your Excuse” mom – Maria Kang, who a little while ago posted a photo of her fit and toned body with her three young kids? Shock! Outrage! Shaming! And yet, I fail to see the issue. She’s a woman who has launched a fitness program and website for all those moms out there who are mired down in the world of early motherhood, who want to increase their level of fitness. Great, right? But no, she has been much taken to task for fat-shaming and bullying.

Very, very gently I say to you: if this bothers you, look away. Maybe I’m naive, but I do not see how a woman launching a fitness program is doing it specifically to make womankind in general feel bad about themselves. My belief is that this woman is capitalizing on what every single fitness program talks about, and that is to Just Do It, in the words of the Nike people. No fitness program is based on “just exercise when you feel like it, maybe, or don’t, whatever.” They all say, NO MORE EXCUSES, schedule it in, find the time, do it.

So what’s the difference between what every mainstream fitness program says, and what Maria Kang is saying? She’s a young, attractive mother with a smoking hot body who has obtained that figure through hard work and exercise, and flaunts it. And why shouldn’t she? What’s wrong with it? If someone else’s figure is deeply offensive to you, then I suggest not looking at the photos, reading the stories, or subscribing to her website. But why should it offend you at all?

I have mixed feelings about the expression “Things will only hurt you if you let them” because sometimes people are really assholes and do say things specifically targeted to hurt people’s feelings. Example: if you get new carpeting put in your house and show me with pride and happiness, and I say “Carpeting is for stupid people who like allergens” then I am being an asshole. But if someone posts a flattering photo of themselves, saying that they have done away with excuses and have obtained a targeted level of fitness, and that you can too, well, I fail to see how that shames anyone. This is one of those cases where if I have an issue with it, then it’s my issue to deal with.

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I’m quite proud of this photo, actually.

Sometimes when a woman celebrates a breastfeeding milestone, or talks about her pride in giving her baby the very best start in life due to breastfeeding, I get a pang. I think of my own two children who I weaned very early and it makes me sad; but is it the fault of the breastfeeding mother? Is she talking about breastfeeding specifically to make me feel bad and ashamed of my own perceived failure? Of course not. It’s my issue and mine alone. It’s not her, it’s me.

And so I find it disheartening when I hear all this bashing about women and their bodies: from “Scarlett Johansson looking “fat” in a bikini” to “Real Women Have Curves” memes, from “Marilyn Monroe was a size 16” to “Denise Richards is too skinny”. There are the things we say to each other and about each other: “I hate you, you’re so skinny,” or “She probably has an eating disorder,” or “I hate to tell you this but you’ve gained so much weight that I’m worried about you!” We fixate on these things and so someone who purports to inspire young mothers to achieve new levels of fitness is slammed as a bully or a fat-shamer. We disparage fat people and we disparage skinny people and everyone’s body is up for criticism.

Lately there’s been a meme on Facebook, a “love your selfie” game where you post a photo of yourself without makeup and with natural hair. I love it because it’s celebrating what we are, our natural selves, even though this is what I look like au naturel:

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Even with that photo, I do love myself. There are things I do not like about my appearance, certainly. There are things I would change if I could, but on the most part I’m happy with my physical self. I wake up every morning at 4:30 and practice yoga for ninety minutes, I watch what I eat, I try to get enough vitamins, rest, and balance in my life. I can do a lot of things: I can play Fur Elise on the piano from memory, I can bake awesome cookies and read story books with all different voices. I can do calculus and analyze statistics and throw on a great Southern accent from that time I was Amanda Wingfield in my high school production of The Glass Menagerie. I can do this:

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But there are many, many things I cannot do. There are lots of things that YOU do that I admire, that I do not do myself: run marathons, press up into handstands, have the patience to spend your days working with children, take courses while juggling everything else, keep it together while your husband travels, travel alone to exotic locations, tote little people around all day. I cannot decorate cakes, swim laps, knit, sew on a button, or drive to new locations without much assistance and many tears. I have never turned a cartwheel in my life. But the fact that I do not or cannot do these things does not mean that I hate you for saying that you can do them. I do not feel that your ability to do these things shames me in any way. I’m proud of you for being able to do them. When my children were babies I was more like a chewed up piece of old string than Maria Kang, but that does not mean that Maria Kang has shamed me.

What I want us to do is look at ourselves, really look, and realize how beautiful we are. We are so beautiful, so interesting, so smart. We don’t need to feel inferior because of someone else’s success, because of someone else’s figure, vacation, job, or children. WE are successful, WE are beautiful, whatever the shape of our bodies and our days. What I want you to do for yourself is to really look at your life, really look at it, and see what amazing things you’ve done: the everyday things and the extraordinary things. I want you to see yourself for the amazing and beautiful person you are. Because I know you are. We all are.

I still kind of hate The Diary of a Wimpy Kid though.

Anyone else exhausted this week? I would blame it on the time change but I was gently chided by a few people – including my husband, for whom time change is meaningless and unimportant, apparently, despite the fact that it turns his wife into a rage-against-the-machine crusader – for complaining too much about said time change. All right then, I will blame it on the fact that I wake up at 4:30 am, which is really 3:30 am by last week’s standards. I will also blame it on the fact that the children are now giggly and full of mirth and hilarity at 9:00 pm and are having trouble falling asleep and then are strangely and uncharacteristically snappy with one another all day, and have been since the time change. I am sure these are unrelated phenomena. I admit, my rage against this outworn and useless concept is completely impotent and futile, and yet rage and complain I continue to do. Some people complain about government policies, some people complain about attitudes towards breast feeding and home births, still others complain about Lululemon, the education system, parking fees, animal rights, rescue dogs, and icy walkways. I COMPLAIN ABOUT TIME CHANGE.

I’m so tired. The battery died in the clock downstairs, where my office is, and I keep forgetting to change it. The clock is stuck at 10:37, and as a creature of habit I continue to look at it every five minutes throughout the day. Each time I am startled anew that it says 10:37, and then remind myself that it is incorrect. But then yesterday morning it actually WAS 10:37 when I looked at the clock, and I was completely disoriented for a while.

Every year for Mother’s Day my mom and I go together to get pedicures at our favourite spa, and every year I forget that I need to book early or the whole month of May is completely reserved and we end up getting our Mother’s Day pedicures in June. Not this year! I remembered to book early – although Mother’s Day weekend is completely full, I did reserve us a time in May. While I had the receptionist on the phone, I thought to confirm my wax appointment for next week. It was all settled. “Thank you!” I said cheerfully, “See you next Tuesday!” I hung up the phone, realized what I had said, and wondered what the receptionist’s reaction was, if any.

I just looked at the clock again. I really need to change the battery.

Time change did coincide with some lovely weather: suddenly the frigid air has disappeared and the snow is all melting into giant, lakelike puddles and rivers. I take Barkley for a walk and when we return the top half of him is huge and fluffy, and the bottom half is bedraggled and soggy. The water runs like a miniature river down the pathway at the offleash, and in the mornings it’s frozen and treacherous. I’m leaving the house wearing my lightweight winter coat and lined rain boots, and it feels like a miracle.

It feels like the days when the kids were little and the weather would finally break and I could take them outside. We would walk around the block, the boys wearing rubber boots and warm layers, and they would puddle jump. After a winter of being inside, it felt like a miracle to be out and walking around; those long endless days that ended.

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That was what we would do for fun, on an early spring afternoon. And now I have these big little kids who greet me after school and then rush away into the slushy school field to play some obscure game featuring battlefields and snakes, who get just as soaked as when they were small but the difference is now I don’t have to carry them home, their wet boots leaving mud on my jeans. Now I have these guys who argue about the correct word for a seven-sided shape, who talk incessantly about Minecraft at the dinner table, who ask me serious questions about being popular and what is my favourite gemstone, who want to be black belts and grow up and make lots of money to buy a flashier car than the one their dad drives, but who still want me to read to them from The Diary of a Wimpy kid at bedtime. They still want me to give them brief, man-like hugs before they head to their line-ups in the morning, and they fist-bump me to say goodbye. It breaks my heart just the tiniest bit, but it also makes my heart grow when I see what they’re growing up to be. And when I’m tired, so tired like this, they tell me to take it easy, maybe go to bed early, and not worry about them, they’re fine. They really are.

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