Author Archives: Nicole Boyhouse

Welcome to Crazytown, Population: Me.

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I know I seem all easy going and flexible, but the reality is I am a very rigid person. Each week I write in my day-timer – the old-fashioned PAPER kind, can you imagine? – the tasks that I need to do that week. Some of the tasks are everyday housekeeping ones: what I’m making for dinner each day and what I’m baking that week and on which day, along with chores like cleaning the bathroom, dusting, changing the sheets. I write down which days I’m doing what and I stick with it. If, for some strange reason, I wash the floor on Monday when I had written down Tuesday, I cross off “floors” on Tuesday and re-write it into Monday, even after the fact. Other things I write down are recipes that I’m writing and photographing, blog post ideas, and, of course, regularly scheduled things like the boys’ karate classes or hair appointments.

When I have a week like this one, where my to-do list is very long and filled with things that must – MUST – be done by a certain time, well, I rigidly schedule my days so I can accommodate those things. I have a basic timeline in my mind and I stick to that timeline like it’s the answer to all the world’s problems. When I was in university, I would schedule my study times in a very exact way: microeconomics from 10:15-11:45, research my labour paper from 11:50-12:55, break for 20 minutes, then prepare for my econometrics exam from 1:15-3:00. Once I had written these things down in my day-timer, I would not deviate from them, and sometimes I think it’s a miracle I got married.

I’m sure my husband finds this part of my personality adorable, like when Sally says “I’m too structured, I’m completely closed off.” and Harry responds “But in a good way!” I am sure it’s JUST like in the movies.

The biggest problem with being this anal-retentive person that I am is that when something unexpected pops up in my schedule, I completely fall apart. For example, yesterday my husband and I realized that the boys need social insurance numbers, and what with one thing and another, they need them as soon as possible. My husband asked if I could take care of it this morning and although I had a number of things on my plate, I crossed things off and rewrote them in my day-timer, with as much flexibility and happy-go-luckiness as I could manage. After all, how long could something like that take? The government office is fairly close to our house; surely I could get there and back quickly.

HAHAHAHAHA THE GOVERNMENT OFFICE QUICKLY HAHAHAHAHAHA

I got into the office at 9:10 and there was a gigantic lineup. I was disheartened at first but then it moved quite quickly when someone thought to mention that the information meeting for EI recipients was in a different room. It took only a few minutes for me to get to the front of the line after that, and the man at the desk told me that there would be a 15-20 minute wait. I hadn’t thought to bring a book with me, because I am apparently stupid and naive, and so I dismissed his advice to “take a seat and wait to be called” and instead stood near a wall, with my coat and scarf on, because what’s 15-20 minutes? Nothing, really.

Time dragged on and soon it was 10:00 and I started to get suspicious when I overheard that same man at the front desk tell someone that it would be a ninety minute wait. I put on my half-smile so as not to frighten said man with my bitchy resting face, and asked in the sweetest voice possible, with my eyes wide and fluttery, if he knew how much longer it would be, since he had said it was going to be only 15-20 minutes. You get more with honey, as we all know, and so I kept the frustration out of my voice. “Oh yes,” he said, “Well, it looks like we’re short staffed. So, it will be a while. I’m not sure how long.” OH.

I took a seat and tried not to think of my to-do list with impending doom. Om shanti. I tried to be rational and think that it would be better to just wait; I’d spent so much time already it would be silly not to wait. After all, in the big picture, what does it matter that I spent my morning in the government office, surrounded by the scent of body odour, dirty hair, and cigarette smoke? I didn’t have a book, true, but I did have a phone with me. There are many worse tragedies than being stuck in a waiting room with my fancy phone; I was not in the office because of employment issues or anything like that, three days from now would it really matter that the lion’s share of my morning would be spent immobile and reading blogs on my iPhone? I mean, really. And the princess couldn’t sleep on the mattress because of a pea. CRY ME A RIVER.

I was finally successful in obtaining the numbers, and left the office at 10:50. That’s when I thought if I was fast, and efficient, I could pull off a quick Costco trip before picking up the boys from lunch. There were a couple of things that I needed that I cannot get elsewhere and if I stuck to my list, I could do it.

I strode through Costco with a sense of purpose and a giant cart and…they were out of what I needed. That was discouraging, but it wasn’t a total bust: I managed to get the other, less essential things on my list, along with a whole pile of delicious plump berries. I managed to get home, unload the groceries, and get to the school on time to pick up the boys. I was feeling pretty faded but buoyed myself up by making myself a berry salad in this happy little fellow:

happy

Cuteness! A friend gave that to me, filled with flowers, when I was having a hard time and I can’t look at it without smiling. There’s nothing more cheering than berries in a giant smiley mug, not to mention the thought that went behind it! That smiley mug reminds me to pay it forward, even when I’m having a weirdly anxious morning, sniffing the perfume in my own scarf to drown out the smell of smoke and BO. Really, life is beautiful.

Don’t mess with the bull, young man. You’ll get the horns.

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I heard on the radio this morning that there has been some kind of significant study showing that yelling at your kids is just as bad – if not WORSE – than spanking them. Well, then. This is one of those hot button, easily misinterpreted studies, in my mind. Of course no one wants to belittle their children or destroy their self-esteem. Of course no one should yell demeaning or insulting things at their children, but I think there’s a difference between, say, Shut the fuck up you stupid kid! and Don’t touch the stove! but according to the woman being interviewed, there IS NO DIFFERENCE. Instead of losing your shit because your child almost grabbed a pot of boiling water off the stove, you should tell them calmly not to do that and remove them from the kitchen. WELL THEN.

I guess I just may as well have taken my blacksnake whip – remember Farmer Boy? Badass Mr. Wilder and his blacksnake whip. – to all the children at the playground today because I yelled at a whole group of them. Perhaps yelling is too strong a word. I spoke VERY SHARPLY to them, including my own children and their friends, because there was an icy snowball-throwing incident and Jake took one to the face. I VERY SHARPLY informed the children that they were not to throw snowballs, especially not in this weather with the “snowballs” being chunks of gritty ice-like snow. “If this behaviour continues,” I said in a loud, sharp voice, “I will go and tell the principal. I DO NOT THINK YOU WANT ME TO TELL THE PRINCIPAL, DO YOU?” Then I pointed my gigantic mitten clad hand at the group of them, who looked at me wide eyed and silent, and turned and walked away.

As I was walking away, I heard one of them say “That was the book fair lady.” Don’t cross the book fair lady, children.

Ah, but if this study is correct I may as well have beaten them all with sticks, or a blacksnake whip. No matter! The snowball throwing ceased immediately, and so I CARE NOT. The end more than justified the means, in my opinion.

The weather finally has broken, so my constant humming of Hold on for one more day has really paid off. Today I did not feel like I was going to die while walking the dog; I put on my pretty winter boots instead of my Joan-of-Arctic Sorels. I am full of light and optimism. This is a good thing because yesterday I feared for my sanity. I dropped the boys off at their karate practice and went to Superstore. At 5:00 on a Thursday. Since when did my personal judgement get so flawed? This was a terrible idea. All I needed, really, was a couple of eggplants and a tube of bubblegum-flavoured toothpaste. The self-checkout was filled with imbeciles with giant carts full of, apparently, only produce and bakery items. My blood pressure is rising just thinking about it. Please wait for an attendant. Please wait for an attendant. I almost shoved people out of the way to do it myself. “NO! NO! DON’T PUT IT ON THE SCALE UNTIL IT ASKS YOU TO!”

It’s probably a good thing I didn’t. Yelling at someone for their incompetence with the self-checkout would surely be damaging to their self-esteem. In any case, it’s Friday, and I’m ready to crack open a bottle of wine and watch a few episodes of Downton Abbey. Happy weekend, everyone! xo

 

You’re also never fully dressed without eight pounds of clothing.

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On Monday it warmed up all the way to minus 17, so I carpe diemed the hell out of that and took the dog for a walk. Poor fluffster, it’s been a while since he’s had a proper walk, and it probably will be a while before he gets a proper walk, because two minutes into it I started considering what kind of fashion statement wearing a balaclava would make. On the plus side, I wouldn’t feel like I would die by face-freezing; on the minus side, it would totally ruin my makeup. I eventually abandoned the idea; vanity, as usual, winning out over practicality.

The winter has been so long and so cold that I have entirely lost perspective about the weather. A few people have mentioned that it’s “March” and so it should be “springlike already” which filled me with bemusement. Isn’t March still winter? Isn’t it always this cold? I truly cannot remember what “other seasons” are like. It has come to the point that I apparently think, with all honesty, that it is always this cold and it will never get warm, forever and ever, amen. I met up with an elderly German man at the off-leash park, who told me that he has been in this city for fifty-eight years and he can only remember three other winters that were like this. Well, I guess that proves me wrong. I shall not cross the friendly elderly German man. I expect he knows what he’s about.

Someone just reminded me that Daylight Savings Time starts this weekend. I need offer no further comment.

Ah, but resistance is futile, isn’t it? We cannot change the weather and – unfortunately for all involved – we cannot change the mandate for Daylight Savings Time. No – really, we can’t. Lord knows I’ve tried, if complaining and rabble rousing on this blog counts as “trying”. ENOUGH OF THE BELLYACHING, as my long-suffering mother would say, possibly in response to some kind of teenage angst or similar, as I moped around the house in my Depeche Mode concert t-shirt.

There are some people who claim that winter is their very favourite season, and while I applaud anyone hardy enough to fully enjoy the season’s frigid splendors, I really have a hard time understanding. I want to understand, but I cannot. I understand fall lovers: the leaves and crisp air, the promise of Christmas around the corner. I understand spring lovers: the sprigs of green, the buds on the trees, the mild air and freshness. Of course I understand summer lovers, being one myself: the ease of getting dressed in the morning, the warmth and unscheduled days. However, I shall try to understand the winter people by remembering all the lovely things I enjoy about our 6-8-month-long winters. I toyed with the idea of making a Nicole’s Favourite Things post, but then I remembered that these things are not exactly my favourite. The Nicole’s Favourite Things posts cannot contain lies!

Nicole’s Not-Favourite-But-They’re-Okay Things, Frigid Winter Edition

1) Since it’s too cold for the kids to play outside, I haven’t been standing in the playground, shivering, for an hour after school.

2) Since it’s too cold to do much of anything, I am super productive in the housewifely arts. I am kicking ass and taking names, if by “kicking ass and taking names” you mean “accomplishing a lot of domestic tasks in record time”. Yesterday I had baked a banana bread and washed the floors before 8:00 am.

3) Inspired by Allison I tackled the boys’ sock/underwear/pajama drawers today. They haven’t closed properly in months. Mark’s drawer was more in need of reorganization than actual purging, but Jake’s was full of treasures: four newborn infant hats, a bib, socks that had a Transformers motif, circa 2010, two pairs of size five pajamas, and three pairs of Hot Wheels underwear, possibly from his kindergarten year. Tomorrow we tackle the t-shirt drawers!

4) Baking in this weather makes the house feel warm and cozy; it also smells terrific and as an added bonus, I can leave the oven door slightly ajar after the baked goods are done and warm my frozen purple hands over it, making me feel like Laura Ingalls coming in from twisting hay, but without the starvation and chamber pots. My hands are chapped just like hers, and I bought a pretty new fig-and-shea-butter cream for them. You all know how I love a new beauty product.

5) Aubergine is THE hot new colour this year, and although I don’t see myself wearing it, my hands are naturally on-trend!

6) I love the look of long sweaters, tall boots, and skinny jeans. Not only is it a saucy look, but long sweaters also nicely conceal the muffin top resultant from indulging in so much baking.

7) There’s no need to worry about sunscreen!

8) I do like a good bowl of soup, which I don’t bother with in the summer. Unless of course it’s a typical Calgary summer with chill temperatures. Soup: the all-season gustatory pleasure of my hometown.

9) Walking while wearing my heavy winter boots is akin to walking with 1980s-style ankle weights. It’s like I’m having a retro workout every day!

10) When the sun is out it’s actually really pretty. Not as pretty as, say, green grass and flowers, but pretty.

Barkley3

Barkley doesn’t mind the cold. He’s furry!

In the spirit of keeping one’s expectations low so one will not be disappointed, I’ve been avoiding the weather forecast. However, I keep hearing that warmer weather is coming “soon” and I’m holding on to that “soon” like it’s the key to the universe’s secrets. SOON. Soon it will get warmer. I don’t know what “soon” means but maybe if I channel my inner Wilson Phillips and my inner invincible summer, I can hold on for one more day. Don’t you know, don’t you know things can change, things can go my way if I HOOOOLLLLD on for ONE MORE DAY.

You’re never fully dressed without a smile.

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This morning I was shopping for random things like Vitamin D pills, toothpaste, compost bags, 12 boxes of tissues, and socks for the boys. I had quite a cartful of items and after I finished unloading them I noticed the woman in front of me, who was purchasing only three things: two bottles of Midol and a giant bag of Cadbury Mini-Eggs. I wished I could take a photo; it was quite a powerful still-life image.

I was flipping through a magazine and I came across one of those weight-loss advertisements, and it really struck me – not for the first time – that those kind of photos are not a true representation of what a person really looks like. In any kind of weight-loss or makeover advertisement, the “before” photo almost always shows a slumped-over, unsmiling person wearing unflattering clothing; in the “after” photo the person has makeup on, a wind machine blowing her hair, and some gorgeous outfit that not only shows off the newly svelte figure, in the case of weight-loss, but is also a flattering cut and colour. This isn’t a news flash, of course, but it does make one think about how one presents oneself to the world.

I am fairly confident that I would not be described, by most people at least, as a bitch. I make exceptions for ex-boyfriends and that ex-friend who ended up ending our friendship over an ex-boyfriend who she then married. But I don’t waste time thinking about those people’s opinions; generally I would say I am a non-bitchy personality, even when I’m the one in need of two bottles of Midol and a giant bag of Cadbury mini-eggs. I do, however, suffer from Bitchy Resting Face Syndrome.

Don’t believe me? That’s because nearly every picture of me in existence is one in which I’m smiling. If I know there’s a camera in the vicinity, I will consciously smile a lot because of BRFS; on the off chance that there’s a non-smiling photo of me, I will delete it if it is in my power to do so. And you know what, smiling is a good thing. People smile at you if you’re smiling. After all, we don’t walk around with the desire to look like our passport photos, do we? At least I don’t. My passport photo is hideous, although it’s not totally the fault of my Bitchy Resting Face. I was also having a Bad Hair Day that day.

Want to see a dramatic makeover? Here is a photo of me that I took Saturday morning, before I even washed my face or brushed my hair, wearing my grey fleece pajamas:

Before

WHO’S THE FAIREST ONE OF ALL. I know, right? I look like I’m 100 years old and haven’t slept in weeks, and I had just woken up from eight and a half hours sleep. Look away, I’m hideous.

After2

This is the difference that a smile (and makeup and hair styling) can make. Now add sunglasses to hide the wrinkles and bright lighting to wash away the forehead lines:

incar

  So there you have it. My beauty advice for the day. Smile. And add a little lipstick, because you never know who you might meet.

Copy (1) of Jim Cuddy

Shamelessly gratuitous shot of that one time I met Jim Cuddy.

 

I got 99 problems, but the book fair is not one.

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I wrapped up my twelfth – TWELFTH – book fair yesterday and it was the most successful one I’ve ever had; we raised almost $4000 for the school library and home reading program. I feel like I should preen a little bit about that, but credit must be given where credit is due: Minecraft Handbooks and Annuals. Easily the most popular books in the fair, I found myself with reorder sheets and lineups of kids. My own house now has a copy of the Annual and the children have been spending much time doing whatever it is they do when they are on Minecraft. Also popular? National Geographic’s World’s Cutest Animals, and Paulette the Pinkest Puppy in the World. So, there’s a bit of a range there. The thing about volunteering for twelve consecutive book fairs is that one really develops an intimate knowledge of children’s reading habits. There are some girls that I remember choosing Pinkalicious and Barbie the Mermaid, and now they are reaching for the Whatever After series. My own children have graduated from the Hot Wheels Easy Readers to the 39 Clues and Spirit Animals. I could do a growth chart, just with Scholastic books.

bookfair3

Photo is PRE-rampaging by 530 elementary-aged children.

So it’s been a busy, but gratifying, week. There’s nothing like pure adulation from a whole lot of children to boost one’s self-esteem, not that I particularly needed boosting, but here we are. While at the school I attended an Olympic wrap-up assembly, which I sat through with a lump in my throat and blurry eyes. My boys’ classes were the assembly’s “hosts” and the assembly started off with Olympic music and the teacher calling out different countries, the children all coming in behind flags from countries representing their nationalities. The one boy from Greece started everyone off, followed by at least twenty other countries. Many children wore traditional clothing from their countries of origin, and all in all it was a wonderful display of multiculturalism.

I know what you’re thinking: what about the recorders? Well, both classes played the recorder, accompanied by the bass xylophones. Thank god for the bass xylophones. The recorders were pretty terrible, as to be expected, but happily the songs were short. Mark’s class then did an Olympic Alphabet, with his contribution being the letter M and a blurb about Mark McMorris, which was kind of nice. And then, making all my dreams come true, Jake’s class did a dance melange of traditional Russian dancing mixed with disco moves, all set to an instrumental version of Rasputin. It was just as amazing as it sounds.

I was an emotional wreck through the whole thing, as I realized one of the very first assemblies I’d ever attended was the 2010 Olympic kick-off assembly, when Mark was in kindergarten performing – oddly enough – I’m a Little Teapot. Kindergarten! And when the next Winter Olympics comes around, both of my children will be in junior high. Time makes you bolder, even children get older. I’m getting older too. I’d sing it mournfully, but unfortunately for my mental health, I have had Nights on Broadway stuck in my head for three days. I feel like Ralph Fiennes from The English Patient, but in a disco way. I have been singing this. For THREE DAYS.

I don’t even know all the words. I just keep singing the same lines over and over. Blaming it all on the nights on Broadway. Singing them sweet sounds. To that crazy crazy town. Remember that Seinfeld episode where George was convinced he was losing his mind since he went to see Les Mis and couldn’t get Master of the House out of his head? It’s like that. I’m pretty sure I’m headed to a mental institution. Not only that, but I’m disco dancing to the song in my head. Literally. I find myself in the kitchen, behaving as if I’m the lead-off dancer on Soul Train. I am not marching to my own drummer, I’m doing the hustle to the Bee Gees in my mind.

I think hell just did freeze over.

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I woke up this morning and it was minus thirty with windchill, and all I could think while I watched the weather report was at least I’m not in Regina. Or Flin Flon. Because minus 49 – which is the temperature in those places – is really really cold. We all have to look on the bright side, and speaking of which, it is the last week of February. How did that happen? This afternoon I’m setting up the book fair, and then running it for the next few days, and then doing all the paperwork and counting all the money and generally revelling in my unpaid but much lauded career as the Book Fair Lady.

Way, way back in the eighties, I was a candy-striper at a nursing home. During my time of bringing cheer to the elderly, I would play old-timey music on the piano for the Sing-Along hour. To this day I have a vast knowledge of songs that were popular between WWI and WWII, proven when I started singing “If You Were The Only Girl In The World” while watching Downton Abbey with my husband. “How do you KNOW that song?” he asked, slightly aghast. I am an onion full of layers, my dear. The old people used to go nuts over that song, as well as “It Had To Be You” and “A Shanty in Shantytown”.

Speaking of interesting musical performances, my kids’ recorder performance is tomorrow, as well as – apparently – Russian dancing and some other musical numbers. I’m not quite sure what exactly is going on, except that Jake has informed me he is in a dance number set to “Rasputin” and Mark told me he’s hoping to play the bass xylophone. Suffice it to say I’m PRETTY excited to attend tomorrow’s performance. Somewhat relatedly, the children have informed me that they need to wear their Olympics shirts and/ or an outfit that represents their country of origin and so I’m assuming there will be some kind of international celebration, culminating in a recorder performance of Hot Cross Buns. Mark told me that he is very nervous for the performance, because his class is, he says, “terrible” at the recorder. How terrible can Hot Cross Buns be? I shall report back.

GoCanada

My husband was watching the CBC (sign of age: when you refer to it as “the” CBC) and there was a special segment about the men’s curling team. I made him stop and rewind because THE LADY WILL HAVE TWO TICKETS TO THE GUN SHOW, PLEASE. Is it me, or have curlers changed their image significantly? In my day, curlers did NOT look like that. The ladies are quite lovely too; they used to sport “mom” haircuts and now they are all young and dazzling. I guess I should say “old-lady” haircuts since we are the moms now. This is our hair. “Mom” is not a synonym for “lame”, not anymore!

Speaking of which, I read that Kate Middleton is being criticized about her hair; apparently it’s “too long” and “looking bedraggled”. Um, what? Other than her dreadful Official Portrait, I don’t think there has ever been a bad picture of the duchess. Her hair especially is lovely. Apparently the criticism is largely coming from Camilla Parker-Bowles who is a) apparently taking her role of mother-in-law to a cliched unfriendly level, and b) a Very Bad Person and a Homewrecker, according to my late grandmother, who thought she was the devil incarnate. What I’m saying is, DON’T LISTEN TO HER, KATE. You look gorgeous. Also, I wish I had your wardrobe. Not that it would be very practical to wear Manolos to the book fair, but a girl can dream, can’t she?

Rising up, back on the street.

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This morning I finally could breathe through my nose, and so I went to yoga for the first time since Sunday. When I was driving home, Eye of the Tiger was playing on the radio. It felt appropriate. I feel like I should play it on a continuous loop over the next few days as I prepare for Book Fair and all that entails. Rising up to the challenge of our rival and all that.

Not only am I running the Book Fair next week, but my children’s classes are hosting an assembly, in which they are going to play recorders. I cannot imagine just how badly this is going to go. The kazoo performance was one thing, but both boys have mentioned that they – and their classmates – are not very good at the recorder, which seems like an understatement of the largest order. I’m starting to be concerned for the music teacher’s mental health. The very few times that the boys have actually practiced the recorder at home have ended with the dog whimpering in his crate and me reaching for the wine bottle. Of course, the other day I was singing a spirited rendition of The Greatest Love of All and the dog ran and hid in his crate, which I am going to assume was just a coincidence. I went the distance, and I’m not going to stop.

The recorder, though. I know of only one person who has actually enjoyed her child playing the recorder, and I’m fairly certain that child has much, much more musical talent than the vast majority of children. In general it is truly a wretched instrument, which is not to say that I do not understand why the recorder is so widely used by elementary music teachers everywhere. It’s light, inexpensive, and appropriate for small hands and YET. One year I was running the Book Fair in the room beside the music room, and I heard recorder music for the entire day, to the detriment of my sanity. I hope that doesn’t happen next week. I’m just a girl with a will to survive.

The other day I came across an article that declared high waisted jeans are the biggest trend for this spring and I died a little on the inside. There has to be a happy medium between showing the world that you really do need a bikini wax and waistbands that end just below your ribcage. Why, world, why? We ladies of a certain age remember donning our high waisted jeans with our bodysuits underneath to head out to the bar to go what is now called “clubbing”, shaking our amply-denim-covered booties to I Saw The Sign and I Like To Move It Move It. We don’t need to relive those days, at least not with such unflattering clothes. Don’t lose your grip on your dreams from the past, but there’s no need to fight just to keep them alive.

Speaking of unflattering fashions, the other day I was in the mall and I saw this:

007

I wonder if it’s a hot seller. It might be nice for wearing while jogging and singing Eye of the Tiger, which is something I should keep in mind in the unlikely event that I take up jogging. Although maybe it’s meant for evening loungewear? I don’t really know. Stalking prey in the night.