Author Archives: Nicole Boyhouse

Call for help, I am stuck to the countertop.

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We have no fewer than five Advent calendars in the house.  Two are Kinder chocolate ones, sent by my mother-in-law, one is a cloth one that is utilized only as a calendar and not as something particularly fun, one is a Star Wars Lego calendar which has led me to realize after a conversation with Hannah that I do not actually know anything at all about Star Wars other than Chewbacca is a Wookie, and one is this cute little thing:

Every day I fill it with little chocolate coins or kisses, and also a note about the festive activity that we will partake in today.  I got the idea about festive activities from this post by Lynn – I read it and thought it was brilliant!  I felt all warm and fuzzy, thinking about my children squealing with delight as they read the note about what today would bring.  Unfortunately, since we had the tree and all decorations up prior to December 1st, and also since I apparently have zero imagination, and also since the kids are in school five days a week, my actual holiday activities have been pretty lame.  Don’t get me wrong, the kids are still happy to read a book about Christmas, go sledding, and watch the Charlie Brown Christmas special, but those things, along with making three Christmas cards, have been in the rotation since the month began.  But!  On Sunday I remembered we have an actual bona fide activity to do – our annual decorating of our (fugly) gingerbread house.

Since my very good friend Tara turned me on to pre-built gingerbread houses, I have never and I will never go back to the build-it-yourself kind.  I also will never allow the children to consume this gingerbread house.  Ack.  For all I know that gingerbread and candy have been around since the Iran-Contra affair.  I will be posting my own recipe for gingerbread people over on the cooking blog soon. 

Spoiler alert!  Our house looks nothing like the package. 

So here’s how one decorates a gingerbread house in the Boyhouse:

First, gather together two very stoked children who are delighting in their mother’s idea of notes in the Advent calendar.

Start applying icing to the roof, only to discover there is a hole in the bag.  Get icing all over sleeve.  Decide to cap the icing bag and use the hole to apply icing. 

Find out that this uses up a lot of icing, and there is no way to decorate the whole house.  Whatever.  Just start throwing the damn candies on there.

Meanwhile, if one is the canine member of the family, sit at attention and wait for those rock hard little candies to roll off the counter.  Consume them rapidly, then fly around the house as if crack cocaine, instead, has been consumed.

If one is still bitter about Santa, the reindeer, and their poor treatment of Rudolph, then one can devise evil ways to burn Santa and his reindeer up by a) creating a firepit outside the door to be stepped in by Santa, and b) sprinkling red sugar on the roof to symbolize the flames that will burn the reindeer’s hooves when they land on said roof.  Not to worry.  The gingerbread inhabitants and the rest of the world will be just fine.  This is special fire only to target Santa and the reindeer – and possibly anyone else who may be stupid enough and/or lacking in the Christmas spirit to make fun of poor red-nosed Rudolph.  Suggestions that burning up Santa is not exactly the Christmas spirit will fall on deaf ears. 

I don’t know whether to applaud Jake for his creativity and his willingness to stand up to the poor bullied Rudolph, or to be completely appalled by his arsonist ideas.  Let’s just say I’m somewhere in the middle here.

Finally, after all the candies, sprinkles, and shredded coconut have been un-artistically applied, admire final product:

Please to note the icing on my shirt.  That shit is sticky.

You want a close up of the house?

And there you have it.  Another glorious work of gingerbread art by the people of the Boyhouse. 

The very best way to spread Christmas cheer is by singing loud for all to hear.

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I went out for a few hours, came home, and found that my husband had wrapped all the Christmas gifts!  It was the best Christmas gift ever!  It instantly made me feel like giving HIM a big Christmas gift, if you know what I’m saying.  Voluntary gift wrapping is even sexier than voluntary dishwasher unloading. 

Here’s a little fact about me: if there is a song playing that I enjoy, I will sing along, regardless of the location.  This isn’t a conscious thing; I just tend to sing along, in my head, which often leads to SINGING OUT LOUD FOR ALL TO HEAR, a la Buddy the Elf.  It’s my way of spreading not only Christmas cheer, but just cheer year-round, I guess.  There is a good chance that if you see me in the grocery store, I will be pushing my cart, humming and singing along to the 1970’s light pop favoured by grocery stores everywhere: I’ve seen lonely times that I could not find a friend…but I always thought that I’d see you again.  Needless to say, if Hall and Oates is playing, there is no chance I will not be singing along.  She’s gone, oh I, oh I, got to learn how to face it. 

A large part of my inability to hear a song and not sing along is that – I’m going to boast about myself for a minute – I have an immense catalogue of song lyrics in my head.  I pretty much know all the lyrics to every song ever written, from By the Light of the Silvery Moon to In Da Club.  What can I say, other than my awful voice, I rock at karaoke.  The downside to this is that I have a massive percentage of my brain devoted to song lyrics.  If I could just free that part of my brain think of all the things I could accomplish, like earning my Ph.D., maybe, or figuring out how to drive to south Calgary without bursting into tears.

A few weeks ago I arranged to meet up with some friends in an area I was not familiar with.  I wrote down directions, studied them, and half an hour before the appointed time, I headed out.  Not unlike the time I was driving from the airport to West Houston and ended up in Sugarland, Texas, I drove past my turnoff.  There was much construction, and road signs were not up – for the love of god, Calgary, keep road signs up during road construction – and I ended up far into a residential district before I realized my mistake.  Then I pulled over and cried, before remembering that deep in the glove box is a Garmin!  I plugged it in, typed in the address, and then became insanely frustrated as the Garmin had not been updated in some time, and kept telling me to turn left where the streets were blocked off by construction.  Eventually I made it to my destination, and realized that I did not know how to get home, until my friends very kindly pointed me in the right direction.  Upon reaching home and relating this to my husband, he sighed heavily.  “You’re so smart” he said, “How can you be so bad with directions?  You need to realize you’re lost BEFORE you see a herd of cattle or the signs to Banff.” 

He has taken it upon himself to become my instructor, spreading maps all over the house and quizzing me about the major arteries of the city.  Some of this information must have been absorbed, because I drove to the southeast part of the city to meet up with Marilyn for lunch and I neither got lost nor burst into tears.  I had heart-pounding anxiety for much of the trip, but I made it!  I did! 

This newfound information has not displaced my song knowledge, however, or – needless to say – my propensity to sing out loud in public places.  On Thursday I found myself in the Superstore liquor store, singing a duet with an older gentleman.  I was pushing my cart (yes, CART) through the aisles, and I heard someone singing the very best festive song about date rape ever written: Baby, It’s Cold Outside.  I unconsciously hummed, then sang along – SANG ALONG – with a total stranger.  It was somewhat awkward when I realized I was part of this impromptu duet when I rounded the aisles and the older gentleman winked at me, me with my case of wine, giant bottle of Bailey’s, and a twenty sixer of gin.  It had all the makings of a great romantic comedy, other than the fact that a) I’m happily married, b) the man in question was in his sixties, at least, and c) this was all taking place in a liquor store at ten in the morning.

Santa Baby, Please Don’t Bring Me Harem Crops, or an Elf on the Shelf

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This is the view looking out my back door this morning:

Notice how difficult it is to see where the snow on the garage ends and the sky begins?  My plan this morning was to take a trip to Superstore, but the snow and the thought of pushing a giant cart through the windy, unplowed parking lot shook my resolution and so instead I have been puttering around the house, drinking copious amounts of coffee and avoiding my dog’s gaze.  We are not going for a walk, Barkley.
The kids have been taking swimming lessons at school, and they ended yesterday, just in time before the really cold weather settled in for its long winter nap.  It’s so perverse to me, taking swim lessons in the dead of winter, but fortunately it has not been too cold.  Also fortunately, none of the injury, death, and/or dismemberment that I had to waive prior to them taking part in lessons has taken place.  Those waivers will be the death of my nerves.  The half block that they walk is full of dangers, apparently, dangers that they could get run over by a car or slip and fall and crack their heads open on the sidewalk.  Then, once they are in the pool, they might slip and fall and crack their heads open on the pool deck, or drown in the pool, or some other such catastrophe.  Happily, they are still in one piece, although I have yet to hear if they passed their level or not.  I’m going to go ahead and predict not.  I have yet to hear of any child ever passing their level during school swim lessons.
The snow, despite its propensity to tempt me into sitting at home drinking coffee instead of shopping for groceries and liquor (very important, ’tis the season), is making me feel all festive and Christmassy, not that I wasn’t before, but you know, SANTA’S COMING.  We don’t do a lot of Santa-magic things around here, given that my children are abject non-believers, but of course we hang stockings and leave out cookies and talk about how Santa is kind of like a feeling, that doing something nice around the Christmas season means that you are Santa.  Just out of pure perversity, though, I feel like getting my kids one of those Elf on the Shelfs.  Have you seen them?  The concept is just plain creepy – you place the elf in different locations every day so that the elf can monitor your children’s behaviour and then report back to Santa.  Aieeeeeee.
That motherfucker is terrifying.  Can you imagine having a little spy in your house, reporting on your behaviour, then moving into different parts of the house every day?  Yikes.  If we had one of these when I was a kid I probably would have never slept again.  I would have been curled up in the fetal position on my pink bedspread, rocking back and forth.  Can’t sleep…the elf’s going to get me.  But apparently it’s a very popular idea.  I’m not sure with whom, but with someone.
Speaking of the naughty list, I think someone at Lululemon is in trouble for coming up with these:
Please Hammer, don’t hurt them.  Now, Lululemon knows I love them – no one is a bigger fan of their Wonder Unders or their Power Ys or their Smooth Moves thongs than I am – but why would anyone bring back the Hammer Pants?  You can call them Harem Crops as much as you like, but You Can’t Touch This.  The only plus side to these atrocities is that you would be guaranteed no camel toe.  They remind me of a guy I used to date named Tony.  His IQ was – and I’m speculating a bit here – probably slightly higher than Forrest Gump’s.  He was a fan of Hammer Pants and that is all I am going to say on the subject.
However, while we are on the subject of fashion, here’s a picture of my new dress that I wore to my husband’s Christmas party:
You like? 

Holy shit! Where’s the Tylenol?

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The boys have been practicing Christmas songs at school – for what purpose, I am unclear, since they never have a pageant or holiday-themed special night for the parents to watch them do non-denominational festive winter performances or anything.  Don’t get me wrong; I am not a “put the Christ back in Christmas” kind of girl, not by a long shot – and I’m also not going to get into my usual festive discussions about the reasons that Christmas is celebrated on December 25, stemming from pagan winter solstice rituals.  I like to celebrate the season as one of giving and light and love, and not get caught up in political/religious details.  If you want to put the Christ back in Christmas, that’s cool, but I am not going to get all up in arms if you call it a holiday tree, you know?  Let’s all just hold hands and sing around the shining star like the fucking Whos, okay?  No need to get all divisive.  Pa rum pum pum pum.

I’ve been on a bit of a rampage this morning.  It is one of those days where I find everything strangely irritating; the lack of green sugar sprinkles in the Co-Op baking section – the fucking Co-Op BAKING SECTION – just about pushed me over the edge.  I was one second away from ripping down their “Festive Solutions” display and going all Clark Griswold on the place.  “Hallelujah!  Holy shit!  Where’s the Tylenol?”

I realized after I got home with my non-green-sugar-sprinkle groceries that I had only consumed about 1/2 cup of coffee this morning.  I quickly remedied this and felt much better.  I’m a bit mixed: should I be concerned about my obvious coffee addiction, or should I be happy that my crankiness is so easily fixed by just drinking more coffee?  I’m leaning toward the latter.

Anyway, the boys have been practicing Christmas songs at school, and predictably, they are coming home singing various festive songs with the words changed around, featuring Batman and Robin and the Joker peeing on a wall.  Such lyric alterations are extraordinarily witty and clever, in their minds.  Eventually the conversation turned to Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

And here is where I shall digress a little.  There are few Christmas shows/songs/stories that piss me off as much as the Rudolph.  In fact, there are NO other Christmas shows/songs/stories that piss me off.  I love Christmas.  I love it in the way that the Grinch’s heart grows three sizes and he realizes

Maybe Christmas, thought the Grinch, doesn’t come from a store.
Maybe Christmas – perhaps – means a little bit more.
I love the generosity and goodwill that come from people during the Christmas season (except at the mall, which is why I do not go there past mid-November, to keep my wholesome view of humanity).  I love Christmas trees and lights and baking.  I love it all. 
With the exception of Rudolph.  Well, it’s not Rudolph I have a problem with.  It’s those bastard other reindeer, not to mention – when it comes to that terrible clay-mation show – the assholes that Santa and the elves show themselves to be.  People who get all pissy about “Happy Holidays” and “Holiday Trees” and whatnot should be pissy about poor Rudolph and his mistreatment.  Since when, in this day and age, is it socially acceptable to isolate and mock someone because of differences?  Since when is it socially acceptable to exclude someone because they look different?  And since when is it okay to only accept those differences when that individual does something heroic and saves the day?  THIS IS NOT OKAY.  
So when the boys came home singing about Rudolph, I said mildly to them “You know, I’ve never liked that song.  I always feel so sorry for Rudolph.  The other reindeer are so mean to him, just because he’s different.”
Jake looked up at me intently with a serious expression.  He was silent for a moment, then said “You know Mom?  It’s not the Christmas spirit, but you know what?  I kind of want to get a gun and shoot those other reindeer.”
I do not endorse violence, but I had to agree with him.

I’m so excited! And I just can’t hide it! I’m about to lose control and I think I like it!

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I’m a whirling dervish of excitedness today because it’s my husband’s work party tonight!  Squee!  I have a new dress and everything.  I know a lot of people hate going to their spouse’s – or their own – work parties because, yawn, boring.  And don’t get me wrong, I’m sure this party will also be a bore – they are foregoing a DJ in favour of a jazz band.  How will things get started in here if they don’t play the Black Eyed Peas? – but I get to wear a new dress!  And have cocktails!  And eat food that was not prepared by me!  That’s pretty much the top of the top, you know?  I am not cooking dinner.  And I’m going to be wearing not-jeans.

So now we are in December, and all the confusion around moustaches – who is a Movember participant and who is just a misguided moustachioed man – is gone, which is nice.  In my last post I said that moustaches were the mom jeans of facial hair, but upon deeper consideration, I have decided that they are more like the camel-toe pants of facial hair.  Much skeevier. 

In my university years, I was a terrible flirt (actually, I have always been somewhat of a flirt…but let’s just say university years for illustrative purposes).  I was in the bar with some girlfriends when I noticed a guy from one of my economics classes, who had a moustache.  This was in the early 90’s, so it was NOT the style of the time – at the time all the guys were shaving their heads and growing goatees.  Anyway, I had been enjoying a few drinks with girlfriends when I decided to ask that guy why he would possibly think a moustache was a good idea.  This was my thinking, but the actual words that came out of my mouth were the following: “Why do you have that moustache?  Do you use it to tickle the ladies?”  Suffice it to say that this moustachioed fellow found my sauciness intriguing in a way that I had not bargained for.  I had to spend the remainder of the semester giving the poor guy the cold shoulder, which brings me to an important life lesson: never ask someone if their moustache tickles the ladies.  Another lesson learned during my university years: in the deeply intelligent and insightful words of Harry in my very favourite movie of all time, When Harry Met Sally, “Men and women can never be friends, because the sex part always gets in the way.”  Truer words were never spoken.  Ladies, if you have any male friends, remember those words of wisdom and it will save you much awkwardness in the future when your “pal” wants to “take things to the next level.” 

Harry: No man can be friends with a woman he finds attractive.  He always wants to sleep with her.

Sally: So what you’re saying is that they could be friends with a woman they find unattractive?

Harry: No, we pretty much want to nail them too.

Speaking of entertainment from the 80’s, I wanted an addendum to my thoughts on Magnum P.I.  I have only ever seen one episode of Magnum, and it involved Magnum being stranded in the ocean somewhere and having to tread water for a very extended period of time.  My husband, being significantly older than me, was a Magnum watcher in the 80’s; any time he hears “In The Air Tonight” he says, in a very serious and emphatic way, “Best. Magnum. Ever.”  He also does the air drums – but who doesn’t?  Really, you have to be dead and/or armless to not perform the air drums when listening to that song. 

There was a point to this, but I seem to have forgotten it.  I may have had a little too much coffee today.  But I’m going to a party tonight!  I have to NOT fall asleep at 9:00.

Oh yes, I remember now.  Apparently “In The Air Tonight” was playing while Magnum showed his badass side by shooting a guy.  Shooting him dead!  You go, Magnum!

Remember when Hawaiian shirts were popular, and not just worn by the same guys who wear “Bikini Inspector” t-shirts and/or those t-shirts that depict an outline of a very fit male specimen, in sharp and ironic contrast to the actual body type of the wearer? 

The 80’s were really responsible for many poor fashion styles.  I could just say the mullet and the Hawaiian shirt and leave it at that, but really, there are so many other terrible examples.  I am going to take a deep breath and show you how brave I am by posting my eighth-grade yearbook photo:

Ack.  Ack ack ack.  I have no idea why I am actually wearing my glasses in this photo, because I normally only wore them for board work at school and then wandered around in a myopic fog for the rest of the time.  Even then, I thought those glasses were ugly.  Until I got contacts at age 15, I stumbled around in the blurry, blurry world, squinting when necessary.  But this photo is proof that things were bad in the 80’s – those glasses were ubiquitous, as was the spiral permed, teased hair that required a bottle of Salon Selectives hairspray a week just to maintain.  But how about this:

You can say that you didn’t have that couch in the 80’s, but you would be lying.  What I love about this photo is that I am wearing a Daisy Duke styled shirt over a tank top with a long denim skirt AND I am wearing lace-up white Keds.  There are so just many fashion faux pas in this picture, and yet – AND YET – this was not unstylish in 1987. 
One last photo:
This photo is less to illustrate how Garfield horoscope sweatshirts go with Levi’s jeans, and more to illustrate the decor of the 80’s – which was probably held over from the 70’s, really.  Panelboard!  Spider plants hanging from macrame plant holders!  Lamps that had built in side tables! 
This is a very long and rambling post, and so I shall conclude.  In conclusion:
1) Moustaches are skeevy. 
2) Men and women cannot truly be friends.
3) Magnum P.I. was a badass.
4) Clothing, hair, and home decor in the 80’s was extremely misguided and should never be replicated.
If we remember these things, the world will be a greater place.

Movember Madness

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Yesterday as I was driving the kids to school, Maneater came on the radio.  You know it’s going to be a great day when Hall and Oates is on the radio! 

Oh oh here she comes.  Watch out, boys, she’ll chew you up!  Oh oh here she comes.  She’s a MANEATER.
Now THAT’s what I call a moustache.  Is it me, or is anyone else relieved that this is the last day of Movember?  Don’t get me wrong: I have a very personal connection to prostate cancer and so I am very happy at the funds and awareness that are raised every Movember, but nevertheless, I will not be unhappy to see clean shaven faces tomorrow.  All those moustaches are just so…startling.  It took me well into the month to get used to seeing men – who I see on a near-daily basis – sporting moustaches of various lengths and thicknesses.  The other day there was a news story on our hurricane-but-not-really-a-hurricane windstorm, and every single man interviewed was sporting a moustache.  I completely lost track of the story, I was so distracted by the moustaches.  I kept wondering if the interviewees were participating in Movember or if they had moustaches all the time.  I kept wondering if the moustaches were charitable, ironic, or earnest in nature.  I couldn’t concentrate at all.
What is it about moustaches?  They have the ability – with the exception of Magnum, P.I. – to make any man look extraordinarily creepy.  They make normal men’s faces into that which would bring to mind the warning “Do not approach”.  They bring to mind “70’s porn star” – although when I noted that recently, a Movember participant asked why and how I would be aware of that comparison, to which I respond get off your high horse.  There’s no porn like 70’s porn, and we all know it.  Also, regardless of porn, didn’t everyone in the 70’s have a moustache?  They were as common as gold medallions nestled in chest hair. 
Look!  Moustache, gold medallion, AND chest hair!  It’s the trifecta!
It’s funny how styles change.  These days, I associate moustaches with seedy criminals and/or a few select members of my extended family.  I’m not anti-facial hair.  I can pretty much get behind most facial hair styles, the exception being a soul patch, but moustaches?  They are the mom jeans of facial hair.

Okay, I’ll grant an exception for this guy.  I’m posting this picture for my mom, who thinks he is the bee’s knees.  What a fabulous daughter I am.  Even if I am now clinically insane from We Need A Little Christmas.

****Thanks to all the guys who participated in Movember, and thanks to all the people who donated to someone brave enough to make themselves look like a person who would make small children cry.  Prostate cancer research is important, and you’ve helped.  Thank you.****

Maybe we actually ARE in Kansas, Toto.

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Yesterday I was driving my kids to their yoga class when I came into a standstill traffic jam.  As the 140 km/hour wind gusted around our minivan, I wondered if, perhaps, the insane weather had anything to do with it.  The question was answered as I finally manoevered past the firetruck filled with men cleaning up the streetlight that had blown over onto the very busy street.  Are we in Kansas, Toto? 

I nervously drove home past downed trees and signs only to hear news updates that a) the entire downtown core had been shut down since windows had blown out of two high rise office buildings, and b) police were urging everyone to stay indoors.  OKAY. 

In other words, it was the perfect day to spend the afternoon putting up the Christmas tree.

The day before we had put up the various decorations – my husband had taken advantage of a mild day a few weeks ago to put up the outdoor lights – but the children could not wait another DAY before putting up the tree.  And here’s the thing about Christmas tree decorating with young children: while it is a wholesome, lovely, family activity, there are moments within the wholesome, lovely, family activity where I fear my head might explode.  Or something.  Because I answered “Not yet, lovey” approximately one thousand times in response to the question “Can we start decorating yet?” while I held a giant string of lights for my husband to very exactly wind around the tree.  Once the lights were just so, I let the kids loose on the decorations, to the detriment of a couple of them; nothing, however, that glue wouldn’t fix.  Things started to spin out of control as little wire hooks got lost, (fortunately) shatterproof balls bounced on the hardwood, and the dog flopped sadly in front of the tree, his spirit apparently broken by the upheaval and change in his life.  There’s a tree.  In the corner.  And the table moved.

The result, of course, is that we have a very Christmassy house, and two boys who will not stop talking about the tree.  Which is cute, of course, but a little tiring.  “Mom Mom Mom Mom Mom Mom what’s your favourite decoration Mom Mom Mom Mom Mom?  Let me show you what mine is.  Mom?  Mom?”

Mark was super excited about decorating.  I was slightly worried he would spin off the planet.  I was also worried if he stepped outside he would spin and blow off the planet.  See that little snowman and tree on the coffee table behind him?  My mother gave that to the boys last year.  It plays “We Need A Little Christmas”.  Is it possible my mother hates me?
Jake put every single one of his favourite decorations on three adjacent branches, including the one he made in kindergarten featuring him in a Santa hat.  Sadly, some of the decorations keep slipping off the overweighted branches, but I don’t have the heart to move them.  He wanted them all to be together, so they wouldn’t be lonely.
Every year I buy an ornament that represents something we did this year.  Since we went to Disneyland, I bought a Buzz Lightyear-and-Woody-in-a-stocking ornament.  “Everyone loves Woody!” Mark said happily.  Hehehe.  Woody.  Remember Mark’s obsession with beavers, and his stuffed animal named Beavery?  Jake has, apparently, caught beaver fever, as he received a large – very large – stuffed beaver for his birthday.  He named it Woody.  I love when the boys play so nicely and calmly together with their stuffies, especially when they talk about how much Woody loves Beavery.  I bet he does.  I just bet he does.
Don’t they look like they just calmly spent the afternoon sitting serenely by the Christmas tree, playing quiet card games?  As opposed to spastically running around the house, shrieking about Christmas?