Author Archives: Nicole Boyhouse

I’m going as a witch.

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My dog almost caught ANOTHER squirrel today in the exact same spot as the other day.  Either my dog has become an overnight hunting sensation or the squirrels that frequent our backyard are extremely dim-witted.

I have been busily preparing for our school’s Halloween Family Dance.  I’m happy to assist in this endeavor for two reasons: a) the coordinator is a very good friend of mine, and b) the Halloween Family Dance is, next to Christmas, the single greatest day of Mark’s calendar year.  He talks about it all year long.  Also, it IS very fun.  Costumes, dance music, and the whole thing is over at 9:00 pm.  That’s MY kind of a good time. 

It’s so fun to dress up.  Halloween is everyone’s favourite excuse to bring out the slutty wear and heavy makeup, which is, I think, a very fun activity.  But can we all agree that Halloween costumes have become TOO slutty?  I was searching for a Top Gun costume for my husband – SAUCY – which is unfortunately unavailable in his size and also unfortunately $72, which seems excessive to me.  Fortunately he promises to wear oil up his chest and wear tight jeans and aviators, as in the volleyball scene.  He also promises to walk in slow motion and flex a lot.  But not for the Halloween Family Dance.  For the Halloween Dance, he’s dressing up as a vampire.  But not a skanky vampire.  Just a normal one. 

Once I was on the costume website, though, I became interested in the costumes for women.  Almost all of those costumes seemed a little more appropriate for a private party, if you know what I mean.  I mean, I don’t think I could show up at the Halloween Family Dance wearing this:

although it would go nicely if I did actually purchase my husband a $72 Maverick outfit.  The market for slutty costumes is really mind boggling, to be honest.  Have you ever wanted to portray a skanky Wednesday Addams?  Here’s your chance!
The details are fuzzy here, but wasn’t Wednesday just a child?  This seems a bit perverse.  But what about this one:
What a feeling!  I think I’m going to wear this to the Halloween Family Dance, grab a chair, and start pouring water on myself.  That’s an appropriate thing to do, right?  There is a disturbing number of costumes based on Strawberry Shortcake characters:
This one is called Blueberry Muffin.  I will leave it at that.  But what about a character from that not-as-loved-as-the-Flintstones-but-still-kind-of-nostalgic TV show, the Jetsons?  Not Jane, not Judy, but ROSIE:
Rosie is the maid.  The ROBOT maid.  This is actually kind of amusing.  What if you’re more into Disney themes?  Yes, there are any number of slutty Alice in Wonderland costumes, slutty Queen of Hearts costumes, slutty Tinkerbell costumes, but this one is the winner, I think:

NEMO!!!

Dully enough, I’m going as a witch, and so I will not be purchasing any of those costumes.  On a final note, I have to share this with you:

Is there a market for this?  For a NOSE AND BEARD COMBO?  I feel violated on so many levels, just looking at this.  I mean, really?  I can almost see a nipple on this sexy Osama.  This sexy Osama with a NOSE AND BEARD COMBO.  I have a feeling that anyone purchasing this outfit would be instantly eligible for the no-fly list, as well as the OMG YOU ARE COMPLETELY TACKY AND HORRIFYING list.  If there is such a list.  There should be one.

The unknown can be a scary place for a squirrel

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On Saturday I woke up feeling tired and achy; everyone else in the house had more or less gone through this malady, and it finally caught me.  Let me tell you something: it pays to get sick on a Saturday.  I had a sick day like I have only dreamed of for years and years.  While my husband ran the ship, so to speak, I napped, grazed copiously all throughout the day, and lay on the couch watching two hours’ worth of Corner Gas reruns.  I rallied only long enough to make – and eat – a batch of guacamole, which I swear had a medicinal effect on me because I was feeling well enough to resume normal activities the very next day.

One of those activities was baking pumpkin loaf (which turned out beautifully – watch for the recipe to be posted over at the cooking blog, which I seem to be plugging a lot today).  As I stirred the wets into the dries, I idly looked out the window to see my dog chasing a squirrel.  The squirrel was on the wall of our detached garage; the dog was barking at it and running back and forth.  “Good luck, Barkley,” I sighed, “You’ll never catch a squirrel.”

If this was a movie about bloodthirsty hounds, ominous music would have started playing.  As Barkley chased the probably idiotic squirrel back and forth along the garage wall, my husband stood beside me watching.  “I think he’s got it cornered,” he said, “I think I should probably call him in.”  I did not realize that my mastermind of a Labradoodle actually was exhausting the squirrel as a hunting technique, until seconds after my husband uttered that remark, he yelled “He’s got it in his mouth!”

And there was my fluffy, Gund-like dog with a squirrel in his mouth, shaking it back and forth.

My husband ran to the door to call him.  I, always good in an emergency, started shrieking “BARKLEY!  TREAT!  TREAT!” as I shook the treat container frantically, hoping that he would let the squirrel go BEFORE coming into the house for a treat, which he did.  Nervously, I went outside to make sure that there were no squirrel corpses in the backyard.  Fortunately, no squirrels were harmed in this drama.  However, the squirrel had evidently decided that the best place for it to be was back on the garage wall.  Natural selection seems to be at play here.  Eventually it scampered back up a tree, evidently leaving its scent behind as Barkley spent the rest of the day circling around the yard, standing at attention at the bottom of the trees.

Beneath this fluffy, adorable exterior lies a bloodthirsty hound.  I’m actually kind of impressed.  I’m looking at him in a whole new light.  Perhaps this is not unrelated to my attraction to Dr. Hunt on Grey’s? 

Wide Open Spaces….Room To Make The Big Mistakes

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Yesterday I spent the afternoon volunteering in the boys’ class.  They had an in-class field trip where they have a visitor come in armed with materials and stories and enrichment activities – in this case, the activities were related to their “Building” unit.  Each child was to build a three dimensional zoo animal and enclosure – along the lines of a diorama.  Dioramas!  Fun!  They were looking for parent volunteers and so off I went. 

As a side note: I volunteer extensively for the school but I try to avoid field trips.  I tend to get anxious that I’m going to accidentally lose a child, or one of those calamities that are listed on the waivers will come to pass.  But an in-class field trip – that sounded more along the lines of where my abilities lie.  Also my kids wanted me to come, and since they make up over 10% of the class, I thought I had better step up.

Here are the finished products:

This is Mark’s rhinoceros enclosure. 

This is Jake’s lion enclosure.  There is a complicated explanation for all the string,
feathers, and nesting stuff.  It has to do with food and bedding.
After school, I was chatting in the playground with the other moms and we were all relating amusing anecdotes about volunteering with in-class projects.  I mentioned one little girl who kept using the glue stick on the materials to be glued, rather than on the cardboard to which the materials were to be glued.  The results were that a googly eye was shoved deep into the glue stick, by accident; that same glue stick became covered with cotton from a cotton ball, little pieces of nesting materials were stuck on the glue stick and also mysteriously stuck on my sweater.  One mom smiled and said “That’s what I love about letting kids explore things on their own.  That’s how they learn!  From making mistakes!”  I nodded, smiling, but inwardly I was not totally on side.  After all, I did encourage the little girl to use the glue stick properly, rather than smearing the gluey cotton all over the place. 
In theory, I do agree.  I do agree with letting children learn from their mistakes, and I do agree with allowing them to experience natural consequences of their actions.  However, I do not agree with this all the time.  I do not agree with this when three other children have to use the glue stick that is now covered with cotton ball remnants, rendering it unusable.  I do not agree when there are googly eyes jammed far into the glue stick, causing the glue stick itself to explode over its plastic tubing and result in the cap getting glued onto it, resulting in no one being able to remove the cap.  This is school property, people.  My job as volunteer is to make sure that the building materials are not ruined by the building project.  And yes, it is just a glue stick.  But in these days of education cuts, we need all the glue sticks we can get.
Obviously, I opted to put my children in the regular, rather than the Montessori, stream at school.
But I did think about it for a while.  Do I allow my children room to make mistakes?  Am I too rigid?  Should I be allowing them to suffer more consequences?  I like to think I allow them freedom to do so, but do I really? 
I tend to be a person who has rules for my children; rules that they are expected to follow in terms of behaviour, household chores, and manners.  But maybe I don’t allow them to make enough mistakes.  Maybe I’m hindering them in some way.  Maybe one day my kids will be seeing a therapist and complaining about my rigidity. 
But maybe not.  They seem to be okay.  Plus, check out the game they played this morning before school!
Can you tell what this is?

They are animal towers!

It might look obscene, but they were very complex and required balancing and spatial skills.  Creativity!  Maybe the kids are all right, despite my rules and regulations.  They figured out how to balance them all on their own, toppling a few towers in their endeavours.  So I guess they are allowed to make mistakes.  Maybe they won’t need therapy after all.


So THIS is why people love the fall.

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Happy Thanksgiving, my Canadian friends!  I hope you had a lovely long weekend.  I spent the long weekend at my in-laws’.

Pause.

I’m all about positivity, and so I will leave it at that and simply post this picture of me eating grapes.

I seem to have my mouth full in that picture, either that or I’m not willing to show my purple stained teeth that possibly have Concord skins stuck in them.

An airport is the single greatest place to people watch, I think.  We flew, rather than drove, this weekend and I amused myself by watching the world go by.  I also like to examine local fashions when I’m in a different place; I like to feel like I’m some kind of fashion anthropologist.  While I was admiring other people’s tall boots and sweaters, I noticed a woman wearing the shortest dress I had ever seen.  When she turned around I saw that it was evidently homemade from a light cotton imprinted with kittens.  Then I saw a woman who looked extremely stylish from behind, with a lovely fall jacket and long scarf.  When she turned around, her lovely jacket was unbuttoned to show a gigantic, overstuffed fanny pack.  I speak on behalf of purses everywhere when I beseech us all to ban the fanny pack. 

I woke up so exhausted this morning that I actually went back to bed rather than heading for the yoga studio; that’s something that almost never happens and so I’ve been feeling off kilter all day.  I can’t figure out my exhaustion; I’ve certainly had a lot of sleep in the past couple of days.  Either I’m fighting some sort of virus or I’m just completely burnt out from attempting to keep a pleasant demeanor in the face of passive aggressive criticisms.  I tried to regain my normal energy by taking on a number of tasks today – sorting and labelling photos, baking banana bread, cleaning the house, making salsa and kale chips.  While I had the kale happily dehydrating in the oven, I decided to rally the boys and rake the leaves.  With raking comes jumping in the leaves:

Why yes, Mark is wearing his swimming goggles in order to “swim” through the leaves, why do you ask?

We also did some ladybug rescuing:

 It’s on his hand, can you see it?

How about now?

While I’m at it, here’s some pictures of our scarecrows with our STILL BLOOMING flowers.  This has been the mildest fall I can remember.  This must be what people mean when they say they love fall.  Normally I think of fall as one week of howling winds tearing all the leaves off the trees before winter sets in, but this year has been so beautiful. 

My scarecrow is the girl.  Her name is Rosie.  My husband’s scarecrow is named Dummy Jimmy Too Tall.  I think Mark named him.

The boys’ scarecrows are named Idiot and TV.

Usually the leaves on the Mayday tree turn brown from frost and then fall off rapidly, but this year has been so mild that they are actually changing colour. 

And that, I think, is enough to be thankful for. 

Dental Scaling or Pelvic Exam? Survey says…

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Last week I was at the dentist for a checkup and for scaling.  The word “scaling” gives me the chills.  I conducted a brief and informal survey among girlfriends, regarding which they would rather have: dental scaling or a pelvic exam.  The results were approximately 75/25 in favour of pelvic exams.  Of course, this isn’t a scientifically accurate survey.  The sample size was small and not representative of the total population, but I strongly agreed with the majority here.  I would much, much rather endure the awkwardness of the bright lights and scootching my bottom down a little, and even the weird retractor thing, than have my teeth scaled. 

People have a tendency to quote statistics, with absolute certainty, in order to prove a point.  I could say, forcefully, that 75% of women prefer pelvic exams to dental scaling, but I would be incorrect.  A survey of less than twenty of my girlfriends does not constitute an unbiased, random sampling, and the sample size is much less than what is considered statistically significant.  This is one of my all-time pet peeves: the quoting of inaccurate statistics.  Wow, I’m really a nerd.  It’s like I’m one step away from pulling out my mechanical pencil and pocket calculator in order to do my own calculations.  Show me the data behind your statistics.

Where was I?  Oh yes, the dentist.  I dread it every time.  My mouth resembles a crime scene afterwards, and while I realize that flossing more regularly would help matters, I still believe strongly that putting a sharp metal object forcefully against soft tissue is going to result in bleeding no matter what.  My real issue is that I’m a people pleaser when it comes to my hygienist, and I end up being less than truthful when it comes to my flossing habits.  There is a scene that I relate to in my friend Michal’s short film Arithmetic, where Annie is reclined in the dentist chair, blood spattered all over her paper bib, and the caption is something along the lines of “There are two people Annie lies to: the dentist and her mother.”  I’m like that.  Not that I lie to my mother.  (Hi Mom, if you’re reading this!).  Hey, did I mention I was an extra in that film?  I did?  Oh.

By the way, I KNOW I have to floss more, but knowing is not the same thing as doing, as anyone can tell you who has found themselves with a mysteriously empty bag of potato chips, a bloated stomach, and crumbs all over their shirt.

I also had to take the dog to the vet for a checkup and vaccinations.  Canine vaccinations are the only type of vaccinations I will ever mention on this blog.  Have you ever noticed that there is very little debate over getting your dog vaccinated?  Or maybe there is debate and I just haven’t noticed.  (Note: I don’t want to know.)  Anyway, I took the dog to the vet and – some of you may remember his weight struggles (he’s fat) – he lost weight!  He lost five pounds which is almost ten percent of his body weight!  I was so happy, and I expected great praise and accolades, which did not materialize.  Yes, the vet said, it’s good that he’s lost weight but he should really loose a couple more pounds.  I was completely crestfallen.  Where are my accolades?  The vet, furthermore, informed me that Barkley needs to have MORE dental chews (apparently he and I have plaque in common) but that I should deduct the number of calories from his dental chews from his total daily caloric intake.

I agreed with the vet, but internally I thought no fucking way.  There is no way I am going to start doing a calorie count for my fucking dog.  “It’s easy!” the vet said, giving Barkley a small treat, “These are ten calories each.  Just deduct that from his food.”  I spend enough time calculating my own calories, I do not need to worry about my dog’s intake.  The thought of dividing my dog’s food into little ten calorie portions in order to deduct that amount from his food total makes my head spin and, quite frankly, makes me fear for society.  Is this where we are going, people?  Are we going to expand our obsession with weight loss to include our furry friends?  Because I do not want to go there.  

New Haircut (Regrets, I’ve had a few)

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Friday night I had some girlfriends over to watch The Breakfast Club and eat that dinner beloved by women everywhere: the dinner made up of appetizers.  In related news, I think I may have overdosed on cheese products.  The Breakfast Club is one of my all-time favourite movies, but when we watched it this time, we all started to wonder about our own children and their upcoming teenage years.  That was a little unnerving.  Will my children be a part of the physics club and hide flare guns in their lockers due to anxiety about an F in shop class?  Do they even offer shop class anymore?  I’m pretty sure they won’t be on the wrestling team and taping other kids’ butt cheeks together, but I suppose you never know.

The next day I had a hair appointment and, despite all common sense, advice from friends, and knowledge about myself and my well-authenticated fear of change, I ended up with 2 1/2 inches less hair.  It started innocently enough; I wanted to refresh my colour as it had faded to a rather unattractive orange, and I had a discussion with my hair therapist (that IS her job title) about my fears of turning into Mullet Lady.  Well, she said, why don’t we give it a little cut then?  Nothing drastic.  Remember Starsky and Hutch?  DO IT. 

It’s HARD to take pictures of yourself.  Or, it’s hard for me. 
Regrets, I’ve had a few.  So as I was practicing non-attachment – it’s only hair, it grows, in a month it won’t be falling out of my teeny tiny bun – I attended a family dinner at my parents’ house.  Now, here is a bit of background information for those of you who don’t already know this.  Back in January I decided to give up my nightly glass of wine.  I now only partake in wine consumption on evenings that I do not have to get up early for yoga the next day; in other words, Friday and Saturday evenings only.  (I do practice on Sunday mornings, but not until 9:00, and there is only so much one can expect from oneself.)  Yesterday, my mother asked if I wouldn’t like a glass of wine, and when I declined, she looked at me incredulously and asked if I was pregnant.  Pregnant!  My sister-in-law suggested that since I wasn’t huddled in a corner in the fetal position and sobbing, I probably WASN’T pregnant.  She knows me well.
It did remind me of the pregnancy scare I had a few years back.  My kids were one and two years old.  I hadn’t had my period in months.  I had taken a number of pregnancy tests; they were all negative.  Still, it’s hard to ignore a symptom like not having your period for months.  So one day I was grocery shopping with the two little guys in the giant Superstore cart, and I picked up yet another home pregnancy test.  The most accurate home pregnancy test! the box claimed.  I wrangled my kids into their five-point car seats, I started to drive home, and it hit me: what if I took the test and it was positive?  What then?  I would have to use the back row of the minivan.  The kids would have to share a room.  I would lose all remaining vestiges of my sanity.  I already had a full double stroller, what would I do with a third child?  I could barely get out of the house with two children, how would I manage with three?  I had a complete panic attack and pulled the car over, put my head down on the steering wheel, and sobbed. 
I got my period the next day.  I also had validation that two was the perfect number for me.

State of Wonder, Gifts, My New Unpaid Career

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Here’s a little piece of advice: if you are a stay-at-home mom whose children are in school, and you are worried about how to spend your time, try signing up for numerous volunteer commitments, each of which isn’t too time consuming on its own, but when added together fill all your days with unpaid busyness.  I’m finding my days are just flying by.  Who knew?  It’s also been incredibly warm – hot even – and beautiful here, and so I’m completely stunned that October is in TWO DAYS, and also, did I move someplace with a good climate without knowing it?

I’m not complaining though – my life is pretty fun and flexible and despite the fact that I’m writing an advice column for our community newsletter – I kid you not, I have advice to give – I still managed to have coffee with two good friends this week and I finished reading “State of Wonder”, which I recommend highly.  Mostly I want to talk about it to someone.  It’s a fascinating book that brings up the question “How old is too old to have children”?  In the book, a doctor is studying a tribe in the Amazon, the women of which continue to give birth until they die, the average life span being around 70.  The thought of having a baby’s head coming out of a 70 year old vagina is kind of squeamy, to me, although I guess the pregnancy hormones would make for some luscious old-lady hair.  But seriously, how old is too old?  I don’t have any answers; although a girlfriend and I have discussed this, relative to our older husbands.  Since men don’t really have a biological clock, not really, is there a point where they are “too old” to have children?  Way back in my long-ago youth, I was a candy striper at an old age facility, and I can’t really imagine any of those people in an expectant parent state, but at what point do we get there?  Discuss.

I had an interesting conversation with regards to gifts and spouses.  I’m finding it’s not uncommon for spouses to not give gifts to each other at birthdays, Christmas, etc.  My husband and I do give each other gifts, although the gifts are generally not surprises.  Mostly I like to state my preferences for certain items, and am sure to let him know what size I wear.  His birthday is coming up, and although almost every single year I give him golf balls and a golf shirt, this year is going to be different!  It won’t be surprising to him though.  I suppose we could skip the whole gift wrap and opening steps, since we both tend to be specific on the things that we like, but what would be the fun in that? 

So here are our discussion topics for the day: a) how old were you when you had children, and how old is “too old” to have children, and b) do you and your spouse give each other gifts, and if so, are they ever a surprise?