Author Archives: Nicole Boyhouse

Hey hey, it’s almost Valentine’s Day

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Just in case you didn’t know, Valentine’s Day is only three days away!  Everywhere I turn, I hear that this year, this entire weekend is being referred to as Valentine’s Day Weekend.  So happy Valentine’s Day Weekend, everyone!  If my husband does not buy me a dozen red roses, a heart-shaped box of chocolates, and a giant stuffed incarcerated bear holding a placard stating that he is a Prisoner of Love, I shall leave him.
So many people get very worked up about Valentine’s Day gifts and what to buy and what they are expecting and I had better get a fancy gift or NO MORE SEX.  I’m not actually one of those people; in fact at one point in my more fiery youth I had extreme disdain for anything as pedestrian as Valentine’s gifts, if a boyfriend should have dared to purchase something heart shaped I would have had to break up with him because it would be like he didn’t know me at all.  Oh, the fires of youth. 

I’m not that fiery girl anymore, but I do feel that Valentine’s Day can be silly and inane; after all, does an expensive bouquet or jewellery or lingerie actually indicate the level of romance and love in a relationship?

I’m not a total grinch, despite the fact that my husband and I do not exchange gifts or go out on Valentine’s Day.  I did buy a bag of pink and red wrapped Hershey’s kisses and I do plan to share them.  I also enthusiastically assisted the children in the making of Valentines for their classes – Jake was especially excited to make a glittery card for his teacher, because, as he informed me gravely, if there is one thing she likes, it’s BLING.  Good to know for end of year gifts, I say.  As well, this weekend will see a massive baking spree resulting in many, many heart shaped sugar cookies, because if there is one thing I love about holidays, it is the baking of thematically-shaped cookies. 


While the boys were making their class valentines, they also zipped off a couple of pictures for me:

Me and Mark, on a snowy day.  My hair has lovely volume.

Me and Jake, standing in a sprinkler.  “Usually I make your hair orange,” he said, “But I thought you might enjoy it pink.”  Alarmingly, he is quite accurate as my hair really is pretty orange these days.

With pictures like that, who could ask for anything else?

The other day I was in the checkout at the grocery store when an elderly man, clearly hard of hearing, spoke very loudly into my general vicinity, “DO YOU HAVE A VALENTINE’S DISPLAY?  A DISPLAY FOR VALENTINE’S DAY?”  The cashier seemed a bit confused and so I spoke to the man, directing him to the display of chocolates and cards located near the front entrance.  “DO THEY HAVE THOSE POT OF GOLD CHOCOLATES?  I WANT SOME OF THOSE POT OF GOLD CHOCOLATES FOR VALENTINE’S DAY.”  I told him I thought there were a number of Pot of Gold chocolates to choose from.  “GOOD.  BECAUSE I NEED TO GET SOME THOSE POT OF GOLD CHOCOLATES.”

I thought about that for a while.  I wondered if he was buying chocolates for his wife, because he always bought her Pot of Gold chocolates for Valentine’s Day; maybe she liked having an assortment.  Did she like the kind with nuts, or maybe she liked to be surprised with different combinations of caramel or nougat.  Maybe they ate the chocolates together, talking about which they liked best, the coffee flavoured or the ones with almonds.  Maybe it was something he had been doing for decades.

And that’s when I thought that Valentine’s Day is not silly and inane.  A small gesture like getting someone’s favourite chocolates can be more meaningful and special than anything.  I thought about that old man in the grocery store; I thought that if my husband and I were still sharing a bag of Hershey’s kisses forty years from now, what a beautiful Valentine’s Day that would be.

"Wow, you’re way cooler than my mom!"

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One of the characteristics of a stay at home mom is the propensity to wear jeans on every occasion.  Ultimately, though, those jeans wear out and one may find oneself splitting a knee wide open on one’s cozy faded pair while kneeling on the hardwood, attempting to extract many Lego pieces from under the couch, with the dubious help of a five year old.  And so it was that I found myself in the store at which I have purchased most of my jeans, the store which some of you may remember of the “bad butt” fame.
Some of you may wonder why I would continue to patronize such a store, but I will remind you all that it is difficult to find a good fitting pair of jeans.  For me, either jeans have too much stretch and end up baggy and sagging by noon, or they have too little stretch and I can’t move.  Either they are so low cut I am constantly showing the world more than they probably want to see, or they are so high cut they pinch my, shall we say, loose skin from my childbearing years.  So the fact that I found jeans that not only fit well but are extremely comfortable completely negates the fact that I was commiserated with about my “bad butt”.  I am not that fragile; the salesgirls could probably have called me an ugly stupid whore and I still would have gone back to buy more jeans. 
As I entered the store a cute and perky salesgirl came to help me, and I answered her necessary questions as to size, colour preferences, and fit.  To the latter, I answered only that – recalling the Self Esteem Crisis of 2010 – I would try anything but skinny jeans.  She smiled and turned to choose a pair from the display, saying, “I think you’ll really like these.  My mom has a pair and she totally loves them!”
That was discouraging. 
I told myself that maybe her mom was really hip and cool, but ultimately I know the truth.  I remember, years ago, having coffee with a girlfriend from prenatal class.  Our firstborns were still infants then, and we had noticed the appearance of skinny jeans in our favourite stores.  My girlfriend expressed concern that in a few years perhaps skinny jeans would be the only choice at such places, and said, “If that happens, what are we going to do?  I don’t want to start shopping at Tan Jay.”  We laughed, images of us pushing strollers wearing matching burgundy velour tracksuits or high waisted beige slacks going through our heads.  It seems less funny now.
Well, at least I’m not wearing these:
Image from NBC.
Addendum: I did find a great pair of jeans, but they weren’t the recommended Mom pair.  So, win?  Also, I was informed by my cute perky salesgirl that with the purchase of my jeans I could get a top at half price.  I looked at the various selection and thought maybe the “Justin’s Girl” and “I Heart Vampires” tops were not quite appropriate, so I passed.

Speaking of commercials…

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How about that Superbowl?  Actually, the only commercials I saw were for local businesses and upcoming shows on CTV, since – for reasons that I truly do not understand – the network tapes over all the blockbuster commercials and instead runs their own.  As you can imagine, this is the source of much agitation in my house, and so this year after the kickoff my husband recorded the game while we ate dinner and then later watched it and fast forwarded through the commercials, thus sparing me from the annual diatribe against CTV and every person associated with it.  I essentially boycott CTV just because of the mental suffering they put me through every year.  I’m not even sure why this takes on the importance that it does, except that last year the commercials for CTV’s coverage of the 2010 Olympic Games! made me a little crazy.
Of course, watching the game delayed has its disadvantages too.  My husband looked over at me on my laptop.
Husband:  If you see any scores, don’t tell me.  I don’t want to know.  Make sure you don’t tell me.
Me: Okay. (seconds later) Hey, Slash is going to be on the half-time show.
Husband:  AAARRRGGHH!  Don’t tell me anything.
Me:  It’s the half-time show, not the score.
Husband:  AAARRRGHHHH!  Don’t tell me the score.
Good times.  Personally I didn’t care much about the actual game but I did think it would be nice if the Packers won a Superbowl without Brett “I’m-going-to-photograph-my-junk-and-then-send-it-to-you” “Do-U-Like-2-ParT?” Favre.  Guys, take note: if you are trying to charm a woman, do not send pictures of your penis to her.  No woman wants to see that.  We would rather see almost every other body part, including the soles of your feet.  Gross.  Not to mention this is Brett Favre.  Not to slag on my gender, but I’m guessing there are thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, of women who would sleep with Brett Favre just because he is Brett Favre.  No need to send pictures of your dick-in-a-box.  Okay?
The game was pretty good, although I thought about nachos through most of it, and was sad because I had nothing to make nachos with, which is a Superbowl Fail if there ever was one.  My husband was cheering for Green Bay and I worried about his blood pressure with every dropped pass.
Husband:  Steelers have the ball, there’s a minute left.  Wow, if Roethlisberger pulls this off, he is going to be a legend.  He’ll be remembered as a hero.
Me: Rather than as a rapist?
So I am happy that the Steelers didn’t win, despite my really meh attitude toward the game.  Were you cheering for anyone in particular?  Did you watch the game?

Wherein I lose my zen talking about Nutella.

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I spend many, many hours a week thinking about food.  I spend hours grocery shopping and putting away groceries, hours preparing meals and cleaning up after meal preparation, hours baking bread and muffins and cookies, hours slicing up fruit and vegetables for school snacks.  I spend a lot of time planning what the kids are going to eat and I feel I am very knowledgeable about nutrition and health.  That is why when I read articles like this one about a woman suing Nutella for wrongful advertising of their product – specifically the claim that Nutella is part of a nutritious breakfast – I feel like the apocalypse is coming. 
Clearly some people simply have a high need for attention that only a high-profile lawsuit can bring.  The lawsuit claims that Nutella contains sugar and saturated fat – which is true – and that it is shown advertised alongside fruit, juice, and whole wheat bread as part of a healthy breakfast – also true – and that together, those are contributing to the North American childhood obesity epidemic.  The lawsuit demands a corrective advertising campaign, and that all earnings from such advertising should be returned to the consumer.  The consumer who, evidently, purchased Nutella in the belief that their lives would like those of the Nutella commercials, with happy, healthy, sporty children being fed by their happy, healthy, sporty mothers. 
I really want to believe the best of people.  I truly want to believe that people are basically good and making the best independent decisions for their children that they are capable of making.  What I do not want to believe is that there is someone out there who was shocked when she, apparently, learned from friends that Nutella was high in sugar and fat.  I guess you would need to learn this from friends if you were completely unable to read the label. 
I have Nutella in my cupboard.  Clearly we don’t eat it very often because I noticed it expired in December 2009, and I will be throwing it out after writing this, but I have purchased Nutella.  As a treat.  At no point did I think that eating Nutella straight out of the jar would be a great breakfast, just as I don’t think that eating Cocoa Puffs or similar to be a great breakfast.  But then, I’m not a moron, and I am able to read nutritional information. 
As an aside, nutritionally Nutella is not that much different from peanut butter, which is a staple in our house, my children being PB&J aficionados.  Per one tablespoon serving, Nutella and peanut butter have the same amount of calories, same amount of fibre, same amount of iron.  Peanut butter has one gram more protein and three grams more fat.  Nutella has 0.5 grams more saturated fat.  Neither have trans fats.  Nutella has 11 grams of sugar per serving, peanut butter has 1, keeping in mind that a glass of milk has 12 grams of sugar.  Essentially, having a breakfast of Nutella on toast would not be that much different from having peanut butter on toast, and if that was served with juice, milk, and fruit?  Not too bad. 
It is very important to do the best for our children in terms of nutrition.  I cook healthy meals every day but allow for treats as well.  Lawsuits like this infuriate me because they waste resources, they are obviously desperate bids for money and the spotlight, and my god, people, if you’re too stupid to read nutritional information then you are too stupid to be taking up valuable space in the news when there are so many more important issues to worry about.
What is really enraging is the inherent belief that purchasing an item will give you the life that you see on a commercial.  Do consumers really believe that their mornings will be smiling, hearty, and unrushed with the purchase of Nutella?  Do they think that the Pillsbury dough boy will pop out of their vacuum packed containers of biscuits and help with dinner, and the Hamburger Helper guy will kick a ball with their kids while they prepare their ground beef meal?  Perhaps these same consumers purchase Cialis in the hopes that they too will be late arriving to the symphony due to newly reawakened unbridled sexual passion.  I guess anything is possible.

Groundhogs, The Bachelor and male pattern baldness.

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Certain special days do not translate well for everyone.  For example, Robbie Burns Day – does anyone who is not of Scottish heritage really want to eat haggis and listen to bagpipes?  I’m half Scottish and I certainly don’t want to – or President’s Day, which does not carry over very well to countries that are not the United States.  Groundhog Day does not really apply to this part of the country.  I understand that there are pagan, weather-lore, and even Catholic and Protestant Epiphany-based roots that contribute to Groundhog Day, but we all know that it simply does not apply if one is living in Calgary, as I am.
It’s amusing, though, because Calgarians WANT to participate in Groundhog Day, despite the fact that no groundhogs would ever live here and anyway it would be supreme animal cruelty to make one come out of its den in this climate to observe its shadow, and so there is someone whose job it is to dress up like a groundhog:
Photo from balzacbilly.com

Occasionally I will succumb to a severe lack of judgment, which is what happened the other night when I watched five minutes of the Bachelor.  The Bachelor is one of those cultural phenomena that seems to indicate society’s downfall.  It is, arguably, one of the worst anti-feminist piece of entertainment around.  Just the concept is terrible: women desperately competing to win the attention of a man and/or kickstart a modeling and/or reality television career.  It is one of the saddest things ever, and the fact that I watched a piece of it is sadder still, although I still believe that from a lemons-to-lemonade standpoint, a drinking game wherein viewers have a shot every time the phrase “I feel we have a real connection” is uttered would be the best possible scenario.  Of course, this would probably lead to death or, at the very least, severe alcohol poisoning, so perhaps not. 
But anyway I tuned in for a couple of minutes and discovered two things: a) a woman whose Nascar-racing fiancé – and father of her child – DIED was actually going to drive a Nascar, um, car because it was “something she needed to do”, and b) the bachelor who is currently on the show seems to be one of the stupidest people in the world, and I do not say that lightly. 
Yesterday I heard, and shared, a quote which I thought was funny: “The best way to hide male pattern baldness is to make a shit load of money.”  I thought it was an ironic commentary on the misguided importance placed on material wealth, but I fear I may have inadvertently caused hurt feelings.  NOTE TO MY BALDING MALE FRIENDS: smooches, guys, you all look great.  As a rule, hair is of minimal importance to women, unless of course you are wearing your hair in a mullet, in which case I have nothing further to say.  But if you still think that hair is important in physical attractiveness, then I invite you to observe this man:

Image from reelmovienews.com

So to summarize: hair is not important, but being stupid – as in the current “bachelor – IS.  Groundhog Day is today and Alberta is leading the world in humanely treating groundhogs, by wearing ridiculous costumes.  Happy Groundhog Day!

I never slept through Money Never Sleeps

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The boys had a day off of school today, and it went the way such days often go: with happiness distributed like a double bell curve, peaking in the mid-morning while pajamas are still on, bottoming out in the early afternoon, and then peaking again, after some activities instigated by myself, only to start the slippery slope back down again.  Mark has a love-hate relationship with days off: on the one hand, he enjoys the freedom to just play unrushed, but on the other hand he really misses the structure of school.  And I run a pretty structured house, it’s not all hippy-dippy around here; meals are eaten at the same time, bedtime and rising times are kept the same, clothes are still expected to be worn, as opposed to pajamas.  Mark started to spiral downwards right after lunch, becoming irritable and high-needs until I suggested he make Valentines for his class.  Glitter and sticker backings soon overtook the table and happiness reigned once more.
On Saturday night I watched Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps, which is remarkable for the sole reason that I watched it in its entirety and did not fall asleep.  I very rarely see the end – or middle – of movies because I generally fall asleep or, alternately, get bored and start reading, which means I have a very fuzzy view of most films released in the past ten years.  For example, the other night my husband was watching the movie Blow, which we had seen together a few years ago.  I watched a bit with him, unable to remember how it ended, only to discover that it has a very sad ending.  I watched the final scene with tears running down my face, while my husband reminded me that the man in question was a hardened, criminal drug lord, even if it was sad his daughter never visited him in prison.  It is surreal watching movies that you know, intellectually, that you have seen before but can only remember small snippets of.  The last movie I saw in a theatre was Pirates of the Caribbean Part Two, and I slept through nearly the whole thing, waking occasionally to see that weird guy with a squid head and a scene where Captain Jack was being chased around an island.  Although I may have dreamed that part.  Was Johnny Depp naked?  And feeding me grapes?  No?  Then I guess I dreamed it.
But Money Never Sleeps was an excellent movie; I would highly recommend it, especially if you are interested in financial markets.  If you aren’t, then I wouldn’t recommend it at all.  It was a very interesting and entertaining view of the 2008 market correction, and I found myself strangely attracted to Michael Douglas, which is nothing short of disturbing given that he is a senior citizen.  Evidently I’ve turned into my mother, who has always thought that Sam Elliott is the bee’s knees, and my response would be “Oh GOD, Mother, he is so OLD, how can you LIKE HIM?”  Well now.
My husband also loved Money Never Sleeps, which is not surprising given that the original Wall Street was a “motivating” movie for him.  Yes, my husband found Wall Street, greed is good, to be “motivating”.  I am not sure how I feel about that, but I guess it’s better than Rocky, or something of that genre.  Although a guy I once dated used to watch Rudy as a motivational movie.  He used to get so choked up in the part where the teammates bring their jerseys in “It’s for Rudy, Coach.”  I remember laughingly telling that story to a male co-worker, then noticed that HE was getting teary eyed as I talked about Rudy finally getting to play.  All of which is to say I just don’t understand.

Warning: This Post Written Under The Influence

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I am having one of those days where I seem to be on the go and busy all day, but investigation of the activities that have kept me on the go and busy all day is completely boring and depressing: I spent an hour grocery shopping and half that time putting the groceries away, I changed all the sheets and did four loads of laundry, it took me twenty minutes to clean up the dog’s fecal matter in the backyard, all the while I was marvelling at the sheer volume of said fecal matter.  I became extremely excited at the arrival of my new compression stockings, and I realized that I myself have become boring and depressing, due to my obsession with my freakishly bad varicose veins and impending surgery.  I’ve become like someone’s elderly aunt at a family dinner; the one who regales the company with tales of her varying, and revolting health complaints.  Will you have some more salad, Aunty?  No dear.  Remember my irritable bowel?  Well, raw vegetables really inflame it.  Well, would you like some dessert?  No dear.  Remember my acid reflux?  Sugars repeat on me all night long.  Of course, I don’t sleep anyway, due to my restless leg syndrome and hemorrhoids. 
Well, it’s Friday.  The upside of not drinking wine during the week anymore is that by the time Friday comes around, I’m delirious with anticipation.  So I’m drinking wine right now while writing, because it is 6:30 and I just couldn’t wait any longer.  Also the boys are performing science experiments with vinegar, dish soap, baking soda, and polyacrymolide crystals and, much as I love their scientific curiosity, by this time of the week such experiments feel very draining to what is left of my energy and sanity. 
Last night my husband, after a trying few weeks at work, announced to me that his new goal is to become a complete asshole.  How does one respond to that?  I informed him that he probably has already reached his goal; after all, if one’s GOAL is to become an asshole, that probably indicates that you already are one. 
Speaking of assholes, over the past two days I have witnessed no fewer than ten cars get stuck in the exact same spot in the exact same snowbank in the alley behind the school.  This week has seen a reprieve in the cold weather, and so the deep drifts have become soft and treacherous.  The first person I witnessed getting stuck was a friend of mine – NOT an asshole, I hasten to point out – and I sprinted over to help push him out.  He, and another dad who was assisting, vehemently protested against my help.  The neighbour who was spectating announced loudly that I was going to injure myself.  I’m not sure if I emanate an aura of extreme fragility or extreme incompetence, but in any case, I steered the car as the guys pushed.  Ah, chivalry.  I do appreciate it, although I have to remind my readers that I once fixed the gutters BY MYSELF in the pouring rain.  I am woman, hear me roar, and I am capable of pushing cars out of snowbanks.  I have also, on very rare occasions, mowed the lawn, although while growing up my father was concerned that if I operated a lawnmower I would surely sever my own foot off. 
I’m guessing this is enough tipsy randomness for one night.  I am off to pour myself another glass of wine, and possibly unclog some test tubes – in the writing of this post the experiments seem to have become ever more rowdy.  Happy Friday to you all, and stay tuned for next week’s posts where I will discuss a friend’s recent discoveries of her old copies of Sweet Valley High (remember the Dairi Burger?) and another friend and her school’s suspect fundraising endeavours.  Cheers!