Author Archives: Nicole Boyhouse

Halfway to 70, or Taking the A Train to Cougarville

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Tomorrow is my birthday! I am not at all shy about telling people it is my birthday. If it didn’t make me look like I have a mental illness, I would walk around with a tiara and a “Birthday Girl” button, or possibly even a sandwich board. I love my birthday. I don’t mind the whole “getting older” part because hey, who wants to be dead? Not me. So here I am, a day away from being halfway to 70, which is pretty much taking the A Train to Cougarville.

Obviously I am on that train because yesterday I was a volunteer with Jake’s class for their field trip to the firehall! The firehall! Nicole likes firefighters! A friend was telling me about her daughter’s field trip and how great it was with the female firefighter leading the tour; inwardly I was like I am going to be so ripped off if the tour is led by a female firefighter. I mean, girl power and everything, but come on. And what do you know? The firefighters were all male and attractive, which makes for a happy field trip. Also I got to live out my lifelong fantasy of putting on the outfit – is it called an outfit? I don’t know. The boots and pants and coat and things. You know what I’m saying. – plus the oxygen tank, all of which gave me even more respect for the firefighters, male and female, because that gear is HEAVY. I could not take five steps in all that gear let alone RESCUE PEOPLE and carry those heavy hoses and whatnot. I actually said, yes I did, that the firefighters must be in good shape. I said this out loud to a firefighter, which really puts me on Destination Cougarville.

It’s a good thing my loving husband is such a confident man, to withstand my chatter about the firehall. For the record, he is way more attractive than a thousand firefighters put together, firefighting gear notwithstanding. I’m a lucky girl. Or lucky middle aged woman, whichever.

Oh yes, and the kids learned about fire safety.

Ah, but for every high there must be a come down, and so after the firehall visit I had a dentist appointment. A friend posted a poll recently: what would you rather do, have a pap test or go to the dentist. I will tell you, people, I would much rather put my feet in the stirrups with one of those awkward paper gowns on than have my teeth scraped for thirty minutes. Yikes! My very sweet hygienist said, at one point, “You really love that red wine, don’t you?” Yes. I do.

So, it’s a busy busy week, what with MY BIRTHDAY, and a firehall visit, and the dentist, and now tonight is the start of soccer season! It’s actually warm and sunny which feels strange – where is the snow? Where are the gale force winds? So I had better look out my turquoise windbreaker track suit and hop on the train to Soccer Mom Town. I have a lot of cheering to do.

It’s a good thing

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It’s Saturday morning, and the house is so peaceful – it’s just me and the dog; the kids are at swimming lessons, the house is filled with the scents of bread and chocolate chip cookies. Someone recently referred to me as a “Martha Stewart” and I didn’t respond right away because I needed to figure out if that person was being sarcastic or not. Apparently she was not being sarcastic but was referring to my love of baking things; clearly she was not referring to my complete inability to perform any task that requires artistic or decorative skills. Because I’m pretty sure if Martha tried to decorate cupcakes, they would look more like edible art and less like someone visually impaired and with only one hand attacked them with frosting and sprinkles.

Also I think Martha would have a much better craft supply storage solution than put everything on top of the fridge and hope that an avalanche does not occur while cooking.


Notice the various crafts and colouring pages.


The fridge is generally covered with three or four layers of paper at any given time.


As should be obvious by this point, I have one child who is really into crafts and colouring, and one who is sort of into crafts and colouring, with the result that the house is overflowing with art. So here’s my question: what does one do with it all? I have two giant containers in the basement where I keep a LOT of it, but eventually I smuggle piles out to the recycle bin. So what do you do with all of your children’s art, and how do you decide what to keep? While I’m at it, how do you deal with clutter?

I’m a baskets sort of person. Note the Bakugan stuck on the metal part of the fireplace. Classy touch.

But this is what it looks like under one of my living room end tables. NOT SO GOOD. I think the Hungry Hungry Hippos got so hungry they detached themselves from the game and died a slow death. I actually think that having an Attractively Decorated Home is incompatible with children. Or maybe it’s just me and my filled-to-overflowing-with-children’s-art-and-toys home.

Awww! So cute. This has nothing to do with clutter, but I think he’s looking for a walk. Enjoy the weekend!

Peace, Love, and Happiness

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Last week the 1973 version of Jesus Christ Superstar was on television, which I watched with interest as I saw Tim Neeley reprise his role on the last tour of the play, a few years back. Almost immediately, I had the song “What’s the Buzz (Tell Me What’s Happening)” stuck in my head, and it stayed there for several days. After a few days of this I started to consider various hippie slang that should – by all rights – make a comeback: What’s the Buzz, of course, along with its counterpart Don’t Be Such a Buzzkill, as well as the ultimate complimentary term, Far Out! As I was watching, Tim Neeley hit a very high note, and I realized that Adam Lambert’s style is completely imitative.

Is nothing original anymore?

Clearly that is true about style, given that I have noticed, disconcertingly, that it seems to be fashionable to tightly roll up your pants. Tightly rolling up your pants! I was someone who tightly folded, then carefully rolled, my acid wash jeans back in the late eighties, and the thought of that particular style coming back to the forefront is distressing to say the least. It wasn’t a flattering style then. It is even less so now. Youth of today, take a stand against this, for the good of the nation.

Back when I was an angst-ridden teenager, around the time of the rolled jeans, I thought that it would be amazing – far out, even – to come of age in the late 60’s, early 70’s; all that revolutionary thought, the electricity of change. They sure did know how to make a good rock opera back then: all the hippie singers and dancers arriving on that decrepit bus, the funky music, the obviously high and very sweaty cast. What a time to be alive, I used to think, with my rose coloured outlook and my youth and my idealism.

As an adult, however, I now look back on that time with revulsion: the promiscuity, the venereal disease, the hallucinogens, the lack of hygiene. Maybe because it’s my birthday next week, and I am officially entering what used to be known as middle age, and back then in the era of peace, love, and happiness, I would be someone who would not have been trusted, a total square, despite my very strong dedication to a life of peace, love and happiness. Maybe I’m just being a buzzkill.

Mmm…George Clooney

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Have you seen the movie Up in the Air? If not, I recommend you do so; it is an excellent movie. I say this with authority because I actually stayed awake through the entire film. This is notable because I’m famous – in my own small circle, anyway – for falling asleep and missing the ending of the majority of movies I see. Last weekend we watched Sherlock Holmes and I found the plot not at all engaging, and although I think Robert Downey Jr. is QUITE attractive, I fell asleep an hour before it ended. I have seen the beginning of many, many movies but I’m generally quite fuzzy on how they end, due to my movie-induced narcolepsy. Action movies are the worst. Car chases! Explosions! Special effects! They all result in me passed out on the couch.

The last movie I saw in an actual movie theatre was – hang on to your hats! – Pirates of the Caribbean Part Two, and, of course, I fell asleep probably ten minutes into the movie, waking up intermittently to scenes of scary looking pirate-y things with the arm of the seat jammed uncomfortably in my side. A friend recently asked why I didn’t go to the movie theatre more often – don’t I have babysitters – and really, my reasoning is that my couch is a much less expensive and much more comfortable place to fall asleep.

So that was a highlight of the weekend, me watching a movie from start to finish. Also happening around my house: the Masters. Do you live with a golfer? Or a golf fan? I seem to have married someone who is both of those and the Masters takes on importance even greater than the US Open. He has been following it this weekend, simultaneously wishing he himself was on the golf course – icy winds and melting snow keeping him from doing so – and frequently calling me to the television to watch a particularly good shot. Are they called shots? I’m not sure. Paying attention to the Masters, and other sporting events, is something I do to keep my marriage vital. That is my Public Service Announcement for the day: for a strong marriage, at least feign interest in sporting events. My husband’s related PSA would likely have something to do with providing crazy wife with all the wine she wants, which probably explains why the Scouts looked so excited when they arrived at our house for their bottle drive this weekend. Hooray, our camping trip is funded! A very amusing part of the Masters has been my husband repeatedly muttering expletives about Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods: spokesperson for skankiness everywhere. Speaking of which: have you seen that Nike commercial? Ew. That is all I have to say. Ew, ew, ew.

On that note, I will sign off. Here’s to a positive and happy week! Hope you all had a lovely weekend.

Gone With The April Snowstorm Wind

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Right now it’s snowing, big thick flakes; our entire yard is blanketed, the whitened trees swaying violently in the wind. After dinner the boys went outside with umbrellas and snow boots, running and screaming with joy in the wind. Wouldn’t it be nice to view an April snowstorm like that, like an unlooked-for and unexpected gift? Instead of a big giant soggy-dog puddles-in-the-mudroom power-threatening-to-go-out pain in the ass?

The boys finally came in, soaked and frozen, after the bizarre thunder and lightning started to accompany the snow, and I felt more like my normal self. All day I had been rehearsing for the starring role of Bitchy Mummy, and I think I was doing quite well at it, if I do say so myself. The problem lies within. My personal philosophy is that if you are a person like me – a stay-at-home mom with no babies or toddlers to look after – then you really should pull more than your weight in the volunteer department. My best friend, who has four children ranging in age from eight months to almost seven, is someone who I think should never be asked to volunteer ever. She is one busy woman. Someone like me…well, I’m not living a particularly hectic life, and so I think I should take on the lion’s share of volunteer work. Which is why I am rocking the role of Bitchy Mummy today.

Evidently I should say no more often. The past few days have seen me baking like a fiend and also, cruelly, refusing to allow the children to eat more than one brownie each. “Can you make brownies again someday?” Mark asked pathetically, like the Dickensian character he suddenly is, given his mother has become suddenly negligent and unreachable. I have been spending hours – HOURS – creating the community soccer schedule and I have been spending much time feeling utterly defeated with my forehead in my hand wondering if that many games can be fielded at one time or do I need to CHANGE IT AGAIN. This is my second year of taking on this job and if my husband has any say in the matter there will not be a third because my normal, fairly cheery personality is gone, people, gone with the April snowstorm wind. I initially volunteered for this job because hey, I used to create linear programs and other mathematical models, how hard could a soccer schedule be? This is called hubris. The soccer schedule is an evil, evil thing. I am having disturbing dreams about the soccer schedule. I am living and breathing the soccer schedule. And the children, the children with their Insatiable Curiosity and Natural Inquisitiveness, the children with their Need for Maternal Attention and their Nutritional Requirements, the children, they are driving me crazy.

So I’m going to go out on a limb here and incur the wrath of my neighbours and say that the snowstorm, while it is a giant pain, is also a blessing, a blessing that saw the children outside and absurdly happy, and that reminded me what it’s like to be a kid who sees excitement and fun in an unexpected snowy curveball. It took the Bitchy Mummy right out of me.