Author Archives: Nicole Boyhouse

Jingle Bell Rock

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With the exception of people who do not celebrate Christmas, I probably have the lowest Christmas stress level in the city. My shopping has been finished for over a month, my “holiday baking” consists of making and freezing dough when I feel like it and then thawing and baking said dough into cookies when I have time, and, if it wasn’t already abundantly obvious to readers of this blog, I am not exactly Martha Stewart when it comes to decorating so I don’t get worked up about it. My in-laws do not like to travel at Christmas so I don’t have company to worry about. I don’t host any family meals, which may or may not be a reflection of my cooking ability. My blood pressure stays nice and low during the Christmas season.

My mother is like that too – except she always hosts meals and when I was a kid we always had a seasonal houseful of company – Christmassy things never seemed to bother her. Unexpected visitors for dinner? Last minute houseguests? No problem. A few years ago her oven broke, on Christmas Eve, and she calmly made all her meals, including a chocolate Yule log, with the help of the microwave, barbeque, and a George Foreman grill. Gin may have aided the situation.

So it’s a bit strange to me when people go crazy around Christmas. There’s a certain, unhinged look to people who ARE GOING TO HAVE THE BEST CHRISTMAS EVER, DAMMIT. Nowhere are those peoples more en evidence than in shopping centres a mere nine days before Christmas.

I was in Superstore today. I know what you’re going to say: a new tap, then a Superstore visit, all in the same week? What’s next, organizing the drawer I keep rubber bands and Saran wrap in? Living the dream, baby, living the dream.

But Superstore shoppers: wild-eyed people wielding those gigantic carts through the aisles, bumping into things and snapping at people, grinding their teeth into nubs over a woman leaving her cart to sprint with her obviously potty-training toddler to the washroom. It was somewhat disconcerting, so I took a cue from Buddy the Elf and decided to sing loudly to spread Christmas cheer. Well, maybe not consciously decided. I didn’t realize I was actually singing audibly – along to Jingle Bell Rock, of all songs – until an elderly man with a cart containing no less than eight boxes of All-Bran Buds and as many containers of Metamucil smiled at me and said, “It’s nice to see the Christmas spirit”.

I was embarrassed, of course, as anyone with a marginal singing voice still croaky from a recent cold would be. But, you know, I felt pretty good, and as I pushed my cart in the slushy, packed, road-rage-y parking lot, I hummed Silver Bells. Because I’d rather look crazy-happy than crazy-I-AM-GOING-TO-BAKE-A-FRUITCAKE-AND-YOU-WILL-LOVE-IT.

At least we’re not in Edmonton! Hardy har.

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That’s what we Calgarians tend to say to assuage feelings of depression due to weather-related issues. There was actually some truth to that this weekend, however, since Edmonton reached a low ambient temperature of minus 46, which is really fracking cold. It was pretty fracking cold here, around the minus 30 mark. But at least we’re not in Edmonton!

The vicious cold and my weird viral cold kept me indoors all weekend. I don’t think I even stepped foot outside. It was a red-letter weekend nonetheless. Let me recap.

1) I watched the movie Funny People. This in itself is notable as it was made in 2009. Normally I see movies years after they have been released, and when I try to discuss the movie with anyone, the response is usually, “You just saw that now?” Funny People is a really good movie, very interesting, and not at all what I expected. I mean, Adam Sandler is in it so there are many jokes of a flatulent, masturbation, and penis/testicle-related nature. In spite of that, it is quite intelligent and intriguing. Also, there is a scene with Eminem, who plays himself, which is quite hysterical.

2) My husband wrapped the Christmas gifts! This was, to put it in terms of a smarmy Christmas special, the best gift ever. I am terrible at wrapping gifts. This is probably not unrelated to my complete inability to ice cakes, create gingerbread houses, and sew buttons on clothing without ripping a hole in said clothing in an area far removed from where the button actually needs to be. Normally, when I wrap gifts, I cut the paper incorrectly, and end up with a slice of the actual gift showing or, alternately, I have so much excess paper that it all bunches up in a very un-aesthetic fashion. Grossly, I often find strands of my own hair taped to the package, which I take to mean the stress from gift-wrapping causes my hair to fall out and, because of my need to use an excessive amount of tape, become attached to the gift. Just a little piece of me in every gift! Happily, my husband wrapped all the presents (except the ones for him, of course) and the kids have been happily occupied by staring at them, piling them up, counting them, and talking about them.

3) My husband went out and bought, and then installed, a new tap for the kitchen. This may not seem like an interesting or note-worthy thing to you, but if you were a bon-bon eating housewife like myself who spends half her waking hours in the kitchen (but not, fortunately, barefoot or pregnant) and for three weeks you had been dealing with a tap that sends out either a small trickle of water or no water at all, you would be happy too. For three weeks as we waited for replacement parts, I tried to think yogic thoughts – many people don’t even have running water, I should be happy for this small trickle – but it was killing me softly. With its trickle song. However, several replacement parts and futile efforts to fix the tap later, my dear dear husband went out and bought a new tap. First gift wrapping! Then a new tap! He’s also a great lover!

So that was my weekend. How was yours?

Christmas Music – love it or hate it?

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If economics has taught us anything, it is that if there is an oversupply of a particular good, then the value of additional units of that particular good is low. This probably explains why there is so much bad Christmas music. There is an incredible volume of Christmas music and it seems to grow exponentially each year. Every artist seems to put out a holiday album at some point in their career, distinguished or not. I just searched for Christmas music on Amazon and discovered that there are 17,913 results. Kelly Pickler – remember her, the dim-witted country wannabe-singer from American Idol – has a song on one of those ubiquitous Christmas collections, as does Miley Cyrus. The Pet Shop Boys have an entire Christmas album! As do Bob Dylan and Colin James. Does anyone not have a Christmas album? Wait – John Denver has a Christmas album, and one of the songs is entitled Please, Daddy (Don’t Get Drunk This Christmas). I can’t decide if that is awesome or depressing.

So it was not surprising to me when a friend mentioned that this – this season – is the worst time of the year for music. I mean, Stevie Nicks singing Silent Night? Am I the only one who thinks that is strange? Although I just discovered that Jim Cuddy sings New Year’s Eve on one of those Christmas collections, maybe I should check that out.

I don’t mean to sound snobbish. I actually really like a lot of Christmas music, although “a lot” could be defined by “about five percent of the Christmas music market”. The songs I like tend not to be sophisticated or edgy in any way and probably is the reason my friend reviles seasonal music. To illustrate, here are my top three songs of the season.

3) The Little Drummer Boy by Bob Seger. I know. I know. Pa-rum-pum-pum-kill-me. But I like the pa-rum-pum-pum-pum. I do. And every year I emotionally recount the song’s meaning to the boys. “The little drummer boy wanted to bring a gift. But he didn’t have one. So he gave a song.” Then I get all choked up as the boys nod politely and say things like, “That sounds like a nice present.” They don’t shake their heads and say “Weirdo” under their breath. At least not yet.

2) Mele Kalikimaka by Bing Crosby. I LOVE this song, and I catch myself singing or humming it nearly constantly throughout the season. I must note that my husband absolutely loathes this song, and he seems to have passed this loathing on to Jake. In fact, I have only to sing the first line to prompt Jake to shriek “MOM! NO! STOP! We are not in Hawaii! We are in Canada! DON’T SING THAT SONG!”

1) Last Christmas by Wham! This is my number one favourite Christmas song. Twenty five years later, this song is still awesome. AWESOME! And – happily enough – no one in my house hates this song so I can listen to it and sing to my heart’s content.

So – what about you? What are your seasonal favourites? Or do you despise the whole genre?

Back to normal – sort of

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I have been off my game, people. I have had one of those energy-sucking colds that, coupled with the copious amount of cold medication I have been taking, has left me wandering in a fog of my own making. I’m wondering, what day is it? What time is it? Oh, do the kids need to eat? Maybe I should make lunch. Things that come naturally are coming to me very slowly. Also I have been sleep-deprived, and, irritatingly enough, not because of the kids. For two nights in a row I took “nighttime relief” cold medication. I should know better. I’m always lured by the medications’ claims “so you can get some rest”. More like, “so you can have hallucinogenic dreams that will have you waking every hour or two wondering what the hell is going on in your brain, and then keep you up for a couple of hours only to crash 20 minutes before it is time to get up.” I haven’t taken NyQuil for years because I once had a NyQuil-related crazy dream about leprechauns and unicorns-turned-flesh-eating-monsters and dancing trees that caused me to wake up screaming when my husband absent-mindedly patted my back.

I feel better today.

Monday was a bad day. It was minus 25 and there were enormous snow drifts everywhere, one of which claimed my car when I dropped the boys at school. After trudging through knee-deep snow, helping the boys out of their 10 pounds of winter clothing, and trudging back, a couple of moms helped push my car out (thanks ladies!). Then, because that clearly was not enough excitement for one day, I drove to Wal-Mart. I needed more cold medication, but more importantly, I had to get stickers for Jake’s class sticker gift exchange which was to take place the following class. I chose a gender-neutral sheet of puppy stickers.

Later, I noticed Mark with all his craft supplies. He was making a picture, and had opened the stickers, the ones, as I said, seething with rage, I HAD GONE OUT IN THE FREEZING COLD AND SNOW TO GET FOR JAKE’S SPECIAL CLASS.

Big deal, right? Except for me, in my cold-addled state, it really was a big deal. I had to take deep breaths. I had to say, with my teeth gritted, that next time, please ASK before you use stickers. I used every ounce of self-control to not spiral into a screaming, shrieking, bad bad mother. I remained calm but inside, I was a mess. Because of a 99 cent package of stickers. I could see myself, in the moment, and I was struck at how ridiculous a situation it was, that I was so enraged by my child using stickers that he thought I had purchased for him.

I managed to go out again, and purchase another package of stickers. I decided to gift wrap them, as instructed, immediately. I gathered the gift wrap and noticed something in the bag with the gift tags.

Stickers. A package of stickers I had purchased a month earlier, thinking that I should buy them for the sticker gift exchange, so I wouldn’t leave it to the last minute.

You can imagine, then, how I felt.

Read this post if you want to feel better about yourself

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I woke up Sunday morning still sick and achy, so I took my own patented home remedy: Daytime Relief Sudafed washed down with a pot of coffee. If that doesn’t get one moving, nothing will. So I was feeling quite energetic in a heart-racing sort of way, and thought that yes, it would be a good day to make our gingerbread house.

Now – I have probably mentioned this a few times – I am not artistic or crafty in any way. This is not my way of being falsely modest, either. Some women I know make the most incredible things – one friend in particular regularly shows up to Staff Appreciation Day or any other holiday-related function with the most amazing edible treats, the kind of treats which are practically works of art. “Oh, it’s nothing,” she’ll say casually, “I didn’t actually come up with the idea, I just copied it from a magazine.” If I attempted to copy anything from a magazine, it would look a lot more like crumpled up, tear-stained tissue paper held together with Scotch tape than Hershey’s kisses made into a bouquet of rosebuds, but whatever. The point is that I am not artistic or crafty.

Also, if this post rambles a little, it is probably because I am on Day Two of my patented home remedy.

Now, if I were to pinpoint exactly where things went awry, I would probably guess that I did not make the icing thick enough. I’m guessing this as none of the candies would stick on the roof and also any attempts to make windows or doors were thwarted by dripping icing. However. As I said to my husband in a very Zen way, “It’s about the experience, not the final product.” To which he responded, “That’s good, because our final product looks like crap.”

What do you think?

Front view. That red thing is a wreath, which kept slipping into the gumdrop door. Notice the inadvertent drips of icing.

I tried to cover up a window attempt with icing. All those random candies? They are gravestones, Mark informed me. Because this is actually Scooby-Doo’s gingerbread house. Gravestones. Very festive.


Back view. The window is awesome. My husband made a little candy fire pit but you can’t see it as the boys essentially dumped candies all over it. As I said, it’s the experience. And they were having fun.


I made gingerbread men last week. I think this one brings up the curb appeal for the house, don’t you agree?

I actually think we could win a contest for worst decorated gingerbread house. I’d like to blame it on the children, but even if they hadn’t been helping (i.e., pelting candies at the house to see them slide down the roof) I don’t think that the house would have turned out significantly better.

It’s a good thing I don’t get hung up on appearances.

We interrupt this Christmas spirit to bring you colossal bitchiness!

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This dress really wants to go to a party!

I look forward to my husband’s company Christmas party for months. I look forward to dressing up, talking to grown people, and eating food not prepared by myself and which is generally very tasty. I also look forward to the open bar. Months in advance I think about this party, because after all, there is no “stay-at-home mom” Christmas party, and even if there was it would probably just involve Starbucks and our nice jeans.

I even bought a dress for the party! I haven’t worn a skirted article for at least five years, since the appearance of my python-like varicose veins, but in the spirit of “love your body 2009” I actually purchased a dress, which I planned to wear with thick tights and boots to minimize the vein visibility. I was getting very excited.

You can probably see where this is going. Yesterday morning a monster of a blizzard began, complete with white-out conditions and massive drifts of snow, forcing us to cancel our plans. Boo. Around 2:00 yesterday it became apparent that no, we were not going to go, I started sulking and immediately donned yoga pants, a sweatshirt, and gigantic fuzzy slippers. Rob felt sorry for me and offered to watch When Harry Met Sally with me. Score! My favourite movie, which he will never watch due to my incessant need to repeat the dialogue throughout the film. (“They don’t make Sunday”. “Why not?” “Because of God.”)

So that was nice. Then this morning I woke up with a sore throat and headache due to the commencement of a minor cold, and also the general malaise that is associated with the commencement of my “ladies’ holidays”. I felt awful, so I did what any smart woman would do: attempt to make 6 dozen gingersnaps with the kids. Suffice it to say it was a bad idea. I ended up baking only half the cookies, putting the rest of the dough in the freezer for a more appropriate day. But then the kids wanted pancakes for lunch and, due to my guilty feelings for snapping at them more than once, I agreed. I mis-measured several times, burned the first couple, and then shrieked, “IT’S YOUR LUNCH!” in response to Mark’s innocent “What’s that weird smell?” query. So no Mother of the Year awards coming my way today.

Rob got home soon after this fiasco and I went straight to bed, passing out for a solid 90 minutes. I feel somewhat better but now the kids are jonesing to make a gingerbread house tonight! I need to channel my inner Christmas spirit. Help!

"…maybe Christmas – perhaps – means a little bit more…"

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Me, looking at Jake’s school schedule: “Oh, it looks like you will be writing a letter to Santa in class!”

Jake: “Does that mean I will be writing a letter to you and Dad?”

Yes, well. Let’s just say that Jake is feeling a bit confused these days. If you’re four, and you have a brother who is five and is a non-believer, then you will likely get tipped off about the non-existence of Santa earlier than your other classmates. But, if you are in a pre-kindergarten class where everyone is busy writing letters to Santa, mailing letters to Santa, and getting ready for Santa’s classroom visit, the issue may become cloudy for you.

I’ve read a few things in the past couple of days with regards to the de-bunking of the Santa myth and how terribly sad it is when children stop believing. Now, I don’t want to belittle anyone’s belief system here, or ruin anyone’s Christmas spirit, but I don’t really equate the belief in Santa barreling down one’s chimney to bestow gifts and eat cookies with the magic of Christmas. I don’t know. I love the Christmas season as much as the next person, in fact I might even love it more than the next person, but I have to say that it actually didn’t affect me when the boys stopped “believing”.

When Mark first spoke about Santa not being “real”, given his personality, I felt it best to be honest with him. I told him that Santa was something that little kids like to think about until they can understand that Santa is more than just a fat guy in a red suit with a flying sleigh, that Santa means goodwill and generosity and kindness, and that when you do something nice, it is like you become Santa. It’s an explanation I’m more comfortable with than maintaining a myth that I think is beside the point.

Nevertheless, we will hang our stockings and set out cookies and milk on Christmas Eve. Just in case.