I’ve been kind of sad today, and anxious as I wait for news about a friend who is going through a difficult time. To distract myself, I went to the grocery store after dinner, ostensibly for a pizza shell for tomorrow night, but coming home with the following: four packages of organic raspberries, a box of Creamsicles, a box of Fudgsicles, two boxes of Revellos, and a container of mint chocolate chip ice cream. And the pizza shell. What can I say; they had some great sales on today.

On the radio on the way home, the deejay mentioned today, “hump day”. I hate that term. Hump day. It’s hideous. It’s worse to me than the term “grow a pair” which is just creepy to me. I also hate when testicles are referred to as “stones”. Or when someone says “I was so scared I nearly shit my pants”. Ew. I also hate the word “fart” which is really unfortunate when you live with all males who think that farting is nature’s way of being witty. Fortunately, after saying “hump day”, the deejay saw fit to play “Jesse’s Girl” so I sang with Rick Springfield all the way home, which cheered me immensely.
If you have a term or word you hate, please share. It will help with my distraction process

Did you miss me?

I’m back from what was surely our very Best Family Vacation Ever, which deserves a post all of its own, and which I will not write at this time because my mental state can be best described as fried. Fried and vacant. I feel the way you might if you had slept five hours last night, rose at 5:00 am to pack up the kids, dog, and minivan, and drove for the entire day, and even though the boys and dog traveled like superstars – no complaining, hardly any “when are we there?” comments, and being good and well-behaved in general – I am walking around in a bit of a daze. I actually screamed a little when I looked at myself in the mirror. It was not a good sight.

Last week I was in a state of pre-vacation frenzy, writing four pages of lists of things to take. “Underwear”! “Dog food”! “Snacks for trip”! Like these are things I could actually forget. But I guess my compulsive list-making paid off because I didn’t forget anything, and I even remembered nice things to have, like wipes in the car and sand toys. So we had a great time and now I’m going to drink some nice wine and maybe watch some really bad television. I think the Bachelorette is on!

“Dad”, Mark said in the car the other day, “You’re so cool. I love you. I just think you’re so cool”. “Thanks buddy”, Rob said, “I think you’re pretty cool too. What about Mom? Is she cool?”

“Not really” he replied.

I’m not sure what gave him that idea. Maybe it’s because I laugh at math jokes. Maybe it’s because I was driving alone in the car on a sunny afternoon blasting such late-eighties hits as “Johnny Come Home”, “Try”, and “Fast Car”. (I-I-I had the feeling I could be someone, be someone). Maybe it’s because I interrupted my gender-prescribed floor-washing in order to dance wildly to “Take On Me”. What? A-Ha isn’t cool anymore? Or never was? Oh well.

The thing is, who really wants to be the cool mom? We all know what the supposed cool moms are like, and they are really not so cool. They are the moms who want to be friends with their children, and to be accepted by their kids’ friends as one of them. They are the moms that bootleg for their kids and let them smoke in the house. One of my aunts was a cool mom, and even when I was nine I thought her hot pink suede mini skirt and matching fringed jacket, along with her leathery tanned complexion, platinum hair, and Tammy Faye eyelashes were strange. It’s one thing to keep yourself looking well. It’s another thing to fight aging to the point that you want to look like one of your kids’ friends, but end up looking like a younger version of Baby Jane. Now that I think about it, my aunt was surely younger then than I am now, but her desperation to be hip and with-it aged her in a way wearing regular clothes and makeup never could.

All of which is to say: I’m content to be the uncool mom, destined to embarrass my kids for years to come – but not by wearing a MILF t-shirt.

I’m meeting a dear friend for drinks tomorrow; I see her rarely because she moved to Texas a while back. Now I look forward to our rare get-togethers, where we can catch up and I can tease her about saying things like “y’all” and “restroom”. I also caught up with another old friend this morning, one I hadn’t seen in six years, and it was lovely. Since it seems to be the weekend for meeting long-lost friends, I should mention one I ran into yesterday.

She was my drinking and dancing buddy from my party-girl days, and by party-girl days I am referring to the era in which I would get all tarted up in my tight high-waisted jeans and a bodysuit, fluff up my long, spiral-permed hair, and go out – past nine o’clock – dancing to such hits as “I Like to Move It” and “All That She Wants”, all the while drinking $6 triple vodka slimes. One night this friend drunkenly professed to me romantic feelings about my boyfriend at the time, and in doing so caused a rift that never healed, even after my boyfriend and I broke up.

I hadn’t seen her for twelve years or more, but I had heard that she and my old boyfriend had gotten married, which gave our surprise meeting yesterday a high potential for awkwardness. I did not feel awkward though, I felt, in truth, very glad that they were together. I am extraordinarily happy with my own life. I think everyone deserves a soul mate and while this guy was a good person, he and I were disastrous together. It was a bad relationship. During our break-up I said many unnecessarily cruel things to him. They were true, but cruel. So during our meeting I felt nothing but pleasure that they had found joy and happiness together, and that they have a beautiful young daughter.

Also, my butt is smaller than hers.

I fixed the gutters! I fixed the gutters! By myself! This might not seem like a big deal, but believe me, it is. Just to clarify: I’m good at math. I know a lot about the NFL. I dislike shoe shopping. But when it comes to anything mechanical or requiring the smallest amount of handiness, I am as girly a girly girl as can be. I have been known to cry when I have been unable to open the hood of my car.

My husband is very handy. My husband is very mechanical. To me, one of the greatest benefits of being married is never having to deal with car-related issues ever again. This is right up there with love, companionship, and sex whenever I feel like it. One of the theories that I ascribed to prior to marriage, or even a serious relationship, was that all household jobs would be shared equally and objectively. Clearly, theory and reality are separate entities. For example, I am the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare in my family. My husband is the Department of Income and also of Fixing Things. Something like fixing the gutters is definitely a job that would lie in my husband’s jurisdiction.

I watched the pouring rain and realized that the gutters were not draining properly, as sheets of water were coming down the side of the house. I recalled the wet basement incident of 2005, got a ladder, and unclogged the gutters. In the pouring rain. By myself. And then I was amazed that what I did actually worked, that the drainpipes were actually draining and disaster averted. Hear me roar, people! Like a fish needs a bicycle, baby! Then I phoned my husband and reminded him to take the car in for an oil change, and the bottles to the depot.

I heard a statistic on the radio, that the volume of calls to divorce lawyers increases by 30 to 40 percent in the weeks following the Calgary Stampede. I guess the combination of copious amounts of alcohol and cowboy hats leads to marital discord. Maybe it could be a new slogan “The Calgary Stampede: Ten days of debauchery with bad fashion”.

The other, less quantified statistic is the surge in pregnancies during Stampede, and though I may talk high and mighty, I myself became pregnant during Stampede 2003, along with half of my prenatal class. The other half was probably thinking “You guys are losers”. We had been trying to get pregnant for a while, to no avail; long hours at my high stress job may have had something to do with it. But what happens when you add an afternoon “work” party with several Smirnoff Ice’s and a handsome and willing husband? Stampede magic, baby.

So it’s done for another year, and the city is getting back to its normal, non-cowboy-hatted self. I’m happy to report that in defiance of civic duty and tradition, I am still happily married and also not pregnant.

I had to turn on the heat today!

So much for summer. We’ve been doing all sorts of indoorsy things this week, including going through our toys to donate the outgrown ones and also throw out the broken, dog-chewed ones. Because now that we have Sham-Wow, we don’t really need all those excess toys.

The rain, thunderstorms, and high winds seem to have resulted in the boys actually losing their minds. They are crazy people. We went to the grocery store today to pick up a few items, and they were practically spinning around in giddy, Co-Op enhanced glee. The birthday cake display! The free samples of water! The sight of Guardian cereal! It was all cause for a hysterical case of the giggles. While I was in the check-out, I suggested they sit on a couple of chairs near the door. I looked up to see them taking turns putting their faces in the nearby garbage can and shrieking “I think my nose just died”. Then they would laugh. And laugh. A woman in the next check-out had a daughter of about six, sitting silently in her cart, drawing on a doodle pad.

When the boys were three and two, I was at the hair salon and another woman was there with her daughter, about Mark’s age, and she was getting a cut and colour, a two hour treatment. And her daughter sat quietly with her two dolls, her colouring book, her package of snacks. For two hours. Occasionally she would announce that she had finished her picture and was going to start another one. Or she would talk quietly to her dolls. I felt like I was viewing some strange native ritual in a foreign, exotic country. I could envision the scenario in which I bring the children along for a treatment and subsequently never get another appointment. I could just imagine them, burning themselves on the curling irons and shooting each other with the hair dryers, knocking over displays and spraying water on the floor. I could picture myself in this scenario, forehead furrowed, grey hairs popping up through the application of hair colour, constantly admonishing and grimacing. “Are the boys at your mom’s?” my stylist asks me at every appointment, at which question I nod thankfully.

I’m hoping for summer to reappear. Soon please.