Author Archives: Nicole Boyhouse

Hello darkness, my old friend.

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Can you even believe it is August already? We were on vacation last week and since I’ve been back I’ve noticed the huge change in daylight. Before I left the sky was light when I left the house at 5:00 am; now I have to turn on the outside light to go to the garage. I don’t need to close the blinds tightly when I go to bed because it’s already dark.

I know in many, many places in the world, August is still considered “summer” but to me, it begins to feel like fall. The air feels cool and crisp, and even though we have had the warmest, most beautiful summer I can ever remember, I am not ready for it. One thing to note about this city: our summers are short and once the weather turns, it turns. There’s no going back.

Don’t go, summer! Don’t go.

One thing about August is that it’s time to prepare for school; one of my tasks today is to figure out what clothes still fit the boys and what needs to be purchased. Spoiler alert: nothing fits and the children currently have bare drawers where once there were jeans and long-sleeved shirts. It is also the time to think of winter gear – no, it’s not too early, technically we can have snow any time now.

Recently a friend finished a one-year non-shopping challenge, in which she bought no clothes for a whole year. A whole year! I wondered if I myself could – and perhaps, looking at my overflowing closet of much-loved clothes – should take that challenge. Readers may recall that I did a challenge like this last year after I Kondo-ed my closet; I vowed not to buy any clothes for approximately six months, and I did it. Could I do it for a whole year? I was thinking August 1 might be a good start date for that, keeping in mind that asking for clothes for Christmas and my birthday would still be acceptable. Technically speaking, that is. If there is one thing my husband loves to buy for me for such occasions, it is Lululemon wear. What’s not to love? He knows my size, my style preferences (Wunder Unders, Power Y tanks, and long flowy black sweaters) and he can order it online. I shall not take that joy away from him/ I need an out in case a really cute top comes on “We Made Too Much.”

Anyway, I’m considering it. A whole year, though! I wonder if I could do it. I certainly wouldn’t do it for the boys, since their pants are currently in the “capri” zone and their shirts are inadvertently “three-quarter length.”

Speaking of which, does anyone actually like three-quarter length shirts? As a long-limbed girl, they make me feel like an ape or an orangutan wearing human clothes for some kind of animal-based sitcom.

We were on vacation last week, visiting family and friends, and for the most part it was very lovely; lots of long walks, pool time, sunshine, and tasty drinks. This week has been all about getting back to routine, such as it is in the summer.

Someone mentioned to me that my life looks pretty sublime, at least according to Facebook, which is kind of a funny metric. I mean, my life IS pretty sublime, I certainly have no complaints; the vast majority of my time is spent teaching yoga, preparing food, or grocery shopping, all excellent endeavors that I enjoy very much. But of course we rarely talk about the dreary parts of life, like washing dishes several times a day, or cleaning the yard of previously-digested dog food, or pestilence.

Yes, pestilence. We arrived home from vacation to discover that some young people in this house had improperly disposed of Freezie wrappers in the downstairs garbage can, leading to sticky fruit liquid on the floor, and an infestation of ants. Ants! Fortunately one of those young people redeemed himself by googling DIY ant traps, and so we mixed a cup of sugar with half a cup of water and a tablespoon of Borax, and I highly recommend this route. We soon had a Gone With The Wind-like scene featuring ants in the place of wounded soldiers.

Later that same evening, my husband and I were watching Game of Thrones and I found myself staring off into the distance as a coping mechanism during a particularly grim scene. I saw…something. Something black and long and…it disappeared into the useless little cupboard over the staircase. I looked, and my alarmed husband asked what exactly I was looking for. I said that I thought – maybe – it could be a mouse. My husband looked at me and said, “OH NO” in the manner of someone who has to deal with the fallout of a major disaster. We looked but couldn’t see any signs of previously-digested mouse food, and so I said maybe it was just my imagination.

You know how you say something, but you really don’t believe it? That was me. I just knew there was a mouse in the house but had no proof. Sure enough, the next day I took out the kitchen compost bin and underneath it was a sure sign. I called my husband, who asked me, in a very worried voice, why I sounded so calm. He was remembering my near-breakdown after The Moustastrophe of 2013. That evening I went out to teach a class, and my husband and the boys set traps. Later, after I was in bed, apparently there was a snap and then there was much jockeying and arguing about which boy would get to dispose of the mouse carcass. Another trap had to be set on the off chance that the deprived child would be able to act as Mouse Undertaker, but happily, this has not yet come to fruition.

Becoming Charlotte Lucas, or Thoughts on Pride and Prejudice

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A new shop has opened up in my neighbourhood; it is called The Fairy Hut. I’ll just let that sit with you for a moment.

Now, I am a huge proponent of small businesses and new businesses and entrepreneurs, and I hope with all my heart that it is a success, but I can’t help wondering what the market is for, as they advertise, all things whimsical. It seems a bit niche to me, but perhaps there is a large demand for fairy-type objects. I have not been in it myself, but have walked past it with the dog many times, dying of curiosity. I have a lot of admiration for people who open up their own businesses; it’s very brave and demanding, I can imagine. I am not a person who takes those kinds of financial risks; more on that later. If you’re the type of person who does like fairy and/ or whimsical objects, then this might just be the place for you. I just hope that the owners have done their research in terms of fairy-related demand.

The name, however, brings to mind my high school job at Pizza Hut. I can still remember answering the phone over and over, Hunterhorn Pizza Hut, this is Nicole speaking, have you heard about our five-buck deal? Buy the first medium pizza at regular price, and the next three are only five bucks each! Then you would ultimately have to explain to grown people that no, you cannot pay regular price for a plain cheese pizza and then get a pizza loaded with eight toppings for five dollars. Then sixteen-year-old me, being paid $4.50 an hour, would be chastised over the phone by grown people who were too cheap to pay the extra three dollars for all the toppings that they wanted. Good times.

The boys have been in karate camp this week, which has been very enjoyable, albeit busier than normal, ironically. I think it’s all the extra driving, but on the upside it has given me a chance to think about an interesting piece I read about the most widely mocked character in Jane Austen’s books – Mrs. Bennett.

Are you a Jane Austen fan? I first read Pride and Prejudice when I was in a first-year English class in university, and I remember being immediately hooked. I loved everything about it; I loved the witty writing, I loved the little rituals and rules of society, and most of all I was interested in the economic situation of ladies of a certain standing. I was, after all, an economics student.

What fascinated me – and still fascinates me – is the idea of marriage as a financial decision. I suppose it can be true today as well, but imagine! Imagine spending your entire life learning to play the pianoforte or paint a half-decent picture, learning needlework and the art of conversation, and going for long walks on your property, and THAT IS IT. After spending your youth in that way, the best thing that could possibly happen would be for you to marry a man of means, because you would have absolutely no way of making those means yourself. This is especially true if, like the Bennett girls, you were going to be essentially homeless upon the death of your father, having absolutely no property and very little money of your own. This is also what happened to the Dashwood women in Sense and Sensibility. This is probably what happened to countless women at the time; if they were not fortunate enough to marry well – or even semi-well – they would be sentenced to a life of poverty and dependency on the goodwill of their friends and family.

The author of the article disparages the elder Bennett girls for being too accepting of their fate, but in all honesty, what else could they do? They could rail about it as much as poor maligned Mrs. Bennett, but nothing would change – in fact, if they did rail about it, their chances of making a decent match would probably be obliterated. To be honest, both Mrs. and Mr. Bennett are ridiculous, in my opinion, as they spent money like it was going out of style, never saving a whit, because they figured that they would have a male heir. Talk about rolling the dice and making it rain, elder Bennetts.

So as I was driving back and forth to karate camp, I was thinking about this and wondering – as one does – what I would do in such an era. Sometimes it is difficult to be honest with yourself, like when you spend your life thinking you’re Jo March and really realizing that you are Amy.

But as I thought about myself in terms of Pride and Prejudice, I came to a disturbing realization; I am not a feisty, witty, Elizabeth Bennett. I am not sweet, beautiful Jane, either. No, the character that I am most like is Charlotte Lucas. Charlotte Lucas, the cringe-worthy lady who takes Elizabeth’s leavings and snaps up the pathetic, boring, lame Mr. Collins. Charlotte was in her late twenties – way past her prime at the time, and probably had at that time given up all hope that she would ever have a home of her own, instead living in her parents’ house until she would ultimately be dependent on the kindness and duty of others until the sweet release of death.

I am an extremely practical person. I do not make emotional decisions, I plan carefully and think things through to the logical end. I am in no way a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants girl, I am a planner and a rational decision-maker. Maybe it’s the economist in me; rational behaviour is a common term in economics and it describes my life decisions. And so, I startled myself by realizing that if I was given the choice between semi-destitution and becoming Mrs. Collins, I would gear myself up for a lifetime of listening to those “little compliments ladies enjoy” and endless praise for “my benefactress, Lady Catherine.”

Introspection is a bitch, sometimes, isn’t it?

Menu for when it’s too hot to cook, and things I don’t understand.

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I’m not trying to make any political statements here, honestly, but there is something I really do not understand. In the past week, I have seen three separate writings about the horrors of cargo shorts and I have to ask my dear readers: why? Why are cargo shorts such reviled things? I’m asking honestly here, since I am not a person who likes shorts to begin with, and I fail to see much difference between regular shorts and cargo shorts. Shorts, in my humble opinion, are unflattering at the best of times but I recognize that occasionally practicality must prevail. Just like giant puffy coats in winter, sometimes shorts are a necessary evil to survival in the summer. Not, I hastily add, for me, but for others.

Well, I say this, but I actually have a pair of booty shorts that I will occasionally don when it is very hot and I don’t want to completely dehydrate while doing my cardio workout. I have not yet worn them off my own property yet, to be viewed by people not related or married to me, but I do wear them on occasion nonetheless. Again, reiterating, the need for practicality sometimes – SOMETIMES – surpasses the desire to be fashionable.

Back to cargo shorts. Why are they any different from regular shorts? Sure, they have huge pockets, but aren’t pockets a thing we enjoy in life? At least I enjoy being able to carry things with me, not unlike a turtle. My overstuffed purse is testament to this.

I guess I just don’t understand. I also don’t understand the hate for Nickleback, which probably says something about me. Hey, I understand not liking certain bands or musical genres – not everything floats everyone’s musical boats. I just don’t understand the vitriol towards them, or, seemingly relatedly, cargo shorts.

But I am open to (reasonable) debate on those topics.

I will tell you one thing that I don’t understand the seemingly universal love and infatuation with: the poop emoji. Last week when I was at the local amusement park with the kids, I noticed that the majority of the large prizes at the (rigged) games were stuffed poop emojis, replacing the Spongebobs and Pikachus of yesteryear. Why. WHY. Why is this a thing? Why do we want to have our children snuggle with cartoon versions of piles of defecation, or worse, wear those cartoon versions of piles of defecation ON THEIR HEADS.

A smiley face does not counteract the grossness.

A friend (HI JENNIFER) pointed out that there is – and I cannot believe that I am typing this – a “poop emoji cafe” that serves food in toilet shaped bowls, features toilets for chairs, and specializes in chocolate soft serve ice cream someone please stop the madness. I feel ill just thinking about it.

Unless a person is a medical professional specializing in intestinal issues, I do not want to discuss bowel movements. I will talk about facial hair, waxing, ladies’ holidays, and underwear, but this is a bridge too far. What happens in the toilet should stay in the toilet, so let’s pretend that the poop emoji was never invented and instead bring our focus onto the unicorns, diamond rings, coffee, wine, and heart emojis. MAYBE even the taco and/ or eggplant ones if we are feeling saucy and in the mood for sexting, middle-aged style.

Anyway. This is not what I meant to write about today. What I had been meaning to write about was a menu for when it’s too hot to cook. I swear to you that it has actually been – for a couple of days – too hot to cook in Calgary, and that is a thing that is uncommon and rare. My husband took the kids camping on the weekend and for my evening “off” I made a single-girl meal of pesto, guacamole, crackers, dried mangoes, and vodka. It was a thing of beauty. I have an indoor herb garden and the basil was ready to be harvested, and so I made a glorious pesto. I just wish there was more of it! However, I am not suggesting this as a meal plan for everyday.

Lately, when it’s been too hot to cook, I’ve been resorting to simple meals like Greek salad with pita and hummus – for those of you non-dairy types, you can find my recipe for almond feta here. Although, frankly, Greek salad with pita and hummus is on the regular rotation here – it’s a Friday night meal that the guys round out with some sauteed chicken breast.

Other great ideas for simple summer suppers: Lemony Lentil Salad, Sundried Tomato Pasta Salad, Avocado Pasta Salad, and pasta salad with homemade ranch dressing. I also have been making a Thai noodle salad using stir fry noodles, veggies, and a sauce made up of 3 tbsp each soy sauce and rice vinegar, 2 tbsp sesame oil, 1 tbsp each lime juice and brown sugar, with fresh grated ginger and minced garlic, with a spoonful of chili garlic sauce. Veggie wraps (the guys add chicken) are also popular, as are tacos and, of course, barbeque. I am a person who does not use a barbeque because I am terrified of blowing everything up/ burning my hair off, but my husband is quite the griller.

And there is no need to skimp on desserts just because you don’t want to use your oven! Here are some ideas: Avocado Key Lime Pie, Homemade Healthy Fudgsicles, Homemade Dole Whip, Chocolate Covered Strawberries (perfect for the season!), Chunky Monkey Bites, Strawberry Dreamsicles, and YES, I also cannot believe I’m saying this given the political/ emoji climate but HEALTHY CHOCOLATE SOFT-SERVE “NICE” CREAM.

So you see, we have come full circle.

Nicole, the Cruise Director

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Those of you who do not live in places with incredibly unpredictable and volatile climates will not be able to understand my complete and utter joy that it is SUMMER in Calgary. Actual, bonafide summer. Warm – even hot – sunshiny days and calm, beautiful evenings. This is a thing that rarely happens, and it is forecasted to stay this way for at least another ten days. The regular reader, or any Calgarian, will recall last year at this time it was dark, frigidly cold, and rainy. And when I say “cold” I mean that a few daytime highs were eight degrees. Eight.

So it has been beautiful and I am doing what any person might do when faced with beautiful weather in Calgary: assuming that things could change at any time and desperately seizing the day. Carpe diem, and soak up that sunshine.

We have been spending as much time as possible at my parents’ place at the lake, boating and paddleboarding and biking, and also eating and drinking a lot. All that activity requires a lot of replenishment, and let’s not forget to hydrate! The kids have also been swimming, although that is a bridge too far in my opinion, as the lake is very chilly, even with all this sunshine.

I’ve been taking care of our very-good-friends’ kids for the past couple of days, and it has been very fun. It has brought out my inner Cruise Director, in that I am devising activities for the kids to maximize our outdoor time. Of course, they are awesome at finding their own things to do, which is just as well, because there is no need to be Helicopter Cruise Director.

I wonder what it would be like to be a Cruise Director. I’m guessing it would be terrible. In general, I don’t like to rule out whole ideas or paint with one big giant brush, but when I think “cruise ship” I immediately think “epidemiological disaster” or “Norwalk outbreak.” I know, I shouldn’t be close-minded, but still. Imagine contracting the Norwalk virus with only one of those tiny cruise ship bathrooms at your disposal. Ew.

Anyway, the kids have had epic water gun battles, including one with our hose, just like a real “1970s summer.” I don’t think anyone drank out of it though; slurping down warm, rubber-flavoured water is a thing of the past, I guess. They also had a water gun battle at a wading pool, which I thought would be fun and it WAS, albeit slightly nerve-wracking with all the little ones and their moms around. I reiterated the rule that no little kids get shot – or any adults – but I think a few may have gotten caught in the crossfire. Mostly I was just glad I wasn’t one of those moms, because I forgot how anxiety-inducing it is to have very small children toddling uncertainly around water.

The kids also had a day at the local amusement park, which was very fun for everyone involved, including me, since I took a book and read while they went on rides over and over. I guess I was channeling my inner Lazy Cruise Director at that point. And, of course, there were Minecraft and Mario Kart marathons; all in all a fabulous week.

I hope you had the time of your life

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We are so close – SO CLOSE – to the end of the school year. Less than two hours to go for the elementary school, and – exhaustingly – one more half day for the junior high. I have a massive craving for the indolence of summer vacation but alas, I am not on vacation and nor will I be for some time. Although, the thought of not having to do the double morning drop-off and ensuing rush does feel vacation-like.

Remember back in the day when schools would give out actual academic and athletic achievement awards? Those days are long gone, at least in my kids’ schools. I remember getting many awards – all academic, certainly no athletic ones. Now, I guess it’s all one big theoretical “Participant” award, and to be honest, sometimes I wish I was the recipient of that kind of award today. Sometimes I feel like the very fabric of boring adult jobs would be much livened up by receiving an award; however, there are no awards for putting out the garbage on the correct day every other week, or always getting the recycling and compost out to be picked up. Maybe the lack of a gross overflowing garbage or disgustingly smelly compost is just universally understood to be its own award.

Still, an award would be nice.

Yesterday was the Grade Six Graduation, and I wondered how long into the ceremony it would be before I started crying. It turns out, negative thirty minutes. Half an hour prior to the ceremony, I popped into the main office to say goodbye to the beloved principal and administrative staff; let’s just say I am not good with goodbyes. I managed to pull myself together until the Grade Six procession into the gym, but the sight of all the dressed-up children that I have known since kindergarten – and even pre-kindergarten – not to mention my own child, had me reaching for the tissues. By the time the children sang True Colours, I was a complete mess. My friend’s daughter was in the choir, directly in front of me, and she kept shooting me very concerned looks.

The thing is, it’s not just the fleeting passing of time and my children growing up rapidly. I mean, that’s part of it, but even more so is the thought of saying goodbye to the elementary school that has been a significant part of my life, since 2009. I spent so many hours at that school, I invested so much of myself in it. I have made so many friends there and I spent an enormous amount of time with them, all of us getting to know each other on the playground. I can’t remember the last time I was at the playground, but I have many happy memories of standing with my circle of friends, chatting as our kids climbed on the structures or sledded down the hill in the winter. After all those lonely toddler years, it felt like a whole new chapter, and my girlfriends have created a community and support structure to be treasured.

I’m just not good with goodbyes.

I know, I know, my friends are still here and our kids are moving on to the same junior high together. And I do like the junior high too – I am ecstatic to have both kids at the same school, instead of different ones with a 70 minute difference in drop-off and dismissal times. I’m thrilled to have my boys at a school that has Phys Ed every day, that has a cafeteria for the occasional lunch purchase, that has fun option classes to take and a new community to embrace.

I’m just not good with goodbyes.

But onward and upward. Doors close, windows open, and to be honest, the world feels wonderful and wide-open right now. The kids are at this amazing age where they are independent and interesting and they love to hang out in the neighbourhood buying Slurpees and frozen yogurt, my friends and I are all diving into our interests and work and are still able to stay connected with our kids and each other, summer is upon us and it’s GOOD. Life is very very good and I am eternally grateful.

But you know, I’m just not good with goodbyes.

Let’s do the time warp again.

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A long time ago, a gas station within walking distance to my house was demolished. That demolition represented many hours worth of entertainment for my children; we would walk over there and watch as the large machinery tore down the buildings and removed the pumps. Then we watched, along with the elderly men of the neighbourhood, as they dug up presumably-contaminated soil, adding in truckloads of fresh soil, and smoothing everything down. At the time we also had the entire collection of Mighty Machines on DVD, and the boys would watch them whenever I needed time to shower, or prepare dinner, or otherwise needed thirty minutes of downtime. We had one that featured “The Demolition Site,” and inspired by this and the actual demolition site in our neighbourhood, the boys would play that game for hours. They would pile all their toys into the middle of a room and then use their toy bulldozers to push various items around. This, along with the requisite clean-up, would take up whole afternoons.

It’s funny to think that when they were little it was all about slowly killing the day; thinking of things to do that would keep them occupied. The days were so long back then, and now they fly by and there’s never enough time.

All of which is to say that there are only a few days left of school, and in the case of my junior high student, each of those days is a half day only. In some ways I wish they would just compress them all and finish earlier, but no.

On the other hand, while the grade seven students are doing ridiculous, make-work projects just to kill the day – even these half days must seem long to the teaching staff – the grade six students are writing Provincial Achievement Tests this week. So my house has been a strange combination of inappropriate stress over these so-called “fun end-of-term projects” – Mom, I need 150 pieces of coloured paper to glue together for Humanities, and do we have any Styrofoam, bendable straws, and aluminum foil? – and appropriate stress over the tests that prove their competence over the last year of elementary school. I will be breathing a sigh of relief next week, I can tell you that much.

In between teaching, grocery shopping, and busily preparing end-of-year cookies and teacher gifts, I’ve been spending time in my garden. I noticed the very first rose blooming just a couple of days ago; now the entire fence is abloom. Is abloom a word? I hope so.

My columbines have been seeding everywhere, and I know that technically if a plant is growing where you did not plant it, that makes it a weed, but in my books it just makes it a floral miracle.

The gardening season in Calgary is short and intense, so I am trying my best to savour it all.

Have a beautiful weekend, everyone! xo

 

Red wine and cowboy boots

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Well, hello there, Friday. You beautiful thing, come give mama a kiss.

I desperately try not to wish my life away but I have been looking forward to today. It hasn’t been a long week, not really. If anything, I feel like time is rushing by like one of those super speed videos; I can hardly believe that June is past the halfway mark, 2017 is almost half over, and life is just going by quickly. All the same, I have been looking forward to cracking open a bottle of wine tonight.

Speaking of which, last night I was in Superstore, which is my wont on evenings that the kids are in karate. Usually at that time – which is non-negotiable for me – it is a disaster zone. Things are unstocked, empty cardboard half-boxes sitting on shelves which previously contained my much-desired items. But not last night, dear reader, NOT LAST NIGHT. Last night I got every last thing on my list, including a three-pack of Romaine hearts, which they NEVER have in stock when I shop. I got everything I wanted and in record time, so I thought I’d pop into the liquor store to grab a bottle of wine.

That’s when I saw it: Wayne Gretzky Cab/ Shiraz, on sale for $13.77 a bottle. The friendly man working there asked if he could help me, and I just said “I’d like a case, please.” In and out, and then tonight I will be able to enjoy that delicious wine and revel in my (relative) thriftiness.

It’s been a busy week though, and I had a dentist appointment, which I always dread. It’s the scaling that gets me, every time. That scraping noise just gives me the chills. I floss daily and brush my teeth several times a day, and scaling is still a torturous process for me. Maybe it’s the red wine.

Honestly, given the choice I’d take a Pap test over dental scaling, even with my ham-handed doctor searching for my elusive cervix. The last time I had a test I endured what felt like hours of poky cervical torture, and then a week later the office called to say that they’d made a mistake with the sample and I had to come back for another test. I nearly cried. But cervical health – like dental health – is no joke, and so off I went, only to find out that the doctor needed to use a totally different speculum, for my special-snowflake lady-parts. “Remember to ask for the LARGE speculum next time!” my doctor cheerfully said, which was a hit to my already-beaten-up feminine mystique.

I’d still take that over scaling. However, no one wants to end up with a mouth full of dental issues, and so I shall soldier on.

Today was the elementary school’s Stampede Breakfast, our last one. I got all kitted up in my annual cowgirl wear; I was responsible for manning the syrup station. It was literally the easiest volunteer hour I’ve ever spent. I kind of wished I’d volunteered for that every year.

If you’ve ever wanted to dress up for the Stampede, or if you are not in Calgary and you – for reasons unknown – need Western-style wear, I refer you to my post of yesteryear, entitled How To Dress For The Calgary Stampede Without Looking Like An Idiot. Since the writing of that, I have actually purchased cowboy boots; I bought them last year for the Zac Brown concert. They were breathtakingly expensive, and so I justified the cost by promising myself I would wear them often and incorporate them in a cute way into my wardrobe. They are, without a doubt, some of the most comfortable footwear I have ever had on my tootsies, and so I thought that would be easy.

I have worn them exactly zero times since then. Well, except for today. I guess today really brought down the average-wear cost. At this rate I will be wearing them in the nursing home, in fifty years or so, when it’s Country Western Theme Day, just to justify the cost of purchase. I’ll wear them with my old-lady beaded and fringed cowgirl dress, my lipstick bleeding into the lines around my mouth. It’s going to be great!

Some people think of nursing homes as sad places they never want to end up in, but in my opinion, it sounds kind of nice. I mean, in fifty years do I really want to be worrying about my hot water heater or who’s going to mow the lawn? No! I do not! I want to be concerned with making my macrame owls or whatever happens during craft time; I want to have someone else make my meals and wash the floors. Bloom where you’re planted is my motto; I want to be like that 98-year-old yoga teacher when I grow up. With red wine and comfortable cowboy boots.