Category Archives: Fashion

Hippity Hoppity

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Last night my husband and I went on a DATE to (belatedly) celebrate our tenth anniversary and I got a new dress and shoes!

It was exactly a year and a week since I had my varicose vein surgery, and so I thought I would celebrate by wearing shoes and stockings, rather than my usual boots.

It was fabulous going on an actual date – my husband and I go on about four dates a year, so when we do go out it’s an event.  Last night was also an event in that, as we were driving to the restaurant, we came across a squished roadkill rabbit!  Ew!  Gross!  Even in all its grotesqueness, I couldn’t stop giggling, thinking of all the disappointed children who would be doomed to spend the holiday without chocolate eggs.

It reminded me of the story I was told once by a guy who worked out in Rimbey, Alberta, who hit – but did not kill – a deer with his car on Christmas Eve, and ended up, in order to be humane, having to shoot it, his children looking on from the backseat of the car.  His children who thought their dad had just shot one of Santa’s reindeer.  I wonder if those kids are still in therapy.

We did have a lovely Easter weekend, complete with colouring eggs and then – as we traditionally, if unorthodoxly do – having the children hide them for us to find, in the backyard.  We did that this afternoon, once the sun came out, although the kids took to hiding some of them in the snow that’s still there.  For those of you who live in milder climates, I envy you.  You probably don’t know the joys of digging a hardboiled egg out of a snowdrift.

This morning the boys had an Easter treasure hunt, complete with complicated clues such as “Where do wet clothes go after they have been washed?” and “What do Mini-Wheats and pizza sauce have in common?” (answer to the latter question: they are kept in the same cupboard).

That is my new favourite picture of the boys, reading their clues.  It sums up their personalities perfectly.
Speaking of a-little-bit-evil, right this second the boys are watching The Phantom Menace, which I saw in the theatre but not since – and for good reason, because it’s terrible.  It turns out that I actually have very little knowledge about anything Star Wars-related, to my children’s grave disappointment.  In fact, due to the combination of Lego Star Wars Wii and a number of Early Reader Star Wars books, my children know much, much more than I do.
Did anyone watch the Master’s this weekend?  I watched it by osmosis, which means I know who won and I know that the runner-up (is he called a runner-up?  I don’t know.) had a double eagle, which is only the fourth time in the history of the Master’s that such a thing has happened.  It was, my husband said, a very exciting Master’s.  Maybe the most exciting Master’s ever!  Which…well…is not really that exciting. 

So, that was my weekend.  Colouring eggs, a date, some roadkill, a treasure hunt, lots of golf commentary, and the lamest and most totally confusing movie ever.  How was your weekend?     

The fashion police are coming.

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“Hey Mom!” Jake said, out of nowhere, “I’m sexy and I know it!”

I never quite know how to respond to such inappropriate statements. It’s like when two-year-old Mark told my mother that he had no money, so he couldn’t get no ho’s. Or when Jake informed my mother, in one afternoon, that a) he wasn’t going to be a chump, he was going to get a prenup, and b) “penis” was another word for “dink”. My poor mother. One would think that the solution to this problem would be for me to stop listening to such inappropriate music. Alas.

 


Also, have you actually listened to “I’m Sexy and I Know It”? It is one of the funniest songs I have ever heard. I mean really: “I work out!  I work out!”  I have no idea if this was meant to be ironic or not, but I kind of love it.



Speaking of being sexy and knowing it, I received my O Magazine the other day – do NOT judge me, we all have our vices – and there is a whole section on how to wear the new trends in denim.  Now, I have recently adopted jeggings as part of my wardrobe, which I had previously decried as a plague upon society, so I will tread lightly here.  Still, the first trend described was – wait for it – coloured denim.  Adam Glassman, I am deeply disappointed in you.  COLOURED DENIM.  The question posed was “What do I wear with the new pastel jeans?”  Here’s my answer: not applicable, since seafoam jeans are a travesty.  Some of you might raise your eyebrows in a what does she know, she lives in black and throws in charcoal for colour, but seriously.  It is not a good idea to don lilac and/or seafoam and/or peach pants of any fabric, unless you are in a retirement home and you are coordinating those with floral nylon blouses and plastic jewellery of the same colour family.  I may be biased, but I’m only trying to save others from the fate that I suffered in the early nineties, when I wore purple and/or forest green jeans to the bar, along with a black bodysuit – remember bodysuits? – and my spiral permed hair. 

Adam then goes on to recommend ways to wear coated jeans, which, for those of you not in the know, as I was prior to reading this magazine, coated jeans are a substitute for leather pants. 

Sorry, I needed to take a break for a minute, just from typing the words “leather pants”.  I don’t want to get into any rock star/ I am the Lizard King kind of discussion.  Let’s just agree that putting tight, super-shiny materials on your thighs is not a good idea, not if wearing flattering clothing is of importance.  We should have all learned this lesson in the eighties.  And even if you can pull off wearing leather pants, the question is, should you?  I mean, if you are lucky enough to be in the 1%, it is guaranteed that something else would look much better.  Just say no to leather pants or, apparently, coated jeans. 

This is not the first time I have been disappointed by Adam Glassman, nor, likely, will it be the last.  Remember a few years ago when he announced that the majority of shorts for women were hideous and unflattering and wearing them was akin to fashion suicide?  I privately agreed with this sentiment, but later he bowed under intense pressure from Oprah’s shorts-loving fans and amended his statement.  STICK WITH IT, ADAM, I thought.  I realize this is contrary to my hypocritical adoption of jeggings, but still.  Most shorts for women are hideous and unflattering.  It’s about time we realize this and demand better looking shorts for all women.  Power to the people!

All of which is to say: just say no.  Say no to coloured denim.  Say no to leather or leather-look pants.  And for the love of fashion, just say no to mix-and-match denim.

Just settle the fuck down already, it’s just Pyjama Day.

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It’s Pyjama Day at the boys’ school today and – this may not seem significant to you, but it IS – Mark is wearing pyjamas!  Not once has Mark ever worn pyjamas on Pyjama Day.  He has always preferred to wear just regular clothes, despite the pyjama clad children everywhere.  His refusal to conform to Pyjama Day bothered me a bit when he was in preschool, then less and less with each year.  I figured, in my chillaxing way, that he as he grew he would become more interested in festively wearing nightwear to class, or if he didn’t, that was okay too.  I was pretty sure that somewhere out there were perfectly functional adults who also opted to wear jeans on Pyjama Day, so I was not too worried.  When he told me he was going to participate, I tried not to make a big deal about it.  This morning he was a bit concerned, telling me that he was worried about what the public would think – his “public”, upon further investigation, was discovered to be our neighbours.  He reassured himself that our neighbours probably would not laugh at his pyjama clad legs, and in any case, he was wearing snowpants.  In the car he fretted that no other children would be wearing pyjamas – what if it was just he and Jake? – but then we saw my friends’ children, all of them in Division Two, and all of them wearing pyjamas, and he was vastly reassured.

I have known parents to get upset if their children choose not to participate in an ostensibly fun activity at school – it’s FUN, we say, why don’t you TRY it?, just TRY IT. – but sometimes kids have reasons of their own, and what’s wrong with that?  Wearing your pyjamas to school is an odd concept, after all, and in any case, certain quirks can be outgrown.

All of which is to say, I really like my friend Nan’s plan for a parenting magazine section entitled “Just Settle The Fuck Down Already“, indicating that we cannot control every single facet of our children’s lives.  Once we all realize this, we will be much more at peace.  Not everything that happens to our children or every part of their personalities is a direct result of our actions.  We can all point to parents who, to all appearances and with all the available information, did everything right and yet their child’s life turned terribly, horribly wrong.  See also: Nancy Spungen.  We also can point to parents who adopted the “Feral Child” method of childrearing and yet produced functional adults who contribute to society.  See also: Jeannette Walls.  I’m not saying parenting doesn’t matter: of course it does.  This is not license to guzzle whiskey and smoke while pregnant or allow your toddler to watch TV for twelve hours a day or to feed your children nothing whatsoever other than Coke, Chicken McNuggets, and Pop Rocks.  I mean, that’s really going to fuck shit up.  Obviously we need to do the best job we can and use our brains and our instincts and reliable, researched information, and YET, we still cannot control and shape our children exactly to our specfications.  Nor should we want to.  They are little people, in their own right. 

I have a post on my mind right now that I want to write – not that Pyjama Day is not important stuff – but I’m just not ready.  I realize this is kind of like one of those vague Facebook statuses that people probably mean to be enigmatic but instead turn out kind of flaky.  You know what I mean.  Today was the worst (or, alternately, best) day ever!!!!! with no explanation to what happened, spurring questions and concern from all fronts.  Or an inspirational quote to show that there is drama going on in your life right now, but you are making peace with it.  Or – and this is my favourite – I’m going through my Facebook and deleting everyone who is not a true friend.  If you are NOT a true friend, GOODBYE.  Those always make me feel uncomfortable.  If you are going to unfriend me, I guess I would rather not it be part of your Facebook status, you know?  Not that I should talk.  I mean, my Facebook status today had to do with the fact that I’m wearing compression stockings and jeggings at the same time.  I’m melding the part of myself that wants to be stylish and hip with the part of myself that is next door to drinking hot water and lemon on a summer day.  WORLDS COLLIDING, OMG.  

I also really, really want to talk about the New York Times article about yoga and all the fallout from the yoga world and all that and throw Jim Fix and running into the mixture, but I have run out of time talking about PYJAMA DAY and so I will have to save that topic for next time.  In the meantime, I came across this “Shit Nobody Says” video over at Hilarity in Shoes’ blog, and I love it even more than the “Shit Vegans Say” one (is there HONEY in your bread?).  Maybe I should make my own video.  But I’m not sure what it would say.  My hands are cold.  Barkley is the cutest dog EVER, you should totally get a Labradoodle.  Please don’t fart at the dinner table.  The secret ingredient is love.  Mmm, cheese.  Please don’t talk about your penis at the dinner table.  I used to have a nice rack, now I’m totally deflated.  Chickpeas are awesome!  NO FARTING AT THE DINNER TABLE.  Inhale, exhale.  You have to use your breath.  Do not talk about poop at the dinner table.  Barkley want to go for a walk?  Walk?  Walk?  I think I’m going to have a glass of wine.  STOP TALKING AND FINISH YOUR DINNER.  NO.  NO MORE FARTING.  I made this kick ass stirfry.  Do you want to go to Costco with me?  I have a phobia about it.  Okay, just clear your plate and get started on your home reading.  Yes, it’s okay if you have to poop first.  Wash your hands.  Asana is only one PART of yoga.

There’s the foreshadowing – for the next post!  No, not the farting and pooping part.

Are you feeling sad? It’s Blue Monday!

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My very good friend reminded me this morning that today is Blue Monday, the saddest day of the year, and yet I’m not feeling sad.  That’s a win!  I am, however, feeling cold; our mild, springlike winter has suddenly ended.  The dog keeps looking at me balefully, probably trying to telepathically communicate to me his desire for a walk.  And I keep looking back at him, telepathically communicating something along the lines of “Are you out of your furry little mind?”  We seem to be at an impasse.  Perhaps if it warms up to minus twenty, we will go out for a walk, but if not, you will be stuck in the house with me for the foreseeable future, my canine companion. 

So how many of you watched football this weekend?  I cannot say I watched it, but fortunately I have a football fan of a husband, and so I am IN THE KNOW.  The first game brought much joy and excitement, the second game extreme happiness and satisfaction, the third and fourth games semi-disappointment and disgust.  Awkwardly, the team I like and my husband’s favourite team will be playing each other next week, which does not bode well for marital harmony around here.  Truly, I don’t care enough about football to really have a stake in this particular argument; I will submit in a medieval wifely way to my husband’s will and cheer for his team.  Hey, no one wants a divorce over football for heaven’s sake.

More interestingly, how many of you watched the Golden Globes this weekend?  I did, not that I have ever heard of most of the TV shows and movies that are being celebrated; in fact I don’t know most of the celebrities.  But I do enjoy Ricky Gervais and I also do enjoy me some eye candy, i.e., Johnny Depp.  I realized, alarmingly enough, that I have had a crush on Johnny Depp for twenty-five years.  That’s distressing.  Also distressing: Angelina Jolie’s arms.  I saw her sitting at the table, thought she looked elegant and beautiful, but when she stood up…eeek!  Her arms!  Her giant arm tattoo!  Normally I shy away from mentioning that someone is “too skinny” – commenting on one’s body type is rude, no matter the body type – but HER ARMS OMG.  Have some cheesecake, Angelina.  Also – and this is controversial and will probably open a big huge can of worms, but – I tend to dislike arm tattoos, unless the tattoo is an anchor and the tattooed person is an old sailor.  That’s kind of cool.  But Angelina’s big tat really detracted from the beauty and elegance of her outfit, I think.  Feel free to disagree with me!  I’m just not an arm tattoo kind of girl. 

By far the best parts of the Golden Globes for me were Seth Rogan’s comment about concealing a massive erection, Jimmy Fallon VERY ACCURATELY imitating Mick Jagger’s dance moves, disproving forever the myth that “moves like Jagger” is a good thing, and Mark Wahlberg’s extraordinarily sullen award presentation.  Why so glum, Marky Mark?  Is it a Blue Monday preview?

My dog just sat on my feet and looked up at me, tail wagging.  FORGET IT, BARKLEY.  I have been outside a few times today to do dropoffs and pickups, and I am still chilled from those brief encounters with the out-of-doors.  I was wearing jeans, turtleneck, knee high socks, thick wool sweater that doubles as a fall jacket, gigantic mid-thigh down parka with hood, Joan of Arctic Sorels, gloves AND wool mittens and I was still frozen.  When I was at the doctor’s last week, he commented on the colour of my hands and feet and suggested a) I may have a mild form of Raynaud’s disease, and b) that I am not built for this climate.  Tell me about it, doctor.  Tell me about it.

Saturday the Fourteenth, the Black Boot Edition

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I am not a very superstitious person, so I am not going to put any weight on the fact that I woke up last night and the clock read 3:16.  In related news, did you know there is a football game with very high (emotional) stakes tonight?  Things are going to be TENSE in the Boyhouse, as they often are during the playoffs when a certain New England team is playing.

I may take this opportunity to quietly update my neglected-of-late cooking blog, because watching the game may add too much stress-by-osmosis to my life.

I will tell you that I have never been so happy to see Friday the Thirteenth than I was this week.  This week really kicked me to the curb.  I was sitting on the couch, staring at the TV, and my husband looked up from the – I kid you not – Enron documentary that we were watching and said “Wow, you really look worn out.”  Honestly.  I do not get sick very often so when I do I feel like I have been completely run over by a large piece of machinery. 

But!  On the cheerier side I am almost completely back to normal, enough to be able to make ribald jokes regarding vegetarianism.  Informing someone that you are a vegetarian will invariably result in the question of whether or not you eat fish, and while I realize that there is such a thing as pesco-vegetarianism, I am not of that group.  I still consider fish to be meat, so I do not eat it.  The follow up question to the fist one is, without a doubt, “But how do you get enough protein?”  And this is where I usually smile and lift my eyebrows, and intimate that my husband must be one lucky fellow, don’t you think?  Generally that ends the questions.  There’s nothing like referring to your skanky bedroom antics to get people to never ask you anything again.

Hilariously, I once told a male friend that I am a vegetarian, and his response was completely different; he exclaimed “Really?  But you seem so NORMAL.” 

While I am a vegetarian, I will admit that I do have some boots that are made from – gasp – leather.  I have some pairs which are vegan, true, but I’m not entirely convinced that the process used to create man-made shoe materials is actually BETTER than leather.  I don’t know.  It’s a complex issue.  It’s kind of like about ten years back, when everyone was on a super low-carb diet, but no one was losing weight because they were all eating highly processed low-carb substitutes for high-carb items, i.e., low-carb bread and cookies.  For the record, I was never on that diet.  It is VERY difficult to be on a high-protein, low-carb diet when you are a vegetarian; no one is THAT skanky. 

Related to perceptions of what is “better” or not, I saw a fellow being interviewed who was part of the “Occupy Calgary” movement, and he was passionately championing more electricity use as opposed to that of fossil fuels, when in fact electricity in this province is almost all coal-generated.  Heh.  Facts, people.

Anyway, I realized that I had promised to post pictures of my new boots, the ones that made the salesman tell me that I was – awkwardly enough – Puss in Boots.  I thought that in addition I would post a few pictures of my favourite boots, both vegan and, um, non-vegan.  Enjoy!

The new boots!  My mother referred to them as “hooker boots”, which I take as a compliment.  My husband takes that to mean I’m low on protein.

The same boots, but with turned down cuffs.  Puss in Boots!  These are not particularly practical, because they are not lined, but they are cute, I think.

These boots look really slutty with leggings.  I wear these when I wear a skirt or dress and I think they are pretty saucy.

This photo is specifically for Nan and for Kimberly, neither of whom believed me that Ugg boots could be even remotely attractive.  See?  They can!  I purchased these at half price in an outlet mall in Palm Desert.  Why do we not have outlet malls like that here?  Please note the gratuitous shot of my new Pandora bracelet, but please ignore my freakishly giant hands.  Seriously, my hands really are that big.  I have issues finding gloves that fit.

These are my practical, dog walking boots.  I wear these when it is cold and snowy, but not cold enough for my Joan of Arctic Sorels.  I feel very patriotic when I wear these boots, what with the maple leaves on them.  Canada – I love you.  Let’s get some of those American-style outlet malls, hmmmm?

These are my actual favourite boots; they are perfect for walking with their low heel, and they are lined to be warm for fall weather.  Sadly, they are not warm enough for winter.

These boots are comfortable, but they are really only good for dry, non-snowy sidewalks since they do not have a very grippy sole. 
That concludes a partial walk through my boot closet.  Can you tell which are leather?

Puss in Boots

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Yesterday I was awake for maybe six or seven hours in total.  The night before that Jake suddenly developed a fever…then I developed a fever…and then I developed the following symptoms: sore chest, sore throat, and narcolepsy.  The whole day was a blur of sleeping, eating cinnamon toast and freezies, and sleeping.  I showered at 4:00 only so I could put on a fresh pair of pyjamas.  I did not even put on makeup!  This is a testament to my sickness if ever there was one.

Today we’re all a bit better – Jake is still under the weather, but I heroically showered at 9:30 and put on yoga pants, so I’m one step up from a pyjama day.  I say this tentatively and nervously: I’m actually kind of enjoying our PJ days.  I say this because no one is really, horribly sick; no one is throwing up or dangerously ill or crying.  We’re just all sort of sick and pretty tired and we have no place to go and nothing to do and it’s kind of…nice. 

I’m sort of worried the universe is going to smite me for saying that out loud.  But it IS nice, snuggly days watching movies, reading books, and the boys playing with their new toys and their Wii.  A few more days like this may see me typing feverishly “All work and no play makes Nicole a dull girl” over and over, but for now, it’s nice.

Prior to my 18 hours of sleep day, I managed to pack away all the ornaments, disassemble the tree, and finish my cleaning binge.  We can now all sit comfortably at the table without moving our chairs around to allow people to get up from the table.  Win! 

I also went shopping.  This to me is somewhat heroic, facing the mall that I had been avoiding for more than a month.  We might all have a lot to say about Boxing Week sales, but they are a great time to stock up on things needed throughout the year.  For me, that means jeans for the boys.  I did some online Boxing Week shopping and managed to get a year’s supply of jeans for cheap, something that is desperately needed around here since my kids manage to completely wear out the knees in their jeans within a few weeks.  I should add that I am decidedly NOT a seamstress, and there are only so many pairs of cutoff jeans a child needs, and so we go through a lot of jeans. 

But other than online shopping, I did venture outdoors and went actual physical shopping.  My husband and I dropped the boys off at my mother’s and then went to the very quiet downtown mall.  My very favourite store had 50% off sales – black and charcoal sweaters! – and I also obtained a new pair of boots.  As soon as I have energy I will photograph them and post the picture.  THEY ARE HOT.  I showed my mom who said, immediately, “Oh!  You got hooker boots!”  Yes, Mom, I did!  They are saucy and tall and the salesman smiled at me and said “You’re Puss in Boots!”  Um.  That was a little awkward, but I think he meant it well.

I was so enamoured with my saucy Puss in Boots look that I even capitulated to the demands of fashion and bought – and I say this somewhat shamefully – half-price jeggings.  They are actually much, much more comfortable than I thought they would be, although nowhere near as comfortable as the pyjamas and yoga pants that are my wardrobe this week.  Maybe by New Year’s, I will feel well enough to actually wear them.  Then again, maybe I won’t.

Santa Baby, Please Don’t Bring Me Harem Crops, or an Elf on the Shelf

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This is the view looking out my back door this morning:

Notice how difficult it is to see where the snow on the garage ends and the sky begins?  My plan this morning was to take a trip to Superstore, but the snow and the thought of pushing a giant cart through the windy, unplowed parking lot shook my resolution and so instead I have been puttering around the house, drinking copious amounts of coffee and avoiding my dog’s gaze.  We are not going for a walk, Barkley.
The kids have been taking swimming lessons at school, and they ended yesterday, just in time before the really cold weather settled in for its long winter nap.  It’s so perverse to me, taking swim lessons in the dead of winter, but fortunately it has not been too cold.  Also fortunately, none of the injury, death, and/or dismemberment that I had to waive prior to them taking part in lessons has taken place.  Those waivers will be the death of my nerves.  The half block that they walk is full of dangers, apparently, dangers that they could get run over by a car or slip and fall and crack their heads open on the sidewalk.  Then, once they are in the pool, they might slip and fall and crack their heads open on the pool deck, or drown in the pool, or some other such catastrophe.  Happily, they are still in one piece, although I have yet to hear if they passed their level or not.  I’m going to go ahead and predict not.  I have yet to hear of any child ever passing their level during school swim lessons.
The snow, despite its propensity to tempt me into sitting at home drinking coffee instead of shopping for groceries and liquor (very important, ’tis the season), is making me feel all festive and Christmassy, not that I wasn’t before, but you know, SANTA’S COMING.  We don’t do a lot of Santa-magic things around here, given that my children are abject non-believers, but of course we hang stockings and leave out cookies and talk about how Santa is kind of like a feeling, that doing something nice around the Christmas season means that you are Santa.  Just out of pure perversity, though, I feel like getting my kids one of those Elf on the Shelfs.  Have you seen them?  The concept is just plain creepy – you place the elf in different locations every day so that the elf can monitor your children’s behaviour and then report back to Santa.  Aieeeeeee.
That motherfucker is terrifying.  Can you imagine having a little spy in your house, reporting on your behaviour, then moving into different parts of the house every day?  Yikes.  If we had one of these when I was a kid I probably would have never slept again.  I would have been curled up in the fetal position on my pink bedspread, rocking back and forth.  Can’t sleep…the elf’s going to get me.  But apparently it’s a very popular idea.  I’m not sure with whom, but with someone.
Speaking of the naughty list, I think someone at Lululemon is in trouble for coming up with these:
Please Hammer, don’t hurt them.  Now, Lululemon knows I love them – no one is a bigger fan of their Wonder Unders or their Power Ys or their Smooth Moves thongs than I am – but why would anyone bring back the Hammer Pants?  You can call them Harem Crops as much as you like, but You Can’t Touch This.  The only plus side to these atrocities is that you would be guaranteed no camel toe.  They remind me of a guy I used to date named Tony.  His IQ was – and I’m speculating a bit here – probably slightly higher than Forrest Gump’s.  He was a fan of Hammer Pants and that is all I am going to say on the subject.
However, while we are on the subject of fashion, here’s a picture of my new dress that I wore to my husband’s Christmas party:
You like?