Category Archives: Hello Calgary

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?

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? 

Maybe we actually ARE in Kansas, Toto.

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Yesterday I was driving my kids to their yoga class when I came into a standstill traffic jam.  As the 140 km/hour wind gusted around our minivan, I wondered if, perhaps, the insane weather had anything to do with it.  The question was answered as I finally manoevered past the firetruck filled with men cleaning up the streetlight that had blown over onto the very busy street.  Are we in Kansas, Toto? 

I nervously drove home past downed trees and signs only to hear news updates that a) the entire downtown core had been shut down since windows had blown out of two high rise office buildings, and b) police were urging everyone to stay indoors.  OKAY. 

In other words, it was the perfect day to spend the afternoon putting up the Christmas tree.

The day before we had put up the various decorations – my husband had taken advantage of a mild day a few weeks ago to put up the outdoor lights – but the children could not wait another DAY before putting up the tree.  And here’s the thing about Christmas tree decorating with young children: while it is a wholesome, lovely, family activity, there are moments within the wholesome, lovely, family activity where I fear my head might explode.  Or something.  Because I answered “Not yet, lovey” approximately one thousand times in response to the question “Can we start decorating yet?” while I held a giant string of lights for my husband to very exactly wind around the tree.  Once the lights were just so, I let the kids loose on the decorations, to the detriment of a couple of them; nothing, however, that glue wouldn’t fix.  Things started to spin out of control as little wire hooks got lost, (fortunately) shatterproof balls bounced on the hardwood, and the dog flopped sadly in front of the tree, his spirit apparently broken by the upheaval and change in his life.  There’s a tree.  In the corner.  And the table moved.

The result, of course, is that we have a very Christmassy house, and two boys who will not stop talking about the tree.  Which is cute, of course, but a little tiring.  “Mom Mom Mom Mom Mom Mom what’s your favourite decoration Mom Mom Mom Mom Mom?  Let me show you what mine is.  Mom?  Mom?”

Mark was super excited about decorating.  I was slightly worried he would spin off the planet.  I was also worried if he stepped outside he would spin and blow off the planet.  See that little snowman and tree on the coffee table behind him?  My mother gave that to the boys last year.  It plays “We Need A Little Christmas”.  Is it possible my mother hates me?
Jake put every single one of his favourite decorations on three adjacent branches, including the one he made in kindergarten featuring him in a Santa hat.  Sadly, some of the decorations keep slipping off the overweighted branches, but I don’t have the heart to move them.  He wanted them all to be together, so they wouldn’t be lonely.
Every year I buy an ornament that represents something we did this year.  Since we went to Disneyland, I bought a Buzz Lightyear-and-Woody-in-a-stocking ornament.  “Everyone loves Woody!” Mark said happily.  Hehehe.  Woody.  Remember Mark’s obsession with beavers, and his stuffed animal named Beavery?  Jake has, apparently, caught beaver fever, as he received a large – very large – stuffed beaver for his birthday.  He named it Woody.  I love when the boys play so nicely and calmly together with their stuffies, especially when they talk about how much Woody loves Beavery.  I bet he does.  I just bet he does.
Don’t they look like they just calmly spent the afternoon sitting serenely by the Christmas tree, playing quiet card games?  As opposed to spastically running around the house, shrieking about Christmas?

PSA: Don’t be a dick.

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Do you remember back in the day when you were trying to get pregnant, and it wasn’t happening very quickly, and everyone you knew was getting pregnant, and you were sad and frustrated and felt like stabbing every single person who asked “So when are you going to have a baby?” or who carefully examined what you were drinking to see if it contained alcohol or who had some unsolicited advice about getting pregnant or who said things like “You’re not pregnant yet?  Can’t wait forever!  Tick tock tick tock!”?  Remember that?  I know it wasn’t just me. 
I was reminded of this the other day and here is my public service announcement of the day: It’s really fucking insensitive to ask a woman of childbearing age about their fertility.  So don’t ask.  Related PSA: Don’t be a dick.  Actually, that should be a lifelong public service announcement. 
Segueing from PSA’s to PDA’s, yesterday I went to pick the boys up from lunch and a friend quickly walked over to me in the playground, asking if I noticed the teenagers on the hill behind the school.  There, lying on top of each other on the frozen ground, were two teenagers passionately making out and, um, grinding.  Soon the two of us were joined by three other mothers picking up their kids; the five of us staring at the oblivious couple.  Aw!  Young love.  It reminded me of that day last summer when a young couple started making out passionately in front of my house, groping each other eagerly.  The guy made it to second base.  Sometimes it just can’t wait, I guess.  
Following the advice of several people, I decided to check out Staples in my seemingly endless quest for Christmas printer paper.  I should note that this is NOT a sponsored post, but maybe it should be because even though prior to Monday I had never set foot in Staples and now I am a little bit in love with it.  This is what I saw as I entered the parking lot.
Do you think it is NOW available due to my whining?  Probably NOT but I will take the credit anyway.  I walked into Staples and – as usually happens when I’m in a new and large store – I felt completely overwhelmed.  I stood for nearly five minutes looking around, wandering into one of the aisles, having no idea where to look or what to do.  It’s almost like I’m practicing to be a senior citizen.  What’s that?  Where is the paper?  The pretty paper?  No, not THAT paper.  The only thing worse would be going into Future Shop or something like that.  Five minutes in Future Shop makes me want to huddle in a corner in the fetal position, crying and rocking back and forth.  Finally, a super friendly guy with the biggest smile ever asked if I needed assistance.  How could he tell?  He directed me to a display that was almost right in front of me. 
Squee!  Not only was there a large selection, but there were also pretty little seals in the shapes of snowflakes and seasonal address labels!  I finished my shopping on the weekend, but I could not resist what was in front of me: 
Angry Bird stuffies!  Thanks to my husband and his new iPad, the boys (and my husband himself) are now into Angry Birds.  The three of them played it together for much of the weekend while I re-read Sense and Sensibility.  It is exactly like what I thought life would be like when I had two boys.  The three of them play a video game, I do something girly.  Maybe on the upcoming weekend they will play it and I can give myself a pedicure or something.  Anyway, I thought these would make cute stocking stuffers.  Then I saw the cutest little snowman Pez dispensers with a really excessive amount of Pez refills:
They needed a home too.  Clearly the boys’ stockings are going to be VERY WELL STUFFED.  Then – then, OMG – I saw something that I am hoarding just for me:
Peppermint Lindor!  These are really, really hard to find, in my part of the world anyway.  They are EVEN BETTER than After Eights.  They are even better than frozen York patties.  They are even better than Swistle’s Died-And-Gone-To-Heaven-Mint-Chocolate-Brownies.  They are the G-spot-orgasm-plus-he-gave-me-a foot-massage-and-unloaded-the-dishwasher of mint chocolate.  I bought the above three boxes but I would have bought the whole damn display if I knew where the carts were kept.  However, as it was I had items slipping out of my arms every time I took a step, so I limited it to three.  I don’t care what Kate Moss says, peppermint Lindor taste WAY better than skinny feels.

Here Comes Santa Claus!

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It’s snowing right now, big huge flakes that are sending the city into a panic, traffic-wise, as always happens for the first serious snowfall.  DRIVE SLOW, HOMEY.  I should be more irritated with the snow, but it gives me an excuse to stay home and drink hot beverages, rather than take a trip to the leaf-and-pumpkin recycling depot.  The pumpkins have been sitting on our steps for weeks now.  They are probably disgustingly soft and mouldy, but I do not have the heart to bag them up, so I think I will leave them for my husband tomorrow.  It seems more like – not to be anti-feminist or anything here – a blue job, you know?  I was talking to Allison the other day and we decided that we would be the worst lesbian couple ever, given both our lack of talents in vehicle maintenance and ability to find the fuse box.  The latter is just Allison, I for one know exactly where my fuse box is located.  But I have been known to burst into uncontrollable tears when the “low washer fluid” light has come on.  Sorry, Allison, we are JUST going to be friends.

So instead of bagging up the disgusting pumpkins, I’m drinking a warming cup of tea.  I purchased a package of Yogi brand tea – because I’m pretentious like that – without realizing that there is the added bonus of an inspirational saying on each teabag!  Today’s saying: To love is to live for each other.  Actually, that’s kind of nice.  I can’t really say anything about that.  But yesterday the saying was Let your mind dance with your body.  I think my mind is doing the white-man’s overbite.

On November 1st, I started feeling excessively festive and dug through my drawers until I could find my special green pajamas with reindeer imprinted on.  Then I did some Christmas shopping, culminating with a trip to the post office/ Hallmark store yesterday.  I had to pick up a package anyway, but I thought I would get a head start on my annual Christmas letter.  I asked the man working there if they carried any Christmas stationary.  “WHAT?” he asked, frowning.  I explained to him what I was looking for – printer paper, with a Christmas or winter-like motif.  “No.” he said, shaking his head in a very disapproving way.  “No, we don’t have that.  And I don’t know anyone who would.”  O-kay.  I went back over the conversation in my head, wondering if I had accidentally asked for something completely obscene and inappropriate, like maybe an inflatable Santa Claus complete with erection.  No.  I had just asked for Christmas paper. 

Then I went to pick up my package and asked the woman at the post office counter if I could purchase Christmas stamps.  “Christmas stamps?  No.  They are not AVAILABLE yet.” she said, looking at me like I was maybe the most insane person ever.  I guess she and the other guy were in cahoots?  I don’t know.  People, I was in a Hallmark store.  Three-quarters of the place was filled with Christmas-related items and probably had been for the past three weeks.  I don’t think asking for Christmas stamps was THAT strange.  But maybe it was.  Maybe it was.

It was a graveyard smash!

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It snowed today!  The little dusting is, I believe, positively correlated with the comment I made yesterday regarding the unbelievable fact that we had made it through September AND October with no snow.  But, dear readers, we had NOT made it through October, and so now we have snow.  It’s not much though and it is mostly melted, but I feel silly for having mentioned it. 

I also feel a bit silly for having thought – although not spoken aloud – that we have eluded illness quite successfully so far this school year.  Mark now has a very, very minor version of the sniffles which has the unfortunate yet usual side effect of THE COUGH.  This means that he is waking up to cough in the night, which gives me post-traumatic flashbacks to his bout with pneumonia and the subsequent months of nighttime coughing.  I gave him a shot of his steriod inhaler this morning and he responded by saying “Wow, my chest feels all crazy!” which led me down a spiral of worry.  But he seems fine.

He really was just fine until the morning after the Halloween Family Dance, which is, quite honestly, the highlight of his calendar year, right after Christmas.  And it was a fabulous time for all of us, although I’m happy that it’s all done.  I cleared my calendar last Thursday specifically to make these:

Ninety sugar cookies!  They are almost completely devoid of nutritional value, yet are a consistent crowd pleaser.  I was taking three dozen of them for the bake sale/ concession at the dance and was pleased to see that they sold out fairly quickly. 

Nothing sells like a choice of spooky shapes and lots of sprinkles.

The dance itself was so much fun, augmented by a flash mob performance from a local studio – teenage girls dressed as zombies, dancing to Thriller.  My kids were dressed in their finest spooky wear:

A vampire and Spider Monkey from Ben 10!  My husband and I are in the background, and we are also dressed up, although my neighbour did not realize it.  I walked over to the school early to help set up, and as I left the house with my makeup gun set to “whore” I fervently hoped I would not run into anyone I knew.  No sooner than I had thought that, my neighbour got out of his truck and started talking to me in a casual, awkward, elephant-in-the-room way.  I mentioned I was on my way to set up for the school Halloween Dance, and he said “Oh!  Halloween!  I thought you were just going out with some girlfriends!”  That was a little disheartening.

For the record, I do not look like this when I go out with my girlfriends.

Near the end of the dance, the DJ was inspired to play a number of “oldies” for the parents’ listening pleasure.  I was a little wary – after all, this was only days after the soul train – but the very last song was Don’t Stop Believing by Journey, which is pretty awesome, if you ask me.  I was belting out Hold on to that FEEEELLLLININNNNGGG for the next couple of days.

There was even – hold on to your hats! – much Grade Six Girl Drama, complete with mediation (“She’s upset because you said you didn’t want to dance?  But then she saw you dancing with Sophie?”) and crying in the bathroom.  A few years ago my niece was at a school dance and my sister-in-law asked her how many girls were crying in the bathroom and my niece was completely flabbergasted.  How did you know girls were crying in the bathroom?  Because girls have always and will always be crying in the bathroom at dances until the end of time.

There is something very comforting in that.  When my children are chaperoning their own children’s dances, and Party Rockers in the House Tonight is the golden oldie played for the parents, girls will still be huddled in a group in the bathroom, surrounding and comforting one of their sobbing compatriots.