Category Archives: I almost failed Home Ec

12 Days of Christmas Started Two Days Ago

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Today I am on a quest to embrace sloth and gluttony, and wish only to curl on the couch with wine, popcorn, and one of my new Christmas-gift books, and yet I am faced with two universal truths: the laundry never stops, and the children require nutrition. I have acknowledged these interruptions in my sloth-like schedule, but not without a teensy bit of resentment.

My longing for relaxation is possibly spurred on by events from yesterday, which would be best described using the words “obsessive”, “frantic”, and “cleaning binge”. I have to admit that I take down and put away the Christmas decorations with the same zeal with which I put them up. I’m not sure how to explain this, exactly, except that every year at approximately 8:00 am on December 25 I fight the urge to clear away all the chaos and Clean All The Things. I do fight the urge, however, and Boxing Day in the Boyhouse is the day that all the Christmas items are boxed up and closets purged. It probably says something about my personality that I cannot relax and enjoy the holiday amid post-Christmas chaos and disaster.

I like to think that there are two distinct types of us cheery little Christmas elves: the Advent Elves and the 12 Days of Christmas Elves. I know some of us wouldn’t dream of taking the tree down until Epiphany, or New Year’s at least, but others of us (read: me) feel that Boxing Day is the Last Possible Day The Tree Can Be Up Whilst Maintaining Our Sanity. Advent Elves.

The boys have been happily alternating between putting together Lego sets and playing new Wii games, and are preparing to be introduced to Junior Scrabble and Perfection – gifts from my parents. Jake, especially, is interested in Perfection, although he may have a slightly different idea of “explosion”. He asked me if we should play this game in the basement because he didn’t want any of his complicated Lego sets to be damaged in the playing of Perfection.

Speaking of Wii games, we had bought the Just Dance 2014 game, allegedly from “Barkley”, and spent Christmas Eve getting our groove on. I don’t mean to boast, but my disco moves are pretty excellent, proven by my earning 5 stars on YMCA on my very first try. What can I say, I know my Village People.

 

My 5-Star disco dancing skills aside, it’s been a wonderful holiday so far, even if I have been still preparing meals and doing laundry. I have a stack of wonderful new books to delve into, new charms for my bracelets, new pajamas that have owls on them, and many other lovely things. My mother gave me an apron that is absolutely adorable; it’s a little TOO adorable, maybe. She bought it at a lingerie store so I’m not sure if it’s for cooking or “cooking” but in any case, I love it.

How was your Christmas, lovelies? Tell me everything. xo

Mark poured almond milk, just in case “Santa” couldn’t have regular milk.

We moved Jake’s bed into Mark’s room so they could have a “sleepover”,
which is still going on and appears to now be unbreakable tradition.

Parents Just Don’t Understand, or How I Killed The Tooth Fairy

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I’ve been singing in my head wake me up when September ends because this month has been crazy, and here it is, almost over. Of course, I don’t see October slowing down significantly. Wake me up when October ends. I’ve been busy in a silly kind of way, with things that are not terribly important world-wide but are kind of important in my world, and so I’m like a hummingbird on speed. Vrrrrooooooooommmmm. My husband asked, plaintively, if I could possibly start sleeping in a little later than 4:30 am and I realized I have turned into a boring sort of person who says things like “But I have to bake macarons and write about it and I have to call all these people for the silent auction and I want to wash all the sheets and clean the bathroom and I need to get the agenda posted for the SC/PA meeting and…” and by the time I say “bake macarons” he has tuned out from my dull monologue. I’m even boring myself, just writing this.

But oh! There have been a number of other things happening this week, other than school council meetings and baked goods. Today was the Terry Fox run and I was a little worried about it since it was 4 degrees this morning and Jake called me from school to ask to come home yesterday afternoon, which has never happened. He has a cold, that’s all, but for him it presents as red, watery eyes and the kind of misery that goes along with not being able to see anything as a result. He seems okay today and is back to class; in any case, my husband reminded me that being able to perform and work while not feeling 100% is actually a very useful life skill. It is, isn’t it? It’s not like we can call it a day every time we have the sniffles, and spend the day lying on the couch eating cinnamon toast and watching terrible daytime television. It’s probably good that kids learn to suck it up, buttercup, at least when it’s something minor and not a FEVER or BARFING or something gross and contagious, in which case I always keep the kids home.

We’ve been having many what do you want to be when you grow up conversations lately, and I am telling you, it’s very entertaining. The main goal in this mercenary household is to be wealthy, or, more specifically, to “Make more money than you, Dad, and get a nicer car.” That would be my eight year old talking, who has decided he wants to be a trader. Given his math skills and his generally dickish attitude, I think this would be an excellent career choice for him. Mark wants to be an engineer, which he is also very well suited for. He has what I fondly think of as an engineering personality; those of you who know any engineers will know exactly what I mean, I think. This is the part where I’m supposed to say, passionately, that I just want them to be happy, which is true, of course, but I do think a person is happiest when pursuing a solid career, and so I will continue to cheer on their engineering/ trading/ finance interests while doling out more math worksheets.

When I was a child I wanted to be a concert pianist and/ or a great theatre actress; I ended up with two economics degrees and working on a trade floor as a quantitative analyst. What I did not envision was my current career, at least this week, of being an old-timey dentist. I have been pulling out a lot of teeth in the past seven days, just like one of those dentists in the wild west, except with a decided lack of whiskey. The kids have suddenly developed two things: an alarming number of loose teeth and a complete lack of patience with said loose teeth. I’m getting really good at pulling them out, I have to say. Wham, bam, tooth out. And then there’s the little issue of payment. In lieu of my husband donning a tutu and a wand with a tooth on it, he simply doles out whatever change he has in his pockets when he gets home. This led to Mark’s receipt of nearly $5 in change for a molar. I heard him telling a friend this, who lamented that HE only gets $2 a tooth, to which I said gently – because I didn’t want anyone to feel bad or anyone to whom I have given birth to be boasting – that case was just because that was what Dad happened to have in his pocket. To which the little friend said “His Dad? The Tooth Fairy brings me the money.” Mark gave me the wide eyed, raised eyebrow look I usually give to the children for such verbal slipups, and later said to me, sharply, that his friend still believed in the Tooth Fairy and I shouldn’t have said anything at all.

Parents. We just don’t understand.

Putting on my married lady pants

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Yesterday I had one of those days where I had amazing feats of accomplishments, one after another, except that the accomplishments themselves were so boring that they practically brought tears to my eyes.  I wanted to share my amazing level of accomplishments with my husband, and so I started to list off all the things I had done, and yet before I even had listed a quarter of the things I noticed his eyes glazing over and his head nodding.  I could practically see that he was thinking about work, or a meeting, or possibly an episode of Top Gear while I described my day: I walked the dog and then I went to Costco and then I put everything away and separated all the chicken breasts into individual containers for freezing…oh wait, before that I stripped all the beds and washed the sheets…and then I went to get the kids for lunch…

My husband’s head did snap to attention when, between describing “preparing vegetables for dinner” and “weeding the garden” I mentioned that I washed the windows.  I a) got the ladder out of the garage and b) got ONTO the ladder, both ALL BY MYSELF.  He, for some reason, found this information alarming.  And yet I still have both legs and an uncracked skull and also I can see out my window without rage about all the water spots and dust, so it’s a winning situation all around. 

I did not mention to him that I may have hit the minivan with the ladder whilst fetching it from the garage and also that I may have put a dent in the garage doorjamb whilst putting it back in the garage.  I DID clean the damn windows myself.  I feel like I need an award.  Maybe a badge for my sash.

I think what I will do is pour myself a large Friday-style glass of wine and put on what my sweet young girlfriend calls “married lady pants” – a certain kind of comfortable pants that give off that vibe of “we have a legally binding contract”, as opposed to “Let’s listen to Barry White and get it on all night long”.  In my case, such pants are pink pajamas that sport a hummingbird motif, although I’m pretty sure my husband finds said pajamas to be sexy as hell.  He probably thinks “Wow, those hummingbird pants are hot.  Can’t wait to see what they look like on the floor.”  Or so I tell myself. 

The other night I was sitting on the couch in my pink hummingbird pajamas with a mud masque on my face and whitening strips on my teeth, and I felt a teensy bit sorry for my husband.  My friend Clara wrote a post about the secret to a good marriage is accepting that the two of you make an engine, part gasoline, part spark.  Cannot help but think that my whitening strips that make me lisp a little bit is NOT doing my part for spark.  Freshly whitened teeth are nice though, so I’m going to go ahead and give myself half points.

Sweep, sweep, hurry, hard!

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You won’t believe it, but it has been actually hot here the past couple of days.  Not just warm, but HOT.  It’s beautiful.  Nothing teaches you to carpe diem like a hot day in Calgary.  It’s like the whole city is well aware that such a gift may not ever happen again, and so everyone is outside frantically enjoying the sunshine.  Seize the day, goddammit!  I’ve noticed a lot of sunburned faces around, which is also typical of this city where people take a few weeks to realize that yes, there is such a thing as sunscreen. 

A lot of those red faces were at the school.  Yesterday was Music Monday and I went to watch 430 students singing on the hill behind the school.  It couldn’t have been more perfect, and as a side note: is there anything that Chris Hadfield cannot do?  The guy is the whole package, moustache and all.  He writes songs, he orbits in space, he plays the guitar – seriously, what an amazing man.

I brought freezies to the playground yesterday after school and enjoyed feeling the sun while the kids played.  I checked Mark’s agenda and in there was a note reminding all parents about appropriate clothing for warm weather, reminders about hats, sunscreen, and water bottles.  There was also a reminder about shorts – how short is too short? – and that there are no spaghetti straps permitted in the classroom; tank top straps must be two-finger-widths at minimum.  I’d never received this particular note before, and I didn’t get one from Jake’s class, so I have to assume Grade 3/4 is the age when these rules start to be enforced.  After all, I’ve seen plenty of kindergarteners in sundresses with skinny straps. 

It reminded me so much of Swistle’s Middle School Dress Code post that I had to go read it again.  This is my very favourite paragraph from that post:

I can HEAR in the newsletter that the middle school staff does not WANT to make a dress code. They want to say, “Wear REASONABLE clothing, please, and let’s get on with the day.” But no: the children push and Push and PUSH, until the staff is FORCED to say things such as “Shoulders of tops must be at least three (3) inches wide.” I’m sure that in the beginning they were thinking, as I am, “What’s wrong with a tank top?” And many VERY HEADACHEY days later, it’s “three inches” and then needing to spell out that “three” = 3.

I just didn’t realize I would be facing this in Grade 3.  Of course, I can be as flip as I like about it, since my own children are wearing t-shirts that have the 2010 Vancouver Olympic mascots on them and nearly knee-length cargo shorts.  I am not likely ever going to have to worry about them wearing spaghetti straps and short shorts to school, and because of this I feel very fortunate.

Slight digression: I’ve always found sleeveless shirts on men to be kind of vile, outside of a gym or yoga studio or athletic activity.  I think it’s the armpit hair.  Anyone else feel this way, or is this going to be another of those issues that divides us, like shorts?  We can all still be friends, no matter what our view on shorts are.  This isn’t O Magazine.

There is one thing that is very trying about this weather, and that is the very dry dead grass that is everywhere.  Green grass is only just starting to sprout, and so the dead grass is literally everywhere.  It was all over my blanket that I took to Music Monday, it’s inexplicably all over the kids’ clothing, and the dog, the DOG keeps rolling around outside and bringing in vast quantities of it.  The dog isn’t due for his day at the groomer’s for another two weeks, and so his giant fuzziness is constantly shedding dead grass all the live long day.  I cannot stand the sight of it, which means I am sweeping the floor constantly.  “I’m in a battle with the grass,” I said casually to the boys, who immediately jumped on the word “battle”.  They immediately began describing the video game that could be based on my life.  Mom versus grass.  My weaponry is a broom and sometimes the vinegar-and-water spray bottle and mop.  Level up!  I swept up the grass.  There’s more grass!  I’m losing lives!  Get out the broom! 

Anyone want to get in on the lamest, most housewifely video game idea ever?  Anyone?  I was a little saddened by the apparent turn my life has taken here; I mean, my superpower is sweeping up dead grass with a broom.  This is what my life has come down to. 

Come to think of it, Superman is a douche

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There is this strange phenomenon I’ve noticed this winter: no matter what the weather is like at all other times of the day, it will surely become much, much worse at school pickup time. I’m not sure what it is about the 3:30-4:00 time slot, but lately it’s been nothing but gale force winds, snow, and icy cold. It’s a wee bit depressing to be standing out in the playground, bundled up like I actually am in the Arctic, watching kids walk backwards because the wind and snow in their faces is just too much.  Also, my finger-that-was-nearly-and-unknowingly-amputated-whilst-carrying-groceries is now doing this alarming thing where it spontaneously goes numb, and the cold is just not helping that. 

Today the sun came out – thank goodness – and although it’s still woolly mammoth cold and we have had snow on the ground since October and we probably will have snow on the ground for weeks to come, spring IS coming.  I think.  No, it is.  One day I will put on footwear that are not boots, and a top that is not a thick sweater layered over a long sleeved shirt, and I will wear a coat that is not big and puffy.  One day.  It’s coming.

Meanwhile, this morning Jake used the word “douchey” to describe Superman.  I was both impressed by his apt description and startled by the inappropriateness of a seven year old usage of the word.  We had a rather involved discussion about the time and place to use a word such as “douchey”; i.e., not at school.  It’s true, though.  Superman is a bit of a douche.  I’m more of a Batman girl myself.  Or Wolverine. 

When you live with a housefull of boys, these are things that actually come up in conversation on a semi-regular basis: the ranking and ordering of favourite superheroes and WHY, what foods lead to the most odorous of intestinal gas, which Pokemon character is the fastest and which is the strongest, and how double light sabers are far superior to regular light sabers.  And, apparently, how douchey Superman is.

One of my husband’s colleagues was in a Superman movie when he was a kid, and we recently watched a clip of it on youtube.  “Superman was here!” a woman exclaimed to Clark Kent, who looks totally different from Superman because he is wearing glasses and regular clothes.  Dude, at least all the other superheroes have some sort of mask on. 

Speaking of the Man of Steel, I’m in a bit of a swoony mood this week because Saturday is my wedding anniversary!  We will have been married for eleven years, and the traditional gift for eleven years of marriage is steel!  So I will be looking forward to the receipt of my new car, a la The Price is Right.  A NEW CAR!  Kidding, I will not be receiving a new car for my anniversary, but I may be receiving a piece of steel, if you know what I mean.

Some euphemisms just don’t work.

This week, in anticipation, I have been using my favourite set of dishtowels, because I am a total hausfrau who celebrates life events via dishtowel usage.  Remember this set I bought from anthropologie, that was likely meant for a wedding shower gift but I bought for myself because it’s so awesome?

This makes me as happy as a material item possibly can.  It makes me happy every time I look at it.  I am living happily ever after, I smile to myself as I polish an apple.  Not everything from anthropologie is so awesome though.  I get the catalogue in the mail, and this was on the very last page:

anthropologie.com

If you have been searching for that elusive blue toile romper, look no more!  It can be yours for only $168. 

anthropologie.com

Old lady comfort outfits, represent.  All this needs is a white cardigan with a tissue in the sleeve to complete the look.

Maybe I need an outfit like that.  I was looking swoonily at our wedding photos, and was struck, as I often am, at how very young I looked:

Eleven years later, and I look like this:

advanced style


Marriage has aged me!  Or maybe it’s all the talk about superhero douchery.

Busy Bee

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It was “Dress as Your Twin” day at school – a day where kids get “spirit points” for their “colour squad” if they dress the same as someone else, and my kids took it to the extreme, dressing in the exact same outfit, down to the socks and underwear.  Extra points for that?  I am volunteering in Jake’s class this afternoon; apparently I will be cutting things out and gluing them to other things, which is certainly not my forte.  I hope I don’t need to use a glue gun.  The last time I volunteered for such an in-class activity, it was when Mark was in kindergarten and I accidentally stabbed myself in the hand with the scissors while cutting out doors on milk-carton birdhouses.  I was, apparently, not modelling good scissor behaviour. 

I thought it would be sort of fun to help out in Jake’s class, but evidently I am the only one.  Jake is not exactly thrilled by this invasion of his personal space, so it’s good that his teacher phoned last night and asked if I would do the work in the library, not the classroom, as it is too crowded.  The other day I was bringing a backordered book to his classroom, and his entire class was so! excited! to see me! but Jake continued to just do his work like I wasn’t even there, responding to my greeting with a talk-to-the-hand type nod of his head.  Later he chastised me a little: “I’m supposed to be doing work, not getting distracted.”  Okay.  This is the same child with whom I fist-bump when saying goodbye in the school lineup.  I’m not sure what is going to happen when he’s a teenager. 

I have a very busy weekend ahead of me, socially.  Normally my weekends consist of a whole lot of nothing, but I actually have two events this weekend.  One is my husband’s office Christmas party, and so I will wear a nice dress and heels and everything!  I really love office Christmas parties, even the super boring ones, because I get to wear a dress!  And eat food that is not prepared by me!  And engage in small talk!  I am the motherfucking queen of small talk.  I can small talk with everyone from your elderly aunt to inanimate objects.  BRING IT ON, PEOPLE, and how about all this snow?

The second event is a vegetarian potluck at one the home of one of my beautiful yoga friend’s.  I am tasked with dessert.  My husband not-so-secretly wants to sneak in hamburgers.  Speaking of which, I received a copy of Rachael Ray’s new cookbook for review.  I accepted because cookbooks make me squee, but I’m realizing now that Rachael Ray’s recipes are not exactly vegetarian-friendly.  There is bacon in everything, including the cupcakes, which seems very, very strange to me.

I have been doing a lot of volunteering at the school, and so when Jake received forms for swim lessons I quickly stuffed them into their envelope without checking off the “Yes! I can volunteer!” box.  NO I CANNOT.  I refuse to stand in the wet, gross, germy change room with hysterical children, trying to locate someone’s sodden socks.  I loathe the school swim lessons anyway: the way the kids never, ever pass a level, the waivers I have to sign indicating no liability if my child drowns or gets hit by a car walking to the pool or succumbs to death and/or dismemberment in running-on-the-deck related ways, the way the lessons are always in the dead of winter and the children all seem to be hacking up a lung or wiping their runny noses in the pool.  No, I will not volunteer to supervise in the change room.  I just hope to escape dismemberment myself from today’s volunteer activity.


Moustaches, Sexy Men, and Early Morning Photographs

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I have been a bit MIA this week because it was the school’s book fair and the annual general meeting of the School Council, of which I am the chair, and those two events, along with all the usual housewifely stuff, made for a very busy week.  This is my fourth year of running the book fair and I was silently resolving that this would be the last, especially as I answered the same questions over and over: no, that’s not really a cake pop/iPod/chocolate bar, it’s a pen/eraser/calculator, the posters are $5, yes, $5 for each poster.  But then at the end of the fair a boy came in especially to thank me for running the fair and also for being so nice.  Another girl in Jake’s class told me that Jake was lucky to have a mom who was so nice and never mad, which is not exactly true, but I don’t mind perpetuating that perception.  Then some teachers told me how much my efforts were appreciated…and then I silently resolved to do one more fair.  But we all know how that’s going to go, don’t we?  I’m going to be running these fairs until the end of time, or at least until my kids leave the school.  Every time I think I’m out they pull me back in.

There are always a vast number of novelty items at these fairs, but I have to say I was a bit surprised to unpack a box with erasers shaped like moustaches.  I thought that was strange, and wondered if it was some kind of Movember thing; the moustaches ended up being the hottest ticket item there.  Do you have any more moustache erasers? the children would ask desperately, and then their spines would crumple a bit at the news No, they are all gone.  Apparently, at our school, the children harbour a deep desire to be more like Magnum PI. 

Look at that gold medallion, all nestled in his chest hair.

Speaking of raw manly sex appeal, there was another event just as exciting, and much less exhausting – for me at least – happening this week, a little so-called magazine called People releasing the winner for the title of Sexiest Man Alive.  I wasted half an hour of my life this morning going through the website, where in addition to naming Channing Tatum, a fellow who is not attractive to me, but apparently is to the People editors, the Sexiest Man Alive, there are fifty one men who are included in a list entitled The United States of Sexy.  I will let that title just sit with you, dear reader, for a moment.

In any case, the United States of Sexy matches each state with a supposedly sexy gentleman from that state, although the rules around the definition of “from” seem to be fairly fluid.  You will never guess who is representative of Montana.  You may try, but you will never, ever guess.  It’s Patrick Duffy.  Patrick Duffy.  Bobby Ewing, in other words.  Bobby Ewing, who peaked in 1986 when he was revealed to not be dead at all, but only dream dead, is the Sexiest Man in Montana.  What the hell is going on in Montana?  I refuse to believe that I am living in a world where Patrick Duffy is the Sexiest Man in any state, unless every other man in that state has died.  I am just not that cynical.  It cannot be and I will not believe it.

I also have a hard time believing that Richard Gere is among the top ten Sexiest Men.  It’s horrifying.  Not only was he part of the most disgusting, unsettling, and distressing “feel-good” movie ever (I am looking at you, Pretty Woman), but he is also really unattractive.  How does he keep making these lists?  The only thing I can think of – as I commented on my friend Hannah’s hilarious reaction to the list – is that he has photos of one of the editors of People magazine fucking, or possibly receiving a blowjob from, a hooker, and so is using it for blackmail purposes to stay on the Sexiest Men Alive list.  There is no other possible explanation, unless there are a number of people who are not me who really do find Richard Gere attractive, but I refuse to believe that.  Again, I am not that cynical. 

There are a number of men who, in my “I’m everywoman” opinion, are very deserving of a sex-ay mention.  For example:

Now THAT’S what I’m talking about.  Eric Dane on fatherly duty?  To be honest, the fatherly thing doesn’t really work for me.  It humanizes the men I’m trying to objectify but still, I defy anyone to look at this picture and not appreciate Mother Nature and her artistry:

God bless Mother Nature.  She’s a single woman too.

Can you feel it, baby?  Yeah, I do too.  I have much, much more to say about the Sexiest Man Alive, other than the Who’s that guy? general puzzlement which is my frequent response, me being fairly un-hip to the scene and all.  However, I have loads of housewifely duties that have been sorely neglected this week which I should probably attend to toute de suite. 

Before I sign off, dear reader, I will tell you of an experiment I performed this week.  Several years back it was a thing for bloggers to take a photo of themselves first thing in the morning, and then another after shower, makeup, coffee, etc., a before-and-after of sorts.  Since I am nothing if not timely, I decided I would participate.  Or maybe I was trying to revive the game amongst the whole new crop of bloggers that is currently buzzing up the internet.  In any case:

Other than the lighting being better and my hair being less crazy, the only real difference is that I look much, much more diabolical in my after picture, which is in opposition to the schoolchildren’s perception of me as being “so nice”.  Bwhahaha.  Beware, children, of my evil forehead wrinkle!