Category Archives: Mind Songs

This is a million dollar idea.

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The other day I was putting gas in my car and I reset the odometer as I always do whenever I fill up. I realized that I have been doing this since age 16, when my dad told me to, ostensibly to calculate gas mileage. In all these years, I have never once calculated the gas mileage, although I always reset the odometer, without fail. My dad would probably be disappointed to know this. I actually don’t even know the volume of the gas tank, and I don’t keep track of my gas station receipts, so really, there is no need to reset the odometer. And yet, if I don’t, I feel as though the apocalypse might be upon us, and so reset the odometer I will.

Friday afternoon the boys and I headed out to Dairy Queen to get the fabled Treatzza Pizza for Mark’s birthday party, and on the way home we were stopped at a red light beside a young guy who had music blasting. The music wasn’t the usual thumpy bass-heavy sound of today’s youth; curious, I cracked my window. All the better to hear you with, perfect stranger stopped at a red light next to me.

The song was Ring of Fire by Johnny Cash. It was BLASTING. The guy had his windows down and had a perfectly straight face. He wasn’t grooving. He wasn’t singing. He wasn’t even tapping his hands on the steering wheel, but he was playing Ring of Fire cranked up like nobody’s business. When the light turned green, I noticed that the car itself was a Lincoln sedan.

And how was the birthday party? MY GOD, LOUD. It was four hours and honestly, I now think that I was unbalanced to think that was a reasonable amount of time to have eight children in the house. I mean, sure, the kids had a great time. Everyone said the party was “epic.” And yet, with forty minutes to go until pick-up time, I looked at my husband and told him that I didn’t think I was going to make it. But make it I did; everyone was happy and the kids all brought tons of food for the food bank, so it was a win. Maybe next time I will schedule the party for three hours.

In the interest of grievance airing, I must tell you that I am constantly grieved by a failure on nail polish companies to make a long-enough brush to reach the polish at the bottom of the bottle. I long for a world in which I can actually use all the polish in the bottle, without tipping the bottle precariously, trying to get the polish on the brush. Years of throwing out 3/4 empty bottles of nail polish because the last 1/4 is inaccessible has made me feel slightly bitter towards all nail polish companies. This is the same feeling I get with lip gloss – I can see there is still lip gloss in the container, and yet the applicator cannot access it. It is wasteful and must be stopped. Petition forthcoming.

Years ago I saw an episode of Dragon’s Den or Shark Tank or one of those shows in which the panel displays disgust at someone for triple-mortgaging their house to finance a really ridiculous and un-saleable idea, and the would-be entrepreneur talks about how moronic the panel is not to take them up on the Coolest Idea Ever, and that their offer of $1,000,000 for a 5% stake in their would-be company is a steal of a deal. Do you know those shows? My husband likes them. I do not. But years ago I saw an episode that featured a young woman who had come up with an idea for a long, skinny spatula that was designed to get the last bits of conditioner or lotion out of the bottle. It was called the Spaddy Daddy. Someone needs to come up with a Spaddy Daddy specifically for nail polish and lip gloss. I’m putting it out there! Someone please grab that idea and run with it, so I don’t have to spend half a blog post writing about how stupid this nail polish and lip gloss waste is. Again.

Now that I’ve aired a grievance, I feel like I need to balance the scales a bit by telling you about something I love. My husband recently installed Sonos in our house, fulfilling his lifelong dream to watch a movie with surround sound in the comfort of our own home. Now, I don’t really care about movie sound, but he also put in satellite radio in our house and I am in love. The greatest thing about this technology is that each song title and album cover pops up on my phone, which means I get to look at Bob Seger and really admire his hair.

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Seriously, look at his hair. It’s lustrous. Shiny. Full of wave and body. Things I never thought I’d say: I covet Bob Seger’s hair.

Now look at this:

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It’s not possible for me to love this photo more. Look at the hair. The moustaches. The wide lapels and the (I assume) three piece suits? Damn, Dan and Coley really got it together for this album cover. Plus, look at the expressions on their faces! I’m not talking about moving in. And I don’t want to change your life. But there’s a warm wind blowing the stars around, and I’d really love to see you tonight. I feel like he really WOULD love to see me tonight.

Boots and songbooks: where have you been all my life?

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It’s cold here, but not unusually so, by which I mean today was -22 without windchill and that is the coldest it has been all week. The rest of the week sat around -15 without windchill, which is certainly par for the course for January in Calgary.

My usual morning routine is to drop the kids at school and then meet friends at the off-leash with our dogs. (Who’s a good doggie? Who’s a GOOD DOGGIE? Barkley’s a good doggie!). After our dog walk, I couldn’t feel my feet, which is something that’s been occurring more and more often lately. Lest you think I was underdressed for the weather, this was my outfit: turtleneck sweater underneath a thick wool sweater, jeans, thick woollen legwarmers, two pairs of socks, ankle length parka with hood, earmuffs, gloves underneath thick mittens, and my Joan of Arctic Sorel boots.

Remember when I bought those Sorel boots, years ago, and how it was a revelation to me? They no longer are the godsend they once were. I don’t know if it’s a factor of lots of wear or if my Reynaud’s and circulation issues are just getting worse, but in any case, I’ve been really suffering lately. After spending most of the day in foot agony post-walk, I decided that it was high time for new boots. And I went to MARK’S WORK WEARHOUSE.

End times are nigh.

I went into the store and spoke to the very young male associate. I informed him that I wanted the warmest pair of boots available. These are pretty warm, he said, to which I responded, No. I want your WARMEST pair. Whatever your warmest pair is, I will take them.

I came home with marginally ugly but OMG MAGICAL boots.

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They are called Snow Queens, which makes me feel regal.

I feel like my life has changed, with one trip to Mark’s Work Wearhouse. Previously my trips there have been only to purchase Christmas gifts for my father-in-law.

In other where have you been all my life news, I had ordered a piano song book and yesterday it arrived. It may be the single greatest song book of all time.

songs

Look at that lineup! And it doesn’t even tell the whole story.

I’ve been playing the piano for almost thirty years – I was quite serious about it for many years, but now I just play for fun.

Digression: how many of us were into something like a sport or an instrument in a very serious way, but now as adults we say “now I just do it for fun”? I have friends who were competitive figure skaters, gymnasts, divers, hockey players, and swimmers, as well as those of us who spent hours daily at an instrument. Question for another day: was it worth it? Are the intangible lessons from that kind of discipline enough to outweigh the time, money, and energy spent? I like to think so, but honestly I am not sure. Thoughts? In any case, I was very happy to be able to spend hours a day at the piano, back in the day, and I’m very happy now to be able to play. I wish my kids had some interest in playing, but they can barely summon up the wherewithal to play their recorders.

Anyway, for the past few years I’ve been feeling a little stale at the piano. Other than Christmas music, my general repertoire was Fur Elise, followed by New York State of Mind or Piano Man, ending with Solfeggio in C Minor. Occasionally I’d plunk away at something new but would be mostly bored.

I tell you this: my new songbook has revitalized every feeling I’ve ever had about piano. Because look!

islandsinthestream

OMG

I had initially ordered the songbook for Don’t Stop Believing, but THIS was the first song I chose. I played it for my husband last night, who was nonplussed.

Mr: I don’t even know what you’re playing.

Me: It’s Islands in the Stream!

Mr: *goes back to reading about the NFL*

So that was disappointing. However, as I flipped through I saw the music for Stairway to Heaven and started to play.

Mr: Now THAT’S a good song.

Other gems: Wish You Were Here, Open Arms, Love Lift Us Up Where We Belong, and EYE OF THE TIGER. I’m not sure how that will translate to piano, but ever since I heard that guy play Sweet Child of Mine on the accordion, I’ve been inspired to think outside the music box. Heh. Music box.

Riding the Roller Coaster of Emotion

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So there I was, just going about my day like any other; I was driving back home from dropping the kids off at school, and guess what I found in my back alley:

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manny3

Manny! What have they done to you?

For those of you who haven’t been following the Mannequin Saga of 2014, when we first saw Manny I thought he was a dead body hidden amongst the tree branches in the green space across the alley, directly behind my house.

deadguy

 

Soon after that, Manny was raised, Lazarus-like, from the dead.

creepymannequin creepymannequin2

And now, Manny is in pieces, with only an errant shoe and an empty Corona case to show for his travels.

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Here’s the thing, though. Prior to this week, all of Manny’s activities have taken place directly behind my house. When I found our poor desecrated Manny, he was half a block down the alley. SOMEONE must have taken him, walked him down the alley, and then fed him Corona until he was numb before sawing him in two, like some magician’s assistant in a magic trick gone wrong. My suspicions lie with the people who live in the house behind which I found him.

It is worth noting that Manny has a few extra wounds to his torso than when we first found him.

manny2

But he is still one-armed. One arm is better than no arms, am I right?

Now here’s the thing: I cheerfully drove down the alley yesterday, on my way to pick up the boys and also to catch a glimpse of my favourite mannequin. I had the idea that maybe, just maybe, I would put a toque on him, in the spirit of the person who decorated the trees at the dog park. Just my little contribution to happiness in the neighbourhood.

But Manny was gone.

At first I thought maybe he’d been picked up with the garbage, but then I remembered that garbage day was Tuesday, so that couldn’t be it. It was terribly windy yesterday morning but I didn’t see him anywhere, and anyway he was pretty packed down in the snow and ice.

Baby, come back. You can blame it all on me. I was wrong, and I just can’t live without you.

 

Say Hello To My Little Friend

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I have had “Mairsy Doats” going through my head all morning, which has to be some kind of record for “weird earworms”. I am winning the contest, people, the contest to see who can get the weirdest thing stuck in one’s head for the longest period of time. If you don’t know “Mairsy Doats” it is a song that was commonly sang by grandmothers of my generation, and it goes like this:

Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy. A kid’ll eat ivy too. Wouldn’t you?

And repeat. But it has to be sang very quickly so the words slur together, like this:

Mairsy doats and doasy doats and little lambsy divey. A kiddly ivy too. Wouldn’t you?

In other words, I’m slowly going insane. I’m searching for something, ANYTHING to get this out of my head: the theme song from Cheers, Hey Joe, Clap for the Wolfman, and nothing is working. Nothing. I keep attempting snippets from songs, and this is what happens:

Clap for the Wolfman, he’s going to rate your record high. Clap for the Wolfman, you won’t dig him till the day you mares eat oats and does eat oats…

I feel like Scarface, but instead of saying “Say hello to my little friend” and shooting everyone in a violent fashion, I am saying “Say goodbye to my little brain” and drinking coffee. So not at all like Scarface, I guess.

Yesterday I went to buy pumpkins for carving; I’m pretty behind on my usual fall festivities. I haven’t even put up our decorative scarecrows, and it’s only two weeks until Halloween! This is unacceptable. The scarecrows must – MUST – go up this weekend. Apparently having a freak snowstorm and then even more freakishly warm weather is great for fall colours, because the leaves that are left on the trees that are left are gorgeous. I stared at my friend’s beautiful mountain ash this morning; it’s gloriously orange with the most beautiful red berries. I took a photo but it just didn’t do it justice; you will have to trust me that the city looks gorgeous.

Back to the pumpkins; I went to the Co-Op yesterday, thinking it would be an easy trip. Pick out four cute pumpkins, boom, done. I ended up staring at the pumpkin selection for an uncomfortably long time because they were all enormous. Where are all those cute small pumpkins? Not the little tiny decorative ones; those are adorable but I need ones that are actually carveable. It’s a family tradition that we each get a pumpkin to carve so we have a family of pumpkins. A family of weird looking pumpkins, but a family nonetheless. However, at Co-Op all the pumpkins were absolutely huge. Huge is not always a good thing, guys. I could barely lift them. After staring at the pumpkins and weighing my options – huge pumpkins versus driving somewhere else to hopefully find smaller ones – I decided that laziness was a virtue and started hauling out the less-enormous pumpkins. They were all battered and weird-shaped, but I feel that this will add character. I set them all on the front step but I think their still-mammoth size is distressing to Barkley. He keeps randomly barking at the windowed front door, and when I go to look, nothing is there but the pumpkins. Poor doggie. He’s trying to protect us all from being overrun by giant orange spheres.

Last night when I was driving the kids home from karate, MC Hammer’s U Can’t Touch This came on. When I changed the channel, the boys protested. They love that song! Love it! So I turned it back and listened as they sang along. How do they know it? It’s a mystery. I clearly remember Hammerpants being a large part of the fashion scene, back in the day. All the boys in my Grade Nine class walked around in those pants, so patterned and colourful. Sadly, I’m sure this will be back in style before we know it. The other day my girlfriend’s beautiful daughter was wearing acid wash skinny jeans with combat boots, and while she looked adorable, I felt like Methuselah. It’s funny how the crazy styles of the 80s can look great on the young, but when I saw a woman my age walking down the street wearing relaxed-fit, elastic waist acid wash jeans that were clearly a vintage/ saved item from 1986, I felt sad for everything. We cannot go back there, people. We must leave the acid wash – and, probably, the Hammerpants – to today’s youth. On that note, I am going to the mall to pick up some nice blouses, slacks, and sensible shoes.

Get Off My Lawn

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Ever since I complained about my too-tight-post-vacation pants, my Facebook feed has been full of advertisements regarding the most efficient way to get rid of belly fat, the one simple exercise to rid myself of belly fat, the one surprising food to avoid to eliminate belly fat, and ways to become bikini ready in just ten days. Well, thanks, Facebook, but I think I’m good now. My pants fit again so you can go back to advertising whatever it was you advertised before (Yoga studios? Clothing stores? Makeup? I don’t really know.).

How was your weekend? Mine started off by the delivery of a new freezer and fridge for the basement; their chilliness warms my food-hoarding little heart. I am beyond excited to be able to buy tons of produce and not have to play Tetris to get it all to fit in my fridge, and now I have an actual honest-to-God freezer to freeze things instead of jamming things into the beer-fridge-sized freezer and the compartment on my fridge, breaking my nails, and crying. The receipt of these items meant that my husband and I had a lot of reorganizing/ purging/ moving things/ swearing to do in order to make everything fit. It turns out that we have differing opinions on what sort of things are appropriate to keep – old golf how-to manuals versus a box of old fridge magnets – and that if a dumpster were in the neighbourhood, I should not leave the house lest my husband gets hold of my boxes of old Christmas cards and the kids’ old art projects. Not that I’m really a hoarder – I happily packed up many boxes and bags of things to be donated/ recycled/ garbaged – but it turns out my husband is much more brutal in his spring cleaning efforts than I am. I AM NOT GETTING RID OF THE FRIDGE MAGNETS AND ART PROJECTS.

Anyway, after the excitement of the new appliances, then there was the excitement of Mad Men! I sternly told the boys to shower and read their books in silence, because I had been waiting for ten months to watch this show and sssshhhhhhh. I will say this: it did not disappoint. I was struck, watching the scenes on the plane, by how much air travel has changed in the past 40-50 years. It used to seem so glamourous; now it’s all about watching your seatmate grossly eat Cheezies and drunkenly pass out beside you.

So that brings us to Monday morning. Apparently it is Bermuda Shorts Day today, which, if you did not go to the University of Calgary and are therefore in the dark why a) anyone would wear Bermuda shorts and b) why that would occur in April in Calgary, here is a little background information for you. Basically, it boils down to the last day of classes being celebrated by much drunken debauchery. The reason I know that it is Bermuda Shorts Day today is that I live in walking distance to the university, and while I was peacefully folding clothes I looked out the window and saw hordes of students in various ridiculous shorts-based outfits, walking down the street, beers and red Solo cups in hand. I smiled to myself, thinking of my youth and many fun Bermuda Shorts Days of my own…when I saw a girl chug a beer and throw the can on my lawn. I ran – not walked – to the front door and by the time I got there I noticed people putting their empty cans underneath the tires of the cars parked on my street. Whipping the door open, I screamed “HEY! DON’T THROW BEER CANS ON MY LAWN!!!” while the students looked on, startled. One young man in cutoff denim shorts with the pockets hanging down started collecting the cans while the rest stared at the crazy red-haired hausfrau reaming them out. At least I wasn’t wearing an apron and/or hair curlers. “Have a good time, but have some fucking respect for my neighbourhood. I don’t want to see this shit ANYMORE!” and mid-sentence a cop car patrolling the neighbourhood for drunken debauchery pulled up. Good timing, sir! I left him to it while watching out the window with a furrowed brow at the state of the young people today. GET OFF MY LAWN AND TURN OFF THAT INFERNAL RACKET.

Happy Monday to everyone! On that note, it’s a good day to get to know each other better – did you know littering makes me lose my mind? – and so I bring you Meme Monday. If you want to play, either blog these questions or answer in the comments. Getting to know you…getting to know all aboooouuut you…

Is it spring where you are?

Well, yes, in that it’s “spring in Calgary” spring, and not “things are actually growing and blossoming” spring. Things are brown, mostly, but there are some tiny buds on the trees and the glacier in my back yard is starting to retreat so, yes. Also, two magpies got into a fight with a squirrel yesterday in the trees in our front yard; I’m not sure why. Maybe the magpies had a nest nearby, or maybe they were just being assholes. Either way I was rooting for the squirrel.

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Kind of depressing glimpse at my back yard. At least it’s melting!

 

What was the last book you read, and would you recommend it?

I read so many books on vacation that I was considering a “Monday on the Margins” type post in the style of my erudite friend Allison, but actually the last book I read was Bossypants. And yes! I’d recommend it. That was about the sixth time I’ve read it – it is a hilarious and entertaining read, and since I read The Bear on vacation and I cannot read anything remotely heavy for a while.

Reality TV – yes or no?

I feel like I’m the star of my own show – Real Housewives Near The U of C With Food Hoarding Issues. But no. I think reality TV is a wretched chapter in the history of television, and I will not watch any of it.

Who is your favourite cartoon character of all time?

Well, that’s easy. Ralph Wiggum.

ralphwiggum

Do you have a song stuck in your head right now? If so, what?

I always have a song stuck in my head and it can vary from “Summer Breeze” to “Wake Me Up Before You Go Go” to “Linda Put The Coffee On” to “Empire State of Mind” – you should hear me hit the high notes. Today I have “Monster” by Eminem and Rihanna stuck in my head, over and over, I wanna be the Bruce Lee of looseleaf. But that is a post in itself.

Go ahead, play along! And Happy Monday/ Bermuda Shorts Day to all. xoxo

You’re also never fully dressed without eight pounds of clothing.

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On Monday it warmed up all the way to minus 17, so I carpe diemed the hell out of that and took the dog for a walk. Poor fluffster, it’s been a while since he’s had a proper walk, and it probably will be a while before he gets a proper walk, because two minutes into it I started considering what kind of fashion statement wearing a balaclava would make. On the plus side, I wouldn’t feel like I would die by face-freezing; on the minus side, it would totally ruin my makeup. I eventually abandoned the idea; vanity, as usual, winning out over practicality.

The winter has been so long and so cold that I have entirely lost perspective about the weather. A few people have mentioned that it’s “March” and so it should be “springlike already” which filled me with bemusement. Isn’t March still winter? Isn’t it always this cold? I truly cannot remember what “other seasons” are like. It has come to the point that I apparently think, with all honesty, that it is always this cold and it will never get warm, forever and ever, amen. I met up with an elderly German man at the off-leash park, who told me that he has been in this city for fifty-eight years and he can only remember three other winters that were like this. Well, I guess that proves me wrong. I shall not cross the friendly elderly German man. I expect he knows what he’s about.

Someone just reminded me that Daylight Savings Time starts this weekend. I need offer no further comment.

Ah, but resistance is futile, isn’t it? We cannot change the weather and – unfortunately for all involved – we cannot change the mandate for Daylight Savings Time. No – really, we can’t. Lord knows I’ve tried, if complaining and rabble rousing on this blog counts as “trying”. ENOUGH OF THE BELLYACHING, as my long-suffering mother would say, possibly in response to some kind of teenage angst or similar, as I moped around the house in my Depeche Mode concert t-shirt.

There are some people who claim that winter is their very favourite season, and while I applaud anyone hardy enough to fully enjoy the season’s frigid splendors, I really have a hard time understanding. I want to understand, but I cannot. I understand fall lovers: the leaves and crisp air, the promise of Christmas around the corner. I understand spring lovers: the sprigs of green, the buds on the trees, the mild air and freshness. Of course I understand summer lovers, being one myself: the ease of getting dressed in the morning, the warmth and unscheduled days. However, I shall try to understand the winter people by remembering all the lovely things I enjoy about our 6-8-month-long winters. I toyed with the idea of making a Nicole’s Favourite Things post, but then I remembered that these things are not exactly my favourite. The Nicole’s Favourite Things posts cannot contain lies!

Nicole’s Not-Favourite-But-They’re-Okay Things, Frigid Winter Edition

1) Since it’s too cold for the kids to play outside, I haven’t been standing in the playground, shivering, for an hour after school.

2) Since it’s too cold to do much of anything, I am super productive in the housewifely arts. I am kicking ass and taking names, if by “kicking ass and taking names” you mean “accomplishing a lot of domestic tasks in record time”. Yesterday I had baked a banana bread and washed the floors before 8:00 am.

3) Inspired by Allison I tackled the boys’ sock/underwear/pajama drawers today. They haven’t closed properly in months. Mark’s drawer was more in need of reorganization than actual purging, but Jake’s was full of treasures: four newborn infant hats, a bib, socks that had a Transformers motif, circa 2010, two pairs of size five pajamas, and three pairs of Hot Wheels underwear, possibly from his kindergarten year. Tomorrow we tackle the t-shirt drawers!

4) Baking in this weather makes the house feel warm and cozy; it also smells terrific and as an added bonus, I can leave the oven door slightly ajar after the baked goods are done and warm my frozen purple hands over it, making me feel like Laura Ingalls coming in from twisting hay, but without the starvation and chamber pots. My hands are chapped just like hers, and I bought a pretty new fig-and-shea-butter cream for them. You all know how I love a new beauty product.

5) Aubergine is THE hot new colour this year, and although I don’t see myself wearing it, my hands are naturally on-trend!

6) I love the look of long sweaters, tall boots, and skinny jeans. Not only is it a saucy look, but long sweaters also nicely conceal the muffin top resultant from indulging in so much baking.

7) There’s no need to worry about sunscreen!

8) I do like a good bowl of soup, which I don’t bother with in the summer. Unless of course it’s a typical Calgary summer with chill temperatures. Soup: the all-season gustatory pleasure of my hometown.

9) Walking while wearing my heavy winter boots is akin to walking with 1980s-style ankle weights. It’s like I’m having a retro workout every day!

10) When the sun is out it’s actually really pretty. Not as pretty as, say, green grass and flowers, but pretty.

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Barkley doesn’t mind the cold. He’s furry!

In the spirit of keeping one’s expectations low so one will not be disappointed, I’ve been avoiding the weather forecast. However, I keep hearing that warmer weather is coming “soon” and I’m holding on to that “soon” like it’s the key to the universe’s secrets. SOON. Soon it will get warmer. I don’t know what “soon” means but maybe if I channel my inner Wilson Phillips and my inner invincible summer, I can hold on for one more day. Don’t you know, don’t you know things can change, things can go my way if I HOOOOLLLLD on for ONE MORE DAY.

I got 99 problems, but the book fair is not one.

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I wrapped up my twelfth – TWELFTH – book fair yesterday and it was the most successful one I’ve ever had; we raised almost $4000 for the school library and home reading program. I feel like I should preen a little bit about that, but credit must be given where credit is due: Minecraft Handbooks and Annuals. Easily the most popular books in the fair, I found myself with reorder sheets and lineups of kids. My own house now has a copy of the Annual and the children have been spending much time doing whatever it is they do when they are on Minecraft. Also popular? National Geographic’s World’s Cutest Animals, and Paulette the Pinkest Puppy in the World. So, there’s a bit of a range there. The thing about volunteering for twelve consecutive book fairs is that one really develops an intimate knowledge of children’s reading habits. There are some girls that I remember choosing Pinkalicious and Barbie the Mermaid, and now they are reaching for the Whatever After series. My own children have graduated from the Hot Wheels Easy Readers to the 39 Clues and Spirit Animals. I could do a growth chart, just with Scholastic books.

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Photo is PRE-rampaging by 530 elementary-aged children.

So it’s been a busy, but gratifying, week. There’s nothing like pure adulation from a whole lot of children to boost one’s self-esteem, not that I particularly needed boosting, but here we are. While at the school I attended an Olympic wrap-up assembly, which I sat through with a lump in my throat and blurry eyes. My boys’ classes were the assembly’s “hosts” and the assembly started off with Olympic music and the teacher calling out different countries, the children all coming in behind flags from countries representing their nationalities. The one boy from Greece started everyone off, followed by at least twenty other countries. Many children wore traditional clothing from their countries of origin, and all in all it was a wonderful display of multiculturalism.

I know what you’re thinking: what about the recorders? Well, both classes played the recorder, accompanied by the bass xylophones. Thank god for the bass xylophones. The recorders were pretty terrible, as to be expected, but happily the songs were short. Mark’s class then did an Olympic Alphabet, with his contribution being the letter M and a blurb about Mark McMorris, which was kind of nice. And then, making all my dreams come true, Jake’s class did a dance melange of traditional Russian dancing mixed with disco moves, all set to an instrumental version of Rasputin. It was just as amazing as it sounds.

I was an emotional wreck through the whole thing, as I realized one of the very first assemblies I’d ever attended was the 2010 Olympic kick-off assembly, when Mark was in kindergarten performing – oddly enough – I’m a Little Teapot. Kindergarten! And when the next Winter Olympics comes around, both of my children will be in junior high. Time makes you bolder, even children get older. I’m getting older too. I’d sing it mournfully, but unfortunately for my mental health, I have had Nights on Broadway stuck in my head for three days. I feel like Ralph Fiennes from The English Patient, but in a disco way. I have been singing this. For THREE DAYS.

I don’t even know all the words. I just keep singing the same lines over and over. Blaming it all on the nights on Broadway. Singing them sweet sounds. To that crazy crazy town. Remember that Seinfeld episode where George was convinced he was losing his mind since he went to see Les Mis and couldn’t get Master of the House out of his head? It’s like that. I’m pretty sure I’m headed to a mental institution. Not only that, but I’m disco dancing to the song in my head. Literally. I find myself in the kitchen, behaving as if I’m the lead-off dancer on Soul Train. I am not marching to my own drummer, I’m doing the hustle to the Bee Gees in my mind.