Category Archives: My failing sanity

Honey, I’m Home!

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I’ve had nearly two weeks of vacation – here, there, and everywhere – and I’m basking in the feeling of accomplishment that can only be achieved by unpacking everything, starting laundry, and grocery shopping. I am a person who needs to unpack immediately upon setting foot in the house. I get tense at the mere thought of unpacked suitcases, partially-emptied toiletry cases, and mountains of laundry which makes me a joy to be around. In related news, a very dear friend JUST emailed me about woolen dryer balls, knowing that I would enjoy that information in a hausfrau kind of way. And I do! I do enjoy household tips because I am apparently – and non-ironically – some kind of Heloise person.

The vacation itself was lovely, full of sun, water, and many alcoholic beverages. Also related: I need to go on a cleanse. Travel was smooth but profanity-laced, as always with any kind of road trip that my husband undertakes. In general, I tend to sing to myself while staring out the window blankly like David Putty and the airplane seatback, while my husband says things like “Mother-FUCKER. Get off the goddamn road, you cock-sucking moron. What the FUCK. No, don’t use your signal, you ASSHOLE.” Repeat as needed. It seems that the drivers that enrage him the most are: a) people who drive under the speed limit on two-lane roads and curves, but speed up so as to be unpassable while in passing zones, b) people who are doing a) while driving gargantuan recreational vehicles, and c) people who do not use their signal lights while changing lanes.

I actually became concerned about his blood pressure, what with all the swearing, however, he assured me that such vehement exclamations actually lowered his blood pressure and made him feel better. I myself feel that this is a zero-sum game, since my stress level seems to be affected by this, in what I call “Post Traumatic Swearing Contractor Syndrome“. I should probably mention that my children during these times are either completely oblivious due to their headphones, or extremely sympathetic. “That guy is a bad driver, right Dad?”

Also – I don’t know how it is in your house but my husband likes to make “good time”. On the way to my in-laws’ he decided that he had a goal to get there by noon. This goal was established at about 11:00 am, and was achieved, but not without much profanity. I tried to convince everyone in the car that no one was expecting us that early, and anyway arriving at 12:10 or even 12:30 would still be excellent, but no. We arrived at 11:59 and piled out of the car, where I immediately took my father-in-law up on his offer of a frosty alcoholic beverage.

I have many more tales to tell, but someone around here (ME) needs to make dinner before the kids get back from karate. Hey, when you leave at 5:30 in the morning, the happy result is that you have much of the day ahead of you when you arrive at your destination, and the kids were able to “relax” Frank Underwood-style for a while before heading to their class. I need to figure out how to incorporate zucchini into everything. My dear mother-in-law is the type of generous person who, when you say you like something, gives you massive amounts of that item. So, when I said “Sure, I’d love a couple of zucchinis!” I received twenty-one, in varying sizes. Fellow zucchini-lovers, please tune into Yummy Mummy Club over the next few weeks as I deal with my surplus zucchini.

Speaking of vegetables, on the way home I initiated our usual game of “Let’s pretend we’re 1970s truckers; what would be your CB name?” I chose Red Pepper for myself but then had to continually explain my choice, which was disappointing and tedious. What would you choose? Please tell me, I’ve missed this blog terribly!

Productivity Week Is At A Close

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Today is the last day of karate camp, and I’ve been SO PRODUCTIVE this week. Some of the accomplishments have been less fun – like taking the car in to get the tires rebalanced, and getting teary-eyed and having to call my husband because the guys at the tire place said we didn’t have an appointment and I’d have to leave the car there all day. Doing anything car-related, whether it be a tire issue or an oil change, makes me feel terribly anti-feminist and clichéd because I honestly have nearly zero understanding of car-related issues and my first reaction when anything goes wrong is to cry and call my husband. I know! It’s terrible. The most terrible part is that getting teary-eyed and calling my husband works every time, EVERY TIME, PEOPLE, and so I have no motivation to change this repellent behaviour. It always ends up with the car guys quickly fitting me in and apologizing for any inconvenience this may have caused me, and would I like a coffee? Sigh, I know. I hate being a cliché and yet, at the dealership where we bought our car, there is a manicure bar, a MANICURE BAR, PEOPLE, for women just like me who need to bring their cars in for oil changes but who also have anxiety attacks at the thought of it so hey, pretty lady, how about a manicure?

When I was in grad school I studied gender differences in incomes and I had two posters on my office wall: one was a fish riding a bicycle and the other was the Feminist Manifesto. Fast forward sixteen years and I’m crying at the tire place and getting my nails done at car dealerships.

Anyway, other than the tire balancing, it’s been a great week. Save for a half-day camp at the local farm/ petting zoo five years ago, my children have never been to a day camp. I’m kind of wondering why not, because they have gotten so much out of this camp, and it’s not just the improvement in their karate katas. For example, Jake has suddenly learned how to dive for rings at the bottom of the pool, which he would never do before. I realized the motivation behind this sudden act of athletic bravery when I learned that he was swimming with a very pretty thirteen year old brown belt. I see! Jake does not have any confidence issues on that front, given that he heard me singing You’re So Vain while I drove them to camp, and then casually mentioned that he thought that song WAS about him, since he’s so handsome and whatnot.

It’s been beautifully hot here, and we’ve had very few storms, which is highly unusual for Calgary. I could tell one was coming yesterday afternoon by the feel of the air and also because I am now 90 and I can feel it in my bones. Anyway, once I got the boys home from camp I threw their disgustingly dirty camp stuff in the washer, whipped up a batch of cookies and put it in the oven, and started dinner. The boys were relaxing like little non-evil Frank Underwoods, playing video games, and suddenly all went dark. The power went out! We rarely have power outages so I wasn’t overly prepared. I took the cookies out, put the just-thawed chicken breasts back in the fridge, and wondered what to do. Apparently I’m not at all like Ma Ingalls because I literally had no idea what to do. The house was super dark even though it wasn’t yet 5:00, what with the storm and black clouds. Eventually my husband came home and we all went out for dinner – being my car was trapped in the garage with the electric door. How dependent we are in this modern existence! God, I wouldn’t last a damn DAY on the old homestead. The power was off for over two and a half hours, but by the time we got home the power was on, the washer had finished its cycle, and I put the cookies back in the oven. Note: they turned out way flatter than normal but still were edible, so if you should ever be in a similar situation, try re-baking. It works, apparently.

The other day I was watching the news and there was this guy, Michael Bridge, playing the accordion. Now, my “experience” with the accordion is hearing the polka and while polkas are fun and all, they are not exactly remarkable. THIS GUY. He played a few tunes of a classical bent, and then suddenly ripped out with Sweet Child of Mine. On the accordion. It was the single most amazing thing I’d seen, music-wise, and I’ve been scouring the internet trying to find a video of it. No such luck, but if you find it, please let me know. A friend, after hearing about my fascination with this accordion-playing wunderkind, sent me this video and while it’s not an accordion, it IS pretty cool. A ukulele version of Billie Jean? Sign me up!

My productive week is almost at its end; this afternoon I will be watching two and a half hours of a karate tournament and demonstration, and tomorrow I will also be at a karate shiah tournament, and so I feel like my new identity as a sports mom is complete. I’m totally going to be Lynn Raisman, just give me a couple of years.

Christmas came early!

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You probably know this already, but I pride myself on my organizational skills. Meal planning? Yes. To-do lists, long and short term? Yes. School and activity schedules? Yes. At the beginning of the year I take the Important Dates To Note handout from the school and I write each and every Important Date in my calendar, in a different colour, so that I can See At A Glance all the Important Dates for the year. Last September I wrote Last Day – Early Dismissal! on Thursday, June 26. At the time I thought it seemed late; generally the last day of classes is on a Wednesday, not a Thursday.

This morning I was chatting with a friend at the playground after drop-off and I casually mentioned the slog that is the last week of school. “Oh well,” I said cheerily, “Only three and a half days left to go!”. She looked at me strangely. “You mean two and a half,” she said, “Last day is Wednesday.” LO AND BEHOLD. The date had been changed on the website and it’s true, it’s TRUE. Wednesday is the last day and now I suddenly feel like Christmas came early this year.

Which is not to say I wasn’t a little unsettled by the reception of this new information. I scrambled to rearrange an appointment I had made for Wednesday afternoon and I rushed home to make the chocolates for teacher’s gifts. It was on my to-do list today anyway, but I felt like I was doing something totally last minute instead of being smugly early. I do better when I’m smugly early, I guess.

What are you doing/ did you do for teacher’s gifts this year, if anything? I normally give gift cards for the mall, along with some nice chocolates, and the kids make cards. Normally I buy the chocolates but this year the boys thought I should send some of my dark chocolate truffles, so that was my morning: rolling, dusting, and packing up three dozen little chocolates. I tied an ingredients list to the mason jar in an attempt to be Pinterest-y, but unfortunately I am unable to tie a decent bow to save my life. Hopefully the chocolates make up for my lack of artistic ability.

Our home phone is on the fritz, which isn’t generally a big issue – who uses land lines anymore anyway? – but this morning the telephone repairman was scheduled to come and fix it. It’s one of those rare Calgary days where it’s actually warm, and so today I am wearing a skirt and tank top. Making truffles is a bit of a messy business, and so I grabbed an apron and set to work. After I finished I made a pasta salad for dinner, then wandered off to do some work. I forgot to take off the apron and so I was a little startled when I looked at myself in the mirror:

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I’m just going to say that I’m actually pretty glad the telephone repairman never showed up, even though no one can call me still and I’m worried I’m missing some important reminder that only comes via land line. Because seriously, nothing says “Adult Filmstar Awaiting Arrival of Telephone Repairman” like wandering around your house wearing an apron that covers your entire outfit. Plus that’s the apron my mother gave me for Christmas, that she bought in a lingerie store. Oh, nothing, just wearing my lingerie apron while anxiously awaiting you, Telephone Repairman.

It was a pretty lovely weekend all-round; my husband and I separately decided that the constantly-aphid-infested golden ninebark in the back yard had to go. I looked at it and looked at it and phoned my husband to say that we needed to get rid of it – the golden-green leaves always looked sickly instead of interesting, and it was always full of aphids – and he was simultaneously preparing to tell ME that we should dig it out. It was a very O Henry moment. Or maybe the opposite of O Henry, since we were both happy at the end, I don’t know. In any case, it’s gone and in its place are some beautiful purple and pink annuals. An unexpected trip to the garden centre for more flowers is always a happy thing, I think. Other than gardening, we also had some friends over for dinner AND went to a friend’s 40th birthday party, which is more plans than we usually have in a month of weekends.

This also happened:

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Orange belts! I’m so proud of them!

Maybe Bed, Bath, and Beyond. I don’t know. I don’t know if we’ll have enough TIME.

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Did you know that Father’s Day is THIS WEEKEND? I know! First the May long weekend is “early”, now Father’s Day is on the 15th, and I feel like I’m in some weird time warp. Which means, of course, that my father-in-law’s card will be late – as usual – and that I’m scrambling to figure out what to get my own dad. I don’t know how things work in your house, but in mine, I’ve somehow become the default person for buying cards for my in-laws. If I don’t, then no cards will be bought, written in by the children, and sent. On the one hand I feel a bit resentful about this turn of events, but on the other, the thought of my father-in-law walking to get the mail and getting no card from the kids is just too sad.

Yesterday I went out to purchase a gift for my husband. We don’t usually go crazy with gifts on Mother’s Day or Father’s Day. Typically, the kids make cards and I go shopping at the garden centre as my Mother’s Day gift, which somehow turns out to be MUCH more expensive than, say, a bouquet of flowers. Two minivan-loads of plants later, my Mother’s Day gift is fulfilled. But Father’s Day tends to be a bit trickier; the kids want to give a gift, but my husband has, literally, everything. How many subscriptions to Golf Digest and boxes of Pro-V1s does one man need?

But we had a big barbeque on the weekend, with my husband making ribs for the guys and a butternut squash and vegetables for me, and he announced that he would really, really like a big platter with which to carry ribs/ giant steaks/ other meat in to the house, rather than having to make several trips with our normal plates. A big platter! That shouldn’t be hard, I thought. I’ll go out and look, I thought. How difficult could this be, I thought, ridiculously in retrospect.

Sometimes we need a sign from the universe to show that the paths that we take are the right ones. In my case, I normally shop online, with only a few exceptions. I love online shopping; I can clearly see what items are in stock and what are not, generally you can get a coupon or sale code, and my purchases magically show up right at my door. Unfortunately, with Father’s Day coming up in a mere five days, I didn’t really have time to wait for shipping and I didn’t want to pay extra for expedited shipping. So I slicked on some lip gloss, slipped on my fancy non-dog-walking shoes, grabbed my purse and headed for The Bay.

What is it about The Bay? I will keep to myself my opinions on the Jessica Simpson line of clothing that included denim overall shorts, but I will not keep quiet about the disaster that is shopping at The Bay. Why is it so disorganized? Why is it so cluttered? Why is there never any stock, or staff to help? Why do they make it so difficult? I circled around the Housewares department several times, perking up at the barbeque accessories only to be disappointed again and again. I looked through each and every aisle, wondering why the electric razors and suitcases were right beside the kitchen linens, and why there was every kind of kitchen gadget imaginable but no platters. Why were there barbeque accessories but no outdoor dining accessories, save for bright green plastic plates and plastic cups with a floral motif? Was a simple platter so hard to find?

I gave up and went to Bed Bath and Beyond, the name of which store I can never say without silently repeating, a la Frank the Tank, “I don’t know. I don’t know if we’ll have enough TIME.” But Bed Bath and Beyond was worse. That store is like a sensory explosion; walking into it I find I can barely remember what I went in there for – was it this Jelly Belly Slushee maker? Or maybe this “Roll-a-Lotion Body Lotion Applicator”? How about a spiral vegetable cutter? That whole store is like an experiment in how quickly we as a species can make a landfill overflow.

Suffice it to say I did not find a platter, although I was directed to a section with cheap-looking floral plates and clear plastic platters, which already looked stained and scratched. I looked at my watch, realized that the afternoon was half over, went home, and found something online that will be delivered in 7-14 business days.

Better late than never, and sign from the universe taken to heart: next time, skip the store.

Sex Ed, Who-Gives-A-Fuck-About-Volunteering, and The Simpsons

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Today I realized that as of tomorrow, there are only three more weeks left of school! June is a bit of an odd month, isn’t it? On the one hand, I’m desperately ready for the summer to begin – lazy days, no more running back and forth to the school six times a day, no more volunteering (more on that later). I’m ready for sunshine, fun, and unscheduled days. But on the other hand, I’m really trying not to wish my life away since time flies quickly enough without me wishing for these beautiful, sunny, gardening-full days to be over. Also, I’m a little puzzled as to how I’m going to get all my work-at-home work done when the kids are home. I’ll figure it out, I’m sure, but at the moment I’m wondering how I’ll strike the right balance between “meeting deadlines in a reasonable manner” and “being a fun mom and creating summer memories that the children will cherish throughout their lives”. We shall see.

Speaking of fleeting time, Mark brought home the permission slip for me to sign for the study of Human Sexuality. Eeeee, sex ed! I instantly texted my husband the news, who was confused and thought that I had to sign the permission form for him to take it next year, in Grade Five. NOT SO. I know that in fourth grade they really mostly talk about body changes, puberty, and hygiene – which, to be honest, a lot of the kids could use, I say from my experience as Book Fair Lady. Deodorant and toothpaste, two very vital items in the Division Two world. But still, sex ed. It seems so grown up. “It might feel awkward and embarrassing, but you can always ask questions!” I said cheerfully, from the minivan driver’s seat. “Um, I think maybe we should ask DAD those questions,” Mark replied. YES. GOOD IDEA. ASK YOUR DAD.

Volunteering, though. I have what is known as “volunteer fatigue” which means that I have lost all enthusiasm I ever had for doing things for the school. I remember when Mark started kindergarten, and I was so thrilled to be involved in everything, with fresh ideas and plans. Now I’m just like fuck it all, who cares about school supplies anyway. I was asked to speak at the kindergarten orientation tomorrow night, which I’ve done in years past. Sure! No problem. I can come in and give a five minute speech about how volunteers are the backbone of the school community and education is a partnership between home and school, and please volunteer for the upcoming casino fundraiser, it’s awesome and we can buy SmartBoards. I can keep the cynicism at bay and put on my super fun enthusiastic face and all the cool kids are volunteering! But then I got an email asking me to come in at six, set up a table with handouts, and then be available for informal questions until 7:30. THE BEES ARE DOING WHAT NOW. I stewed about this for a bit, and wondered how on earth I could pull off such a thing, given that tomorrow the boys have karate and karate nights are a mad rush of everything. I grumped around feeling taken advantage of, until I realized that hey, this is a volunteer gig. I can change this. BE THE CHANGE YOU WANT TO SEE, PEOPLE. I emailed the AP and explained that I could do as she suggested, but maybe it would be more effective to give a brief speech about the importance of volunteering and the casino fundraiser, and then I could leave a signup form, and that would be my strong preference. She agreed to it all, and I was reminded that, yet again, the squeaky, but honey-sweet wheel gets all the grease and bees. Or something.

Sugar

In America, first you get the sugar, then you get the power, then you get the women.

On Monday I was at a pie party, to celebrate the one-year anniversary of Rolling Spoon. If you’re not reading it, you should: it’s a fun mix of food and music. Also, they interviewed BLUE RODEO. Just like that time I met Jim Cuddy! Remember that? No?

Copy (1) of Jim Cuddy

Gratuitous photo of me with Jim Cuddy.

But a pie party! Even though I don’t actually like pie, it was a blast. It turns out that I am in the vast minority, here, and that pie is very popular. Look at all these pies!

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Can you tell which is my offering? It’s the vegan one. Made with 100% real vegans.

I have to say, I’m pretty disappointed no one put a slice on the floor and yelled “FLOOR PIE!”.

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Maybe next time.

A Mix of Agnes Skinner and Nick Nolte

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It’s been so beautiful, sunny, and warm here and is forecasted to be so for the entire long-term forecast – except for today. Today it’s cool and rainy and the boys are on a field trip to the zoo. Have fun, guys!

This brings to mind the last field trip to the zoo, when Mark was in grade one and he had just recovered from pneumonia, and it poured rain and the zoo was so busy with school field trips that the kids had to eat lunch on a picnic table outside, squatting on the benches so as to not soak the bottoms of their pants. Good times! Thankfully most of the activities will be indoors, but still.

Being soaked to the skin was not one of the risk factors listed in the “Consent and Acknowledgement of Risk” form that I signed, which seems like a terrible oversight. Instead, these are the risk factors that I need to be aware of:

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Horseplay! That’s one I haven’t seen before and believe me, I’ve seen some doozies. Circling back to that last field trip, three years ago, one of the cited risk factors was “Possible Animal Escape From Enclosures” which made me envision children being trampled by rampaging giraffes or being taken prisoner by the gorillas. You will note that “Animal Escape” is not listed this time but “Getting Lost or Separated From The Group” IS. There is no need to be separated from the group UNLESS there are escaped animals chasing you, children.

Wait, what does “Equipment Failure” mean? Does THAT mean possible animal escapes? I feel like I need more detail.

In the package of information for the zoo, there was a specific list of behavioural expectations that I was requested to discuss with my children, no horseplay being one of them. Also: do not run away from the group. I kept reminding them in a sarcastic, sing-song voice all week, Remember, guys, don’t run away from your group! but then I remembered when I volunteered at the museum field trip last year, and I had third-grade children continually running away from the group. Running away from the group is an actual real risk. I get complacent because I know my own children would never run away from their group leader, so I assume all children would be equally obedient, but this is not the case! As I recall, I solved that issue by informing my group that if they didn’t stay together, we would just stand in silence and not see any exhibits until it was time to leave, cementing my status as the “non-fun mom volunteer”. Starting the day hopeful and cheery, ending it sounding like Agnes Skinner and looking like Nick Nolte’s mug shot. This is the summation of nearly all my volunteer activities.

In any case, I hope all goes well and no one gets lost. I tip my hat to the volunteers today. I am – obviously – not one of them, for the humble reason that I have an appointment at the hair salon, and I book my appointments a minimum of three months in advance, so changing them is not always an option. I’m this close to actually looking like Agnes Skinner, so time to get a colour and catch up on my useless and also somehow mind-boggling reading of People magazine. I STILL don’t know why Kim Kardashian is famous.

Speaking of mind-boggling, last week I zipped out to Costco, with my list in my purse. It turns out that one of my children had been writing on my list for reasons of their own. I have no idea what this refers to or why it was on the back of my Costco list, but I’m looking forward to the receipt of my elf tail armor.

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NO WIRE HANGERS

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On Friday my husband and I had one of our weird arguments about whether or not French fries can be referred to as “chips”. My point was that we are not in England, Governor, and they are French fries. The kids tended to agree with me – they aren’t potato chips, DAD – but then my husband counterpointed with “fish and chips”. This led, sadly, to my rendition of the song Fish and Chips and Vinegar, Vinegar, Vinegar…until the kids stopped me by saying they had learned that song at school. Me too, I told them, excitedly. “Wow,” Mark said, “That really shows that throughout the ages music class has been lame.”

THROUGHOUT THE AGES. On a separate, but related note, I was telling my kids an anecdote about a broken phone. And in those days, phones had CORDS and they were attached to the WALL, so it was kind of a big deal. Liver spot are breaking out on my hands as we speak. The kids are always so enthralled with my “back in MY day” stories, television shows that could not be rewound or paused, ten hour road trips during which we kids silently stared out of the window wearing our tape-cassette Walkmans because there was nothing else to do, phones with cords that were plugged into the wall.

At my in-laws’ house there is a non-working rotary dial phone that is semi-fascinating to them. This is how people phoned each other in the olden days. They had to DIAL. There was no texting. My parents only recently got rid of their heavy, flesh-coloured, touch-tone phone, and the only reason they got rid of it was because my dad dropped it on the floor and it broke. I had good memories of that flesh-coloured phone. Remember taking the 15 foot cord in the other room to talk to your girlfriends for two hours? During a conversation about KIDS THESE DAYS AND THEIR TEXTING, a friend mentioned that we, as teens, were probably just as bad, but instead of texting we would tie up our phone lines for hours. I do remember getting “grounded from using the phone”, and instead resorting to writing my girlfriends six-page notes, because if we didn’t talk for two hours a night, we would miss important updates like “He’s cute but his hair is weird.” and “Do my new Benetton pants make me look fat?” and “Do you think Miss Herget makes her own clothes?” Also “Tom Hooper is so hot, I’m totally going to marry him one day.”

Ah, the fires of youth. I am feeling, lately, like I’m a rigid old lady, like I’m two steps from the Home and wearing slacks with floral blouses. For one thing, I am holding on a little too tightly to old-school style rules, especially the one about matching your shoes to your purse. My shoes will always match my purse, the end. I cannot fathom life without matching my shoes to my purse, even if I see other people with brightly coloured handbags and differently-coloured shoes and I think, hey, that looks great. Apparently I cannot incorporate such flamboyancy into my own lifestyle and I may as well go straight to pumps and a giant matching purse that will hold a change purse, a roll of mints, and a whole lot of Kleenex.

Less old-lady-like, but just as quirkily rigid, is my underwear rule: my bras and panties must match, every day, or the world will end. You know how your mother always told you to have nice panties on in case of an accident? Well, just this second it occurs to me what a weird thing that is to say. I’m pretty sure the ER doctors are not going to be upset if you have old faded panties that say “Hot Stuff” on them, or “Wednesday” panties on a Friday. Or are they? Maybe it’s a thing – if any ER doctors are reading this, I am going to pose the question: do you look askance at non-nice underwear?

Back to the original point, which was the matching. I have this thing where I have to match my bra and panties: if, in the middle of the day I change my shirt to a light coloured one that necessitates a light coloured bra, I will actually change my panties so that they match the bra. Even if the day is half over. Even if no one else is going to see those panties. Even if I am aware that I am completely crazy. I am like Joan Crawford, but with matching underwear instead of wire hangers. NO NUDE BRAS WITH BLACK PANTIES!!!!!

Other reasons it’s fun to live with me: I set out my clothing the night before and I do not deviate from that pre-arranged outfit, ever, I write down every daily job I have on a to-do list in an old-fashioned agenda, and if I do a job that wasn’t on the list I write it down just to check it off, and I have a strange need to write long, complicated packing lists even if I’m only packing for one night away and I always pack exactly the same things anyway (Shampoo! Toothpaste! Makeup bag!).

Well, we all have our little quirks, I suppose. Would you like to share yours? xo