Category Archives: Playtime

Summer Love

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Here we are, on day three of summer vacation, and it kind of feels like we’ve been on vacation for a month already, in the best way possible. It’s been unseasonably warm and beautiful, and we haven’t yet had a moment of missing-school-or-friends angst that typically happens in the first few days of unstructuredness. The boys finished school on Friday:

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All has been, as they say, rosy:

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We’ve been as busy as bees, having fun:

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We spent the weekend at the lake with my parents, and much of the time was spent like this:

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And some of this:

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Today we went to the local amusement park, and although the forecast was quite warm, it was very overcast. Apparently this run of great weather has ruined my Calgary weather-savviness, because I failed to bring a jacket and so was completely unprepared for the drizzle that turned into rain. The bright side is that I had a lot of work to do this afternoon, and was able to complete it without feeling resentful that I was missing out on great weather. Also, the rain didn’t really start until we were pretty much ready to go home anyway, and the boys got to do everything they wanted in the time we were there. Plus, this year they are both tall enough for the big bumper cars, and it was hilarious to watch them jam themselves into the centre and get pummelled from all sides.

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I spent a lot of time reading this weekend. I’ve been reading a biography of the Queen Mum that my mother had lent me, and let’s just say it’s eye opening. Remember the scandal when Fergie had her toes sucked by someone, and Charles said he wished he was Camilla’s tampon? First, ew. Tampon, really? But these are completely tame and boring compared with the totally scandalous behaviour and also kind of incestuous relationships by the European royals of the early 20th century. HOO BOY.

It’s also bizarrely hilarious. For example, King Constantine I was deposed, and his son took over as king of Greece. Unfortunately, says the book, he was bitten by a monkey and died of blood poisoning in 1920. Two paragraphs later, we find out that Princess Marie Bonapart, in pursuit of a better orgasm, had her clitoris surgically repositioned three times. Three times! It seems amazing that it would work after that. These are the kind of anecdotes that keep me reading, because the book itself is very dense and heavy reading. It’s not unlike reading a textbook, albeit one with very strange stories in it.

I hope you’re having a wonderful summer so far! xoxo

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A non-gambler goes to Las Vegas, covets a Popeye statue.

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This morning I went grocery shopping at my usual old-people Co-Op, and they were having one of those big “Warehouse Sales.” There were quite a few of my usual purchases on for great prices, so I stocked up a bit. When I went through the checkout, the girl handed me my receipt, saying in the robotic, automated voices of those who have worked in customer service for a while, “Today you saved $71.13. Have a nice day.”

$71.13! I repeated this, loudly, looking around me. I half expected confetti and balloons to drop from the ceiling, along with music and a loudspeaker announcement. I felt like I just won the Housewife Olympics or something. I repeated it again, $71.13, wow! The elderly man with the carton of ice cream, loaf of bread, and single cucumber standing behind me didn’t seem to care about my Amazing Savings. I wheeled my cart out of the store, immediately texting my husband AND calling my mother, just to have some sort of outside validation. They were both suitably impressed.

I just got back from an extended weekend away in Las Vegas. The last time my husband and I went away together was in 2010. We had such a blast – and the kids had so much fun at Camp Grandma – that I’m optimistic that we will go away again before Mark’s sixteenth birthday. Las Vegas is such a weird and wonderful place, although I frequently wondered why Greenpeace or similar hasn’t targeted it for its extreme environmental footprint. Maybe because it’s Vegas, baby! Anything goes. Open liquor while wandering around on the street? Check. People smoking INSIDE BUILDINGS? Check. People shoving cards for Hot Ass Escorts in your hand as you walk by? Check, check, triple check.

I’m not at all a gambler, and didn’t even put a dollar in a slot machine, although my husband enjoyed a bit of it. Gotta make some money for your little honey, as the sweaty cab driver said to my husband on the way to the hotel from the airport. Buddy! For all he knew I could have been the primary breadwinner in the family. I would have been outraged but I was too busy looking out the window, trying to spot Elvis.

As it turned out, the only Elvis (or, Elvii) I saw were two glittery-jumpsuited men outside of Caesar’s Palace, looking for tourists with whom to get their photos taken. I did not partake, because there is “fun and campy” and then there is “sad and depressing” and those two were definitely in the latter group. And yet, there is so much to do, besides gambling and looking for Elvis (or Elvii).

We met up with three other couples to celebrate a friend’s fiftieth birthday, and by far the most fun we had was going to a duelling piano bar. Duelling pianos is probably the most fun concept ever imagined, besides karaoke, and our duelling pianists were twin sisters from Syracuse, New York. This is also one of the best parts of Las Vegas: the name tags that detail where an employee is from. I had a great time imagining what brought Deena from St. Paul, or Hector from El Paso, to Las Vegas. Before you think that their stories must be depressing and gloomy, the cocktail waitress who brought my husband drinks while he gambled told him – upon his questioning – that the casinos were great to work for and provided health and dental benefits, as well as paid vacation. So, I’m going to keep imagining happy stories that don’t involve addiction or the downfall of society.

People watching in Las Vegas is very entertaining; there seem to be always tons of bachelor parties and stagettes, with girls wearing t-shirts and hats that say “Team Bride” surrounding a girl wearing a veil and a balloon hat, there are little old couples and actual newly-married couples wearing wedding clothes while at the blackjack table, there are families with small children and there are incongruous-looking couples, men with bright white running shoes and pale blue pleated jeans entwined with diamond-studded girls thirty years their junior. I was enjoying myself, imagining everyone’s day-to-day life in fun detail, all the while hoping that no one was doing the same with me.

This is because I, who have enjoyed robust and hearty good health with nary an issue for eight months, came down with a cold the day before we were slated to leave. It wasn’t a debilitating, trip-ruining plague or anything, but it was a sniffly nuisance nonetheless. I hoped that my intermittent nose-blowing wouldn’t lead anyone to think I was a cocaine addict or anything. My husband and I were idly poking around in the chi-chi stores in the Wynn, and exactly when he was conversing with the saleslady in a very expensive watch store, my nose started to bleed torrentially. I ran to the nearest marbled bathroom with my bleeding nose, while people around me averted their gaze. I have a cold! I swear I’m not a coke head!

Much more to come, I’m sure, but for now I’ll leave you with this giant statue of Popeye, that could be yours! It’s for sale – price available upon request so I’m guessing that price is a boatload of money. Does anyone have room for one of these? It’s full of whimsy.

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I’ve got 99 problems, and excessive caffeine consumption is one of them.

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Today was the Volunteer Appreciation Tea at the school, and guess what?

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SWAG

Not only did I win a door prize – Bath and Body Works stuff, which I LOVE – but I also got a “special recognition” for being the Chair and also the Book Fair Lady. I was pretty touched by the whole thing, and in fact I gave a tiny impromptu speech about how amazing the school is, how amazing the staff was, how amazing everything is…basically I was like the drunk guy with an open mic at a wedding. I can’t resist an audience and a microphone, I guess.

But I kind of WAS impaired, and in retrospect I probably shouldn’t have had six cups of coffee BEFORE leaving the house for the tea. The earnest and eager Grade Six coffee servers were very attentive, and I said yes every single time they visited my table. I’ve probably had about twelve cups of coffee today and TWELVE CUPS OF COFFEE IS JUST TOO MUCH COFFEE. I feel like a hummingbird on cocaine. I feel like Ben Stiller in Starsky and Hutch, when he thinks that the cocaine is sugar and uses a ton of it in his coffee and rubs it on his gums and then enters a disco dance-off. Thinking about it now, I’m kind of proud I didn’t start a dance-off in the middle of the handbell performance, or the choir singing of a Voyageur song.

At the end of the tea, the kids had a morning recess and the teachers swanned in to visit a bit with the parents, sort of like when you’re in Vegas and the Elvis and Buddy Holly impersonators go and chat with the audience. I felt a teensy bit like the completely wasted party girl, when everyone else has just had a sip of champagne; talking to my kids’ teachers with gun-fire rapidity, congratulating Jake’s math teacher on his upcoming entry into fatherhood, chatting with another teacher about the weather in Nevada, hugging my friend who had won the CBE “Volunteer of the Year” award. I practically felt like going for a 10K run, but fortunately for my knees I went home instead and tried to work, mistyping everything and flitting from task to task.

Currently, I’m in the “caffeine hangover” stage, and I still have the focus of Apu on 3 days of no sleep. I just paused writing this to do a Buzzfeed quiz to find out who would be my book husband. I would have said with 100% certainty that it must be Mr. Darcy, but it was actually Atticus Finch.

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I’ll take it!

My actual, non-book husband is also “passionate, dedicated, intelligent and a true fighter at heart.” This is especially true when it comes to telephone soliciting. We seem to get a lot of phone calls lately, but since no one I know actually calls me, with the exception of my mother and mother-in-law, I never answer the phone. If it’s not a telephone solicitor, I assume the caller will leave a message – which never happens. Ergo, the only people who call me are telephone solicitors. I’m used to this barrage of phone ringing, but my husband was home alone the other evening and actually answered the calls. By the time I got home he was ripping a strip off the latest telephone solicitor, who was the fourth to call in forty-five minutes.

Now, I’m generally of the mindset that it’s “just a person with a crappy job” and if, on the off chance I do pick up the phone and end up talking with someone who wants to know if I’d like my furnace cleaned, I’m generally short but polite. My husband, on the other hand, was at the end of his rope by the fourth caller.

Then, last night I did answer the phone. I was home alone, and the same number had called multiple times throughout the day. The caller asked for my husband, and when I said he wasn’t home, they asked when they could reach him.

Me: I’m going to do you a favour. My husband becomes incensed by telephone soliciting, so if this is a solicitation, don’t call back.

Telephone Solicitor: Well. Let me tell YOU something. This is Shamal Brown and your husband is going to WANT to talk to me.

Me: Oh, he is, is he? He knows you?

Telephone Solicitor: He’s really going to want to talk to me.

Me: What is this regarding?

Telephone Solicitor: When can I reach him?

Me: Why don’t you give me your number.

Telephone Solicitor: No. I’m going to call him back.

Me: I’m warning you. He really doesn’t like unsolicited phone calls.

Telephone Solicitor: Listen, he will really want to talk to me.

Me: I really don’t think so. He doesn’t know you.

Telephone Solicitor: Is he there? Right now? Now that you know I am Shamal Brown?

Me: HE IS NOT.

Telephone Solicitor: He’s there, isn’t he? Can I talk to him?

Me: *hangs up*

People, this morning at 8:15 am the phone rang – and it was the same number! I picked it up, wondering if Shamal Brown would be on the other line so we could continue this ridiculous conversation, but sadly, it was just a very young sounding girl. She said she’d call back tonight so let’s cross our fingers that my husband and Shamal Brown can connect, because nothing says “great marketing practices” like being harassed by Shamal Brown.

 

Advice to my teen self: rock the lipstick.

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There’s no spoilers or anything in this post, but is anyone else surprised Grey’s Anatomy is still on TV? I haven’t watched that show since they killed off super-hot Mark Sloan, because I was on the fence about the show’s kind-of lameness for months before that, and killing off McSteamy was the last straw for me. His romance with Meredith’s cutie-pie step-sister was the only thing that was keeping me going, and after that? NO THANK YOU. It’s kind of like how I refused to watch American Idol after Chris Daughtry lost and that old Elvis impersonator won. Even the addition of super-hot Harry Connick Junior wasn’t enough to keep me interested in that show.

Speaking of which, my kids are totally into watching the Shark Tank with their father. Their father is, naturally, extremely gratified by this development and talks to his little acolytes about sales, net worth, and ownership percentage. The boys love this show, and they love being little Alex P. Keatons with their dad. They have favourite “Sharks,” least favourite “Sharks,” and they often talk about “Mr. Wonderful.” For me, watching the Shark Tank is akin to getting my teeth scaled at the dentist; painful and boring and way too much of a time commitment. I think the thing about it that bothers me the most is that these so-called entrepreneurs will come out with an idea for a new kind of golf tee, and then it turns out that they left their day job to pursue the manufacturing and marketing of this golf tee, and they triple-mortgaged their house and borrowed all their aging parents’ retirement savings for said manufacturing and marketing of the golf tee, and it’s a shitty golf tee. Then, when none of the “Sharks” decide to invest in this shitty golf tee, the “entrepreneur” is all indignant and talks about how they are just going to keep on keeping on, and the “Sharks” will regret this excellent opportunity to get in on the ground floor. It is just like American Idol; on occasion there is someone talented, but mostly it’s just a bunch of mediocre hacks.

And while I’m talking TV, I’m just going to come out and say it: these final episodes of Mad Men are a total snore. No, I get it, we need to wrap up the story line, I get it. We need to show just how lame and terrible Don’s giant lie-of-a-life is and how everyone hates him and is leaving him because his whole life is a sham, but zzzzzz. So dull. I am enjoying the 1970s costuming though. The orange-and-brown motifs remind me of my childhood.

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Oh, Halloweens of my youth, when it was socially acceptable to masquerade as a gypsy or a homeless person.

 

In all my discussion about birthday festivities, I forgot to mention a very important thing that happened last weekend: the boys got their purple belts in karate!

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Is it me or does it seem like the kids are growing up really fast? This morning I crossed the street with the help of the crossing-guards; Mark and my friend’s daughter were on duty. I got a little teary eyed – they’re such big kids now! They started kindergarten together and now they are responsible for getting kids across the busy street safely; the next thing you know they’ll be DRIVING through that crosswalk (you know, safely). Not to get all Landslide-y on a Friday, but children get older, I’m getting older too.

Speaking of getting older, I’ve noticed one thing in my three days of being forty: dark lipstick no longer suits me. Maybe it hasn’t for a while and I’m just sensitive to it now, but I slicked on a rich colour and then was startled at my old-lady clown appearance. I thought I’d have another thirty years before I really rocked the “dark lipstick bleeding into papery white lines around my mouth” look, but no. I guess it’s just tasteful colours for me from now on. Maybe my skin has changed, or maybe it’s my altered hair colour, but I kind of looked like a bloody-mouthed crypt keeper. This is a major departure for me. For many years, bright red lipstick was my thing. Check out this photo of me at age 16.

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A couple of things: I LOVED that outfit. It was a skirt and swingy top from Le Chateau, black with little daisies sewn onto it. It was my very favourite outfit in 1992. Please note the long, permed hair and the – you know it – bright red lipstick. Also, if I wasn’t prematurely grey due to genetics obtained from my father, I’d say this is the reason Dad was so grey. Sixteen year old girls, they are a race apart, no? Anyway, I dredged up this photo for a compilation on Yummy Mummy Club – advice you need to give your teen self. It’s worth a read, especially for the photos of some of the writers in their teens. The hair! The makeup! The outfits!

So here’s a question for you: what advice would you give to your teen self? I’d say travel more, and be more adventurous, because one day you might find yourself staring in the mirror, wondering what to do with all those dark lipsticks in your purse. xoxo

Taking care of business, blue job style.

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It all started last week when my husband was talking about the appointment he’d made to get the oil changed on my van. This, along with basically all car-related things, is a blue job. I don’t deal with car-related jobs, I just don’t. My husband is happy to do them and I’m happy to let him. I hadn’t taken a vehicle in to get an oil change since I got married, which really says something. I mean, it’s not the reason I got married or anything, but it’s handy.

But for this appointment, there were several conflicts. My husband had a number of things to do, the boys had karate and sparring, and it was just a big mess, so I offered to take the van in. It’s my van, after all, and it’s not like I’m actually changing the oil myself. We had an appointment, and the car dealership had assured my husband that the whole thing would take between an hour and ninety minutes to complete. I had ulterior motives to offering to take the van in; mainly, I wanted a free manicure.

When we bought the van in 2013, the fellow who was showing me all the features on the car (yes, including the lighted mirrors) informed me that when the car needed servicing, there was a nail bar for my girly convenience. Now, some might be outraged at the idea that the dealership was condescendingly catering towards their female clientele, but I say bring on the gel polish. This dealership has a kids’ play area complete with X-Box, a cappuccino machine, a flat-screen TV, free Wi-Fi, and a NAIL BAR. Sign me up and shut the front door.

I was a bit nervous about driving there, since it was in a part of the city I am unfamiliar with, but my husband walked me through it on the map, and off I went. As I was pulling up to the dealership I could hear my text messages going off, but because I am A VERY RESPONSIBLE DRIVER I did not check them. I just assumed it was my husband, probably worried that I was lost and had accidentally left town. This has actually happened before, so it’s a valid concern.

I pulled in, and chatted with the service manager. “Am I in the right place?” I asked, sweetly. “My husband usually brings the car in.” (USUALLY. Ha!) The service manager looked a little concerned, and asked if he was picking me up shortly. “Oh no,” I responded. “I’m just going to wait.” The service manager gravely said that it could be four hours until it was done, which took me by surprise, but since I was stranded at the dealership thirty minutes away from my house, I took it in stride. “You can get your nails done over there, while you wait.” he said, so I scurried off.

The texts were from my husband, and I called him to let him know that I would be here a while, at which point he kind of hit the roof  in a “What? Four hours? What the fuck? They said an hour! Why don’t you leave. Fuck this! I’m going to call and complain.” kind of way. I didn’t think leaving was particularly practical; we were going to have to get the oil changed sometime soon anyway, and I just drove for thirty minutes, and I wanted a manicure. So I settled in for the wait. I had brought some work with me and my phone, so it wouldn’t be too bad, I didn’t think.

I got my manicure – gel polish and all, this stuff is amazing. Then I settled in to a chair with some free mineral water and my phone, and did some reading. It was kind of boring, but not so bad. I wrote a pitch, I read some blogs, I played several games of Trivia Crack. I noticed the service manager looking at me a bit nervously, but didn’t think much of it.

I started to get hungry, but the only restaurant close by was Hooters, and so I drank more mineral water. I didn’t really want to go for a walk; the neighbourhood is kind of the hood, and so I wasn’t comfortable with wandering. Plus, with my sense of direction I could have ended up anywhere. I read a National Geographic about a Mexican food festival. The service manager kept looking at me.

Around three o’clock – two and a half hours after my arrival – the service manager came up to me and with a very serious face told me that the car was in the shop, now, and hopefully it wouldn’t be too much longer. “Oh good!” I responded. “Any idea how much longer?” He shook his head and said he’d check and get back to me. I went back to my Trivia Crack.

At four o’clock, the manager came over to tell me that the car was finished – the computers were down, so he was giving me a handwritten receipt and would email the full receipt later. He said he knew how important it was that I get out of there, and apologized profusely. At this point it was three and a half hours, not four, so I considered myself fairly lucky. “It’s okay,” I said to the obviously-stressed-and-apologetic manager, “At least I got my nails done!” I smiled but he didn’t. Instead, he handed me a card, saying it was his personal business card, and the next time I needed servicing, I could call him and he would make sure everything went smoothly. He gave me a free emergency kit for the car, complete with flares. He apologized again, and I went on my merry way, feeling proud that a) I had driven to the dealership without incident, b) I had taken the car in for an oil change like a strong, invincible woman, and c) I knew how to get home without finding myself heading to Saskatchewan or the United States.

It turns out that when I was there, my husband had called to complain, just like he said he would. However, he complained in a much more, shall we say, angry way than I anticipated, using terms like “pissed off,” “never coming back,” and intimating that whoever handled the appointments was terrible at their job. So while I was happily getting my nails done and reading Tom and Lorenzo’s take on last week’s Mad Men, the manager was eyeing me like I was a ticking time bomb. Don’t mess with that woman; you don’t want to deal with her husband!

You guys, I was playing Good Cop/ Bad Cop and I didn’t even know it.

Nonetheless, I am willing to take the car in the next time it needs an oil change. My nails look GREAT.

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Seriously, what is with the moustaches?

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Mad Men, you guys, Mad Men. Did you watch it last night? Don’t worry, there will be no spoilers here, except to observe that 1970 was evidently the beginning of the Great Moustache Era. So many moustaches! And I confess, from my 2015 viewpoint, I immediately assumed that the first glimpse of Roger Sterling was some kind of circus-like dream sequence, entirely due to his ridiculous moustache and puffy shirt. Then I realized no, that was merely the style.

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He reminds me of a ringmaster in a circus, although those ladies look kind of fabulous.

COME ON. And yet as we all know, styles often look ridiculous, looking back. I’ve worn my fair share of stupid-looking styles, most notably the vertically-teased bangs of the Eighties, the puffy pirate shirts of the Nineties, and the flowy clown pants paired with fitted blazers of Y2K. We’ve all worn styles that we’ve regretted, so I’m not sure why I find thick moustaches and ruffled tuxedo shirts to be quite so hideous, but I do.

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Everything about this look is regrettable.

 

Even as I write this, I look like I’m about to audition for a Flashdance reboot, so I feel hypocritical criticizing menswear circa 1970, and yet.

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All I’m missing is a sweatband and leg warmers.

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Hoo boy, those are some roots. I need a colour job, stat!

The other thing that last night’s Mad Men made me think about (I promise, no spoilers) is how promiscuous the Seventies were. I remember excitedly watching Saturday Night Fever for the first time – and I was an adult – and I was completely shocked by the amount of rampant sex in it: back seat of a car sex, bathroom sex, anywhere sex. Then I read Fear of Flying and was completely grossed out by the promiscuity and corresponding venereal diseases – and I was in my early twenties at the time. YOU GUYS, USE A CONDOM, EW. But that was the Seventies, I guess. As Mona Sterling said in last season’s Mad Men:

Margaret, darling, these people are lost, and on drugs, and have venereal diseases.

Ladies and gentlemen: the Sexual Revolution, summarized nicely.

How was your long weekend? The kids decorated eggs twice – once at my parents’ place, and once at home. There was also a LOT of chocolate. The chocolate combined with two weeks of vacation and vacation-related imbibing has had a negative impact on the fit of my clothes. My skinny jeans are feeling a bit too skinny, if you know what I mean. But that is what vacation is for, and so today I grocery shopped and came home with a plethora of spinach for green smoothies; I’m also congratulating myself on not buying any more Mini-Eggs – it’s a lot harder to sneak the kids’ chocolate when that chocolate is in the form of individually-wrapped chocolate chicks and bunnies.

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Aren’t they pretty?

It’s the Ultimate Pi Day! And other fun topics.

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I’m so excited for tomorrow; it’s the Ultimate Pi Day! 3/14/15!!! ππππππππππ all day long. Maybe I should write this entire post in Greek letters for celebratory reasons.

We are having a celebration of another sort tomorrow; it’s Mark’s birthday party. This afternoon is dedicated to party preparation: Jake is tasked with cleaning up the Lego pile in the basement, Mark is tasked with putting together candy-filled loot bags, and I am taking the boys to the nearest Dairy Queen to buy a Treatzza Pizza. This Treatzza Pizza has been the subject of many a conversation and much excitement and anticipation. I can’t wait to try the Treatzza Pizza! one of the boys has said at least twice a day for the past month. I’m not sure where Mark even got the idea for one; to my knowledge he has never tried such a thing. Marketing! It works, apparently.

Anyone else ecstatic that it’s Friday? Friday the 13th notwithstanding, I am pretty relieved that this week is behind me. The week we switch to Daylight Savings Time is the most exhausting week of the year. I love that several people separately sent me this article, “Alberta Senior Hits Pancake Circuit To Petition Against Daylight Savings Time.” I love this on so many levels. I love that people see someone petitioning against DST, and THINK OF ME. I love that I have something in common with this Alberta senior. I love the term “Pancake Circuit” and want to insert it into every conversation from now on. “I ate a lot of pancakes last year because I went to every pancake breakfast I could.” That, my friends, is dedication. I especially love the opening paragraph:

An 81-year-old senior whose body gets thrown “out of whack” by the annual switch to daylight savings time hit the pancake breakfast circuit to gather signatures to petition the province to end her misery.

She goes on to talk about how difficult it is for staff in seniors’ residences to rouse residents in the morning to ensure they don’t miss their breakfast. YOU DO NOT WANT THE OLD PEOPLE MISSING THEIR BREAKFASTS. No one wants light-headed, grumpy seniors. It’s the same way with the kids – I’ve had to coax my own early-birds out of bed every day this week, and they are usually the bounce-out-of-bed type. Will no one think of the children or seniors?

I’m telling you, this woman is my people.

Also this week was my second-to-last School Council/ Parent Association meeting that I chaired, and that I was almost late for. My husband had a painter in to do a quote for us, and it required so many decisions and colour swatches that I ended up running out the door to make it on time. When I got home later that night I had a list of possible colours, but no actual paint chips, so I had to run to the paint store to figure out what, exactly, the painter had recommended. Right now I’m waffling between a very deep avocado green or a deep blue for the kitchen and a bluish grey or darker bluish grey for the upstairs bathroom. We have settled on a dark rust colour for the downstairs bathroom, which will be quite a change from the current baby blue. On the one hand I’m very excited for the change. Changing paint colours makes the house feel brand new! On the other hand, I’m tired just thinking about having painters in the house, with all the mess and disruption, and possible “dog-brushing-against-wall-and-getting-all-painty” issues. Princess problems, I know.

Here’s some fun news: I buy all my various vitamins and supplements online, and so I get a lot of “20% off! Free shipping!” emails from the company I patronize. Yesterday, I got an email from them with the subject line, “Nicole, slim down for spring! Save 20% on all fat burners!” Then, today I received an email with the subject line, “Nicole, crank up your libido with help from Supplements Canada – 20% off plus free shipping!” WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO TELL ME? This wouldn’t be so bad except for the newsletter I received in my in-box with the subject line “Why Your Husband Doesn’t Want Sex.” I swear, opening my email is becoming very damaging to my self-esteem.