I’m really glad my ladies’ holidays aren’t coming up anytime soon, because my goodness I am an emotional girl this week; it would be pretty bad if I threw some hormones into the mix. Part of it, maybe, is the fact that my kids are now in the “big kid” section of the school, far away from the office so it’s really hard to just casually saunter past their classrooms and sneak a peek at them, which, looking at it objectively, is probably a good thing because they do not enjoy me sneaking a peek at them. I shouldn’t group them together, really, because Mark doesn’t actually mind. Jake, however, does. “Why did you WAVE at me? I’m supposed to be WORKING, not getting distracted.” Even in lineup in the mornings, I fist bump him and then back the hell off, because that kid does not want any extra attention from his mother, JAY-SUS. If I do attempt a wave while he’s lined up, he raises his chin slightly in what I take to be the world’s smallest head nod in acknowledgement. What is he going to be like as a teenager? A total dick, I’m guessing. I said this to my friend this morning who answered cheerfully, “Well, you always predicted that!” True.
I was grocery shopping yesterday and found myself teary-eyed and verklempt at the sight of young mamas with their babies and toddlers in the produce section. I heard the mamas talking to their little ones in the same way I did, in a previous era, when I had to put lipstick marks into the palms of small hands instead of fist bumping while walking through the compound. This is a lemon. It’s yellow! Look at this pretty red apple. It’s so red and round! Let’s put five in the bag. 1…2…3…4…5…I stared at the banana display for a while, swallowing hard. Thank god no one picked up a cucumber and pretended to tickle their toddler with it because if that had happened I would STILL be curled up on the floor singing Landslide* to myself. And if you see my reflection in a snow covered hill…Fortunately later in the day I found myself buying printer paper in Walmart and witnessing a complete toddler meltdown in the school supply aisle, complete with flopping boneless body and ear-piercing shrieks. I smiled sympathetically at the frazzled young mother and tried not to click my heels in joy as I went to pick up my big kids at the big kid doors at school.
Well, they’re not that big, I guess, since I haven’t yet started writing blog posts about teenage girls and the behavioural standards required to date my sons. Eeee. Can you imagine what kind of mother-in-law that woman will be? Here’s an FYI for teenage girls: do NOT date one of the Hall boys. RUN THE OTHER DIRECTION if one of them asks for your phone number. Do boys still ask for your phone number these days? Or do they just look you up on Facebook? But I digress. Truly, just think how overbearing poor beleaguered Mrs. Hall must be, and I can only guess that this is not something that will improve with time. Girls, if you become a “young Mrs. Hall”, you will be doomed for a life of in-law misery. You will never be able to vacuum often enough, is what I’m saying.
Things are tough for teenage girls these days, what with the striving to be the hottest bitch in this place and the expectation that one must stay up ALL DAMN NIGHT to get lucky. In my day, we just expressed ourselves or Vogued. Speaking of which, last night I was cleaning up the kitchen and Papa Don’t Preach came on. I cranked the volume and sang along; the boys reacted with complete and utter silence. Perhaps they were struck mute with awe? Moments later they went outside where they climbed our big Mayday tree and jumped down repeatedly. I didn’t think my singing was that bad.
*see, Sarah, I think we’re even on the Landslide references
Category Archives: Playtime
Summer’s Almost Gone, Almost Gone
Here it is, the very last week of summer, and I’m trying to squeeze every moment out of it. I always feel kind of gloomy at the end of summer – I’m a summer-tastic kind of girl – but the gloominess is getting overridden by my excitement about September. My social life, which seems to be hinged on dog walking and hanging out at the playground during pickup and drop-off, is about to take off. I, like the kids, miss the friends I don’t see during the summer and so it will be nice to catch up with all of them.
My husband took this week off work and it’s been nice. We were up at my parents’ place at the lake for a couple of days, which is always fun. The boys refer to it as Camp Grandma, where there is always lots of ice cream and popsicles, and not much in the way of rules. It was also – and this is unusual for this part of the world – quite warm, and so they went swimming in the chilly lake.
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“Smile!” “We ARE smiling.” |
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| IT’S COLD. |
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Exploring the “shoreline”.
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My husband also swam with them for a bit; I refrained, not wanting to get hypothermia. They went for an evening swim/ shoreline exploration while I sat on the deck chatting with my parents. Barkley came bounding across the grass with what I presumed was a flat stick of wood in his mouth. Something about the way he was holding it, and the little white protrusions sticking out of it made me look closer. Hmm, I thought, maybe it’s a root from one of the plants on the shore…aieeeeeeeeeeeeee! It was a dead fish, a fish that had met its demise some time ago. I screamed and screamed while the dog dropped it in alarm at my distress and my dad scooped it away with a shovel, taking it to an unknown destination (“DON’T PUT IT IN THE GARBAGE!” my mother screamed.) That was a bit of gross drama that I didn’t need in my life; however, it’s not the first time Barkley has found and/or done something revolting, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.
It hasn’t all been lake time and hating my dog this week – my husband and I took the kids on an exciting family trip to Costco. I had been hoping that my last Costco trip would have lasted me the whole summer, and it would have, but my husband really “wanted” to go. It’s fun, he proclaimed. Fun. To go to Costco. With the kids. I will tell you what was “fun” about it, and that is that I didn’t have to push the million-pound cart around, nor unload the groceries by myself. I did have to play a bit of Tetris to fit all of the food into the cupboards, fridge, and pantry, but on the upside I probably am stocked up to last for the next three or four months. Currently I would be ashamed to show anyone my pantry, as it looks like an episode of Hoarders. But it was such a good deal.
Speaking of “good deals”, did anyone read the Fraser Institute’s report on the cost of raising children in Canada? I am no stranger to the Fraser Institute – I have a master’s degree in economics – and so I read it with some interest. It’s funny, because living in an urban centre, with children in sports, and attempting to buy quality food and other clothing items notwithstanding, $4000 sounded pretty skimpy to me. Interestingly enough, childcare was not included. Aha! Apparently the Fraser Institute doesn’t include childcare as a cost of raising a child, nor the opportunity cost of lost income from having a stay at home parent. Well then, that explains that. Knowing the Fraser Institute, there is some kind of policy implication here that states that the poor can EASILY raise their children with no assistance of any kind. Well, thank you for that conclusion, Fraser Institute! This study addresses a couple of my pet peeves: misuse of statistics (“most” people don’t require childcare) and being obstinate about the cycle of poverty. Speaking of which, my friend Hannah wrote about the costs of back-to-school and how they can be more oppressive in the long and short term for the impoverished.
On a much less serious note, did you know there’s such a thing as naked yoga? Well, there is. I don’t think I can adequately convey in a blog post how revolting I find it. Not as revolting as my dog chewing on a dead fish, but pretty damn revolting. Then again, possibly I’m prudish because I found it shocking – actually shocking – when we went into town at the lake and there were girls walking around in only their bathing suits. It’s like I’m 80 years old. In my day we wore coverups when we left the beach. At least an oversized t-shirt. It’s funny how many people have the perception that yoga is this very sexy thing to do. Most of the yogis I know go to bed super early and eat lots of mung beans and quinoa and whatnot. We also generally have strained, rather than sexily blissful, facial expressions during most of our yoga postures:
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Good god, do not perform this naked. Ew. Gross. |
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| Nor this, unless you want to slip and fall and break your face. |
Born To Be Wild
Today a man with a full-on business-in-front-party-in-back mullet rode down my street on a unicycle. I wonder if it was an ironic mullet, or maybe mullets are the new look for young hipsters, or – and this is a distinct possibility – this man was holding onto his lost youth by wearing the hairstyle of his heyday. I didn’t get a good look at his face, so I could not ascertain his age to determine if the latter was the case. Of course, my hair therapist has told me that after a certain age its best to choose a classic hairstyle that works best for one’s hair type and flatters one’s face shape, and then stick with modifications to that basic style. Perhaps this man is following that wise advice, although I’m not sure that mullets can be considered “classic” nor “flattering” but to each his own, after all.
This reminds me of a professor I once took classes with, a brilliant man who always wore his hair in the shortish, feathered style of 1983. At some point this man’s hair will be hip and happening once again; perhaps it is already, I’m not really that with it.
I know I’m not really with it because I read this morning that last night the Video Music Awards were on, and I had no idea. Apparently there was some kind of scandal with Miley Cyrus who is not on Disney anymore, people. Quelle scandale! To be honest, I’m kind of surprised anyone was even watching the VMAs, given that Breaking Bad was on. There are only five episodes left! Why waste time watching the VMAs when you can curl up in the fetal position on the couch, clench your fists under your chin, and sweat profusely while having heart palpitations? At least, that’s what happens to me when I watch Breaking Bad. I’m not even sure that I LIKE that show, but I’m so addicted to it that I have to know what happens OMG I hope Walt gets destroyed completely. I was watching one of those Talking Bad recap shows, and the guest, who was the woman who plays Claire on Modern Family, said that she was really “rooting” for Walt and “hoping he gets away with it” which is pretty much the opposite of how I feel. He is a man who has destroyed myriad lives and is, essentially, Satan in meth-cook form. My husband gently suggested that I not get so worked up over what is, in fact, a fictional show. Honey, are you okay? You’re hyperventilating again.
I need to thank Heather and Andrea, dear readers, who let me know that my post about Hot Carl is once again relevant. The authorities are looking for the owner of the vehicle with the Hot Carl license plate because they are cracking down on lewd personalized plates. However, Hot Carl’s license plate is over fifteen years old, allegedly, and so there is every reason to believe that the owner is just a guy named Carl who has a high sense of self-worth. Whatever you do, do not look up what a Hot Carl is in the urban dictionary. You will be very, very sorry and despair for humanity. In any case, I haven’t seen Hot Carl’s vehicle for long time. Perhaps he’s fled the city, or at very least the neighbourhood, having heard what monstrosities people do in his name. Poor Hot Carl!
Other things happening around here: the boys performed solo karate demonstrations at the open house on Saturday, which made me Explosion Level Proud. The next thing will be possible sparring, which makes me Somewhat Nervous And Also Proud. Continuing the tradition of mildly strange things happening in my eclectic neighbourhood, I noticed the young man across the alley chatting with our 80 year old neighbour lady. The young man was wearing a t-shirt that said FUCK THE TIME on it, which made me wonder what, if anything, was the lady’s reaction. Did she notice? Did she care? Was she somewhat offended, or maybe amused? We may never know. I also discovered that my across-the-street neighbour is a veteran who served in Desert Storm, which made me feel immediately bad for giggling about his penchant for mowing the lawn in only giant sneakers and red cut-off sweatpants. However, the pinnacle of my week was going to the grocery store and seeing this fellow in the parking lot:
That is one bad-ass beagle.
I can see for miles and miles
Last weekend I went to Saskatchewan to visit with my grandma, as well as with my cousins, aunt, and my brother who moved from the big city to a small town and is now realizing that everyone on his block knows what he is doing at any given time. He has also nicely transitioned to small town life by describing his whereabouts using the Home Hardware as a landmark.
My kids stayed with my parents at the lake, and due to some awkward scheduling on my part this meant that I had to drive there to drop them off and then drive back home that same afternoon. I am usually the cheery passenger, not the responsible person, and so I was pretty exhausted when I got home. I rolled all the windows down and listened to music full blast, re-living some kind of lost youth in which I was speeding down the prairie highway with the wind in my hair, breathing in the scent of hay and diesel. Later I had to spend a lot of time brushing out the tangles. Next time I’m wearing a Jackie O scarf. Baby we were born to run.
I didn’t want to arrive at my grandmas looking like a tramp – tramps like us – and so when I picked up my rental car in the Regina airport I decorously put on the air conditioner. Knowing now what I didn’t know then, I would have foregone the air conditioner, being I spent the weekend shivering under Grandma’s high-powered cooling system, wishing I had brought wool socks, or at least pants, rather than the summery skirts and tank tops I did pack.
It’s important to learn from one’s mistakes. For example, last year when I went to visit Grandma I didn’t bring any CD’s for the two hour drive, and so I ended up listening to a lot of AC/DC and talk radio. This time, I brought some great mixed CD’s – I’m a mixed tape girl at heart, but more technologically advanced – but unfortunately the CD player was not working properly. All music was played at high-speed, which was extraordinarily agitating. Everybodywaskungfufightingthosekidswerefastaslightening. Happily, the car was equipped with satellite radio. Unhappily, there were only four stations available, and one of them was Country. The other three were a) Classic Vinyl, which heavily leaned toward Grateful Dead, b) 80s on 8, and c) Margaritaville, a station entirely devoted to Jimmy Buffett music. I have nothing at all against Jimmy Buffett and I like to Get Drunk and Screw as much as the next person, but an entire station? I wish I had a pencil thin moustache. The Boston Blackie kind. Three songs in and I was kind of done.
Of course I ended up listening to mostly 80s on 8, with detours into the other two – I took off my flip flops, stepped on a pop rock – and I noticed something I hadn’t before: saxophones were very popular in the 80s. On the way back to the Regina airport on Saturday morning, Classic Vinyl was playing a live recording of a Grateful Dead concert, Margaritaville was playing live recordings of Jimmy Buffett songs, including the witty and somewhat drunken repartee he had with the audience, and the 80s on 8 was doing a top forty countdown of music from 1986. Score! That was a pretty fun year for music, I must say. I used to listen to the countdowns on a popular music station back then, and I can remember staying awake until midnight to hear that the most popular song of 1986 was The Greatest Love of All. If I fail, if I succeed, at least I lived as I BELIEVED, no matter what they take from me they can’t take away MY DIG-NI-TYYYYYY.
It’s a good thing I’m not a long haul trucker. I would surely be insane from singing saxophone-infused songs over and over, and my hair would be terribly damaged from driving with the windows down. Also I would have to get a CB handle, and I just don’t know what that would be. How does one choose a CB handle? Or is it assigned to you when you get licensed to drive rigs? I don’t know. All I know is Rubber Duck and Big Ben are taken already.
The Opposite Of Extreme Makeovers, and a Giveaway!
Lawsy, I’ve been busy – relatively speaking – since returning from vacation. It’s amazing how much piles up after an eight-day hiatus from the homefront. I’ve been multi-tasking like a motherfucking riot; taking the boys to the playground while mentally composing posts, responding to constant “fun facts” about animals while making 16 litres of tomato sauce, preparing frantically for my solo trip to Saskatchewan while photographing plates of tomato-based dishes. Did I mention I have a whole lot of tomatoes in my possession? My mother-in-law supplied me with “a few” tomatoes; “a few” meaning “fifteen pounds”. It’s a good problem to have, all these sweet and delicious tomatoes.
Although it’s been warm here the past few days, there is a slight change in the air and I realized there are only three more weeks of summer vacation left! Cherish every moment goddammit. In addition to cherishing moments and tomato preparation, I am also beginning my usual August routine of thinking about back-to-school items and festive things like snowsuits and boots. The children are sweltering as I force them to put on their boots and mittens to ascertain fit and what is needed for the imminent winter. In Calgary, you never know. WINTER IS IMMINENT PEOPLE. Cue music of doom; perhaps an instrumental version of Patio Lanterns or maybe The Devil Came Down To Georgia.
The music of doom was also playing in my mind as I found myself in the mall at 5:00 on Saturday night. Unfortunately earlier in the day I was getting my old grey mare roots coloured, necessitating the late-afternoon mall shop, which is – as we all know – is the most spirit-crushing time to attend to all your shopping needs. Why is that? Why are there so many crowds, screaming children, rude people, and despondent employees at that time? And why do I never learn? There were two lights at the end of this tunnel of consumerism: Sport Chek had sales on running shoes, which I liked since we had to buy the boys each two pairs, and we had dinner at the food court, which is the kids’ favourite, as I have undoubtedly mentioned before. A teenage girl and her boyfriend sat at the table next to us, along with this cute fellow:
Speaking of the old grey mare and giant orange bears, I decided that I was going to make a dramatic change in my hair colour, and so I took this photo to my hair therapist, who looked at me quizzically. “Okay,” she said, “But it’s kind of the colour you already have. It’s pretty similar.” No no! I said cheerfully, explaining that I wanted something more coppery. She made a change to my formulation, coloured my hair, and…it’s marginally different. Dramatic overhaul fail. It looks pretty much exactly like this photo, taken poolside last week, pre-colour. Note: my dad makes this exact same face when he’s thinking, leading me to believe once again that I am an actual younger, female, and artificially red-haired version of him. Thanks for the grey hair genes, Dad!
It’s giveaway time! Prize yet to be determined but sure to be awesome. Or at least kind of fun. Leave a comment and let me know what you’re up to this August. Or what colour your hair is. Or at what point in the year do you start thinking about snowboots? Ah, who am I kidding – leave a comment about anything and I’ll enter you in the draw. Name to be drawn August 22!
"The REAL Reason He Never Texted" – page 136
A few weeks ago, I was feeling kind of blue, and so my husband took the boys for an outing and came home with snacks and a magazine for me. Cosmopolitan magazine.
Husband: Isn’t that the magazine you always read at the hair salon?
Me: No, that’s People.
Husband: Well, same thing.
No, husband, it is not the same thing, but I will tell you this: Cosmopolitan is much, much more entertaining. For one thing, I never know who anyone is in People unless said “celebrity” is a) a member of the British royal family, or b) is featured in an article entitled “Still Sexy at Fifty!” or similar. Not that I know who any “celebrity” is in Cosmopolitan, either – the cover showcases someone named Demi Lovato and advertises her shocking interview – but fortunately, Cosmopolitan has not changed its format much since I last purchased a copy circa 1994. BEST.SEX.EVER. 42 New Tips! So says the front cover, which is probably what all the cover stories are, and have been since the magazine’s inception.
As an aside, does anyone else find it alarming that we have before us a whole generation of young women who were (possibly) named after Demi Moore? I feel like I’m about one hundred years old looking at this magazine, but of course I’m not the key demographic here. Most of the stories have something to do with back to school fashions, new looks on campus, and this:
I practically had a hilarity overload reading this. Ah, to be young again and want to have sex inside the field-hockey net at the football stadium. Or to hook up with your TA. For the record, neither of those things happened to me – certainly not the TA – I was in economics, after all. I did, however, “work it at the library”, not in order to hook up but I did always wear cute outfits and makeup when I studied. What. I put on nice clothes to go to the grocery store; I’m like an old lady getting dressed up for a nice outing.
There are lots of style tips and advertisements in Cosmo that I found simultaneously alarming and also cute. Here’s an ad for Jordache jeans. Jordache jeans! Who didn’t wear Jordache jeans exactly like this in the eighties?
Actually, I do wear jeans like this. Not Jordache, but similar in style. I can’t tell if this is alarming (mutton dressed as lamb) or if I’m actually young and hip. I’m leaning toward the former. More alarming is the apparent comeback of the hot style of 1987 – rolled up jeans.
Unrelated to “things I wore in junior high” is this monstrosity of an idea – tailored sweatpants.
It DOES look comfortable, but not sure if it looks “chic”. What do I know, though? I thought ALL of this was kind of “skanky”, as opposed to “sexy”:
I also gave this article the side-eye:
Sex on the First Date: article concludes that, like the rule “no white after Labour Day”, “Don’t have sex on the first date” is considered to be an outdated one. Wait, what? First of all, no white after Labour Day is a very good rule. Let’s keep that one, mmmkay? Also? Now, I haven’t been on the dating scene since my husband and I “hooked up” in 1998, but I’m not sure sex on the first date as a faux pas should be equated with wearing white pants. But then again, I’m pretty sure I am not the target demographic here.
HOW CUTE IS THIS GIRL? “I’ve been going on roller coasters and riding my bike.” She’s adorable! Or cray-cray adorbs, as all the kids are saying these days.
Well, I wasn’t the exciting one…
In any case, I’m planning on bypassing the People magazine the next time I’m at the salon, and taking this instead, because I’m thinking of changing my haircolour.
What do you think?
Gazing at you, I get the beat.
It turns out I am easily unmoored.
My parents took the kids up to the lake yesterday, and I was faced with thirty childless hours in which to get some things done. Productivity! It’s actually amazing how much can be accomplished when the children are not around. It’s also kind of startling how much of my time is spent preparing food and washing dishes. My husband wanted to take me out for dinner – to a restaurant, on a Tuesday night, the apocalypse – and so I really had a vast amount of time on my hands. What does one do with the hours between 4:00 and 6:00 if not make dinner, eat dinner, clean up from dinner, supervise children’s cleaning of the table? If you’re me, you guiltily curl up on the couch and watch an old episode of Mad Men, read an Alice Munro short story, and feel despair because you STILL haven’t written the article for the community newsletter but DAMN you really don’t want to write about the bridge club and senior’s tea.
It’s strange not having the kids around, and the dog seems to have lapsed into a depression. When the kids are at school, Barkley generally has the air of someone who has been left with the world’s most boring person, but who is bravely making the best of it: namely flopping bonelessly on the mat outside the door or the dog bed, perking up only to go for a walk. The kids being gone overnight, though, is a whole different story. Barkley is currently lying at the top of the steps, with his head hanging over the top step in what appears to be a terribly uncomfortable position but possibly represents all the effort he is currently willing to put into life.
Yesterday I had finished quite a bit of writing – not about the senior’s tea, mind you, but quite a bit – and buoyed by my no-adult-responsibilities lunch of grapes and popcorn, I started pruning the giant spirea shrub beside the garage. This shrub had grown fairly out of control, such that anyone of any height coming out of the garage would get hit in the face by a number of branches, and so I grabbed the pruning shears and went to town. I looked down and there was Barkley, standing silently, covered with leaves and branches that he didn’t even bother to shake off. Poor puppy! I vowed to take him for a walk immediately but then realized that I was still in my sweaty yoga pants at 1:30 in the afternoon, my yoga practice having ended five hours prior.
This is what happens when I have no kids and no schedule, apparently. Another day like this and the next thing you know I’ll be a total unwashed hippie, busted flat in Baton Rouge, putting daisies in bazookas, dropping the bad brown acid at Woodstock, and contracting STD’s from all that free loving. Because it’s a slippery slope, don’t you know. One day a person wears sweaty yoga clothes all day long, the next day that person is on an acid freakout and passes out in a field of mud, with chlamydia and syphilis. TIME TO SHOWER.
For a trippy Woodstocky experience, check out this “director’s cut” of The Who’s See Me Feel Me. I love that song and I think this video is quite awesome, but yet I find myself obsessed with the fact that Roger Daltry is shirtless underneath that enormously fringed leather jacket. You can practically smell the body odour, just watching that video. Ah, the Sixties. So much musical talent. So little personal hygiene.
Ooh, I just discovered this Jefferson Airplane clip from Woodstock, and if you want to see some REALLY HIGH people with some funky-ass hair, check it out. Fun fact: Grace Slick is still alive and is 73! Man, that’s remarkable on a number of levels.
All right, enough about Woodstock (how did I get on that topic? Oh yeah, showers.) My life will resume regular programming tout de suite, since I’m heading out to pick the kids up today, albeit a little nervously, since there are severe thunderstorm warnings in the direction I’m driving. “Significant storm activity” is not something I want to be driving into, especially since I am not, exactly, someone who loves highway driving. Wish me luck! Also wish me luck on actually finishing this article on the bridge club. It’s not going to write itself. xo