Category Archives: Playtime

Sweep, sweep, hurry, hard!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the wink of a young girl’s eye

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I have heard “Glory Days” no fewer than five times in the past two days.  Is it a sign?  Perhaps the universe is saying something about my impending 20 year high school reunion.  Should I start reliving those glory days?  Perhaps don a baby doll dress to wear with army boots?  Spiral perm my hair?  Wear bright red lipstick and get all excited about quadratic equations?  Perfect my Southern accent so I can portray Amanda Wingfield in the school play?

Glory days indeed.  It occurred to me today that I have never seen a single episode of The Littlest Hobo or The Beachcombers.  I wonder if that’s enough to get my Canadian citizenship revoked.  I can only recall regularly watching three television shows when I was a child: The Muppet Show (and later, Fraggle Rock), The Smurfs, and Lorne Greene’s New Wilderness.  I loved Lorne Greene’s New Wilderness.  I can still recall being devastated by the episode about Canada geese, and the widowed goose who would now live out the remainder of her life alone and mateless.  The poor, poor goose.

Speaking of popular culture on television, Season Five of Mad Men is now on Netflix and I have been voraciously re-watching it in anticipation of the Season Six opener on Saturday.  I’m really enjoying this since I seem to have forgotten all the plot lines.  Peggy, and her vague disillusionment with her job.  Megan, following her dream to become a lady of the theatre.  Betty, attending Weight Watchers meetings.  I’m almost at the episode where – spoiler alert! – Lane is FOUND IN HIS OFFICE and damn, I forgot how great this show is.  Also I am coveting Megan’s entire wardrobe which is a strange thing to covet.  “I should get a dress like that for next year’s Christmas party!” I say to my husband on a near-nightly basis, who looks alarmed at the very idea of me wearing a dress with a six inch skirt to his conservative office party. 

The children were the thrilled recipients of clock radios last weekend.  We are all early birds in this house; waking the kids up for school is not something that actually happens here.  We are all up and raring to go hours before school begins, but my husband and I thought the clocks would be a good idea for the weekend.  The children are only allowed to play video games on the weekend, so they have taken to waking up extra early on Saturdays so as to maximize their game-playing time.  There are worse problems, but I like being able to sleep until the crazy hour of 6:45 or 7:00 on the weekend, and so we have installed clocks in their rooms as a “please don’t wake Mom and Dad up until 6:45” measure.  So far it’s worked but the most fun thing about it is how the kids will retire to their rooms during the day just to listen to the radio.  It’s like we’ve been transported back to the sixties.  THOSE KIDS AND THEIR ROCK AND ROLL MUSIC. 

Clock radios!  I wonder if they are boasting about them at school.  They are so thrilled with them, I would not be surprised.  Are clock radios an actual status symbol, or are my children just deprived little pseudo-Kazhakstanis?  “I get window from glass, he must get window from glass.  I get step, he gets step.  I get clock radio.  He cannot afford!”  Hopefully none of their little friends will break into our house late at night.  Say goodbye to your clock radio.

Hippos and Spring

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Important Boyhouse update for those of you who have been reading for a while: we visited the zoo yesterday for the first time since the tragic (for us) euthanasia of Foggy the Hippo.  There is a new hippo; his name is Ghost, courtesy of his Halloween birthday, and he is Foggy’s grandson.  I wasn’t sure how the zoo visit would go, since Jake still tears up at the mention of Foggy and he started crying in the car a few weeks ago because a song came on the radio; apparently it was the very song we heard driving home from the zoo after Foggy’s death.  A zoo trip was in the works however; we had a day with no plans, we were all excited to see what turned out to be a very underwhelming “Penguin Walk”, and the day promised to be sunny and mild.

After visiting the penguins and the Canadian Wilds, we started our death march towards the hippo enclosure.  Jake was completely silent, while Mark and I chattered on about how nothing could ever take Foggy’s place in our hearts, but maybe Ghost was a nice hippo, and anyway, there were other animals to see in the African Savannah display.  Giraffes!  Meercats!  Giant pythons!  Jake silently entered the enclosure and peeked through the glass barrier at the hippo pool below.

And – I kid you not – Ghost the hippo immediately poked his head out of the water, turned to Jake’s direction, and wiggled his ears.  He then, in a surprisingly agile move, spun around in the water, looked in Jake’s direction again, and sprayed water out of his nose.

Jake assumed that this hippo behaviour was solely for his benefit, and of course I encouraged this.  Ghost then dove underwater and surfaced in the middle of the pool, directly in front of us.  Sparky, the other hippo, joined him.  “I guess he really likes me!” Jake said happily.  What’s not to like?

All is well in the Boyhouse.  You may notice that Jake is wearing his winter coat.  The sun was shining, the snow was melting, and it was about eight degrees Celcius which was enough to prompt many, many people to wear shorts, t-shirts, and flip flops.  FLIP FLOPS.  A few hardy individuals were seen to be wearing tank tops; meanwhile I felt pretty footloose and fancy free to be wearing my “light” winter jacket.

Mark’s coat is unzipped!  Spring!

I have started, slowly, to bring out spring/fall weight jackets and footwear.  I set out the rain boots and put winter boots in an easily-accessible-but-still-kind-of-away location downstairs.  Yesterday, after the vivid success of the dehydrated pineapple, I went to the grocery store to pick up five more pineapples in my bid to look like someone who needs more tropical things in her life, wearing only a spring weight coat and kicky little ankle boots in place of my usual knee high ones.  I felt slightly naked; my calves especially felt exposed, despite my jeans.  There are buds swelling on the lilac bush, my tenacious daylilies near the back door are pushing their little green sprouts through the thawing earth.  It feels, ever so tenuously, like spring is in the air.  I know, I know that there will be more snow, I know that it will be below freezing at night for many weeks to come, but at the moment everything feels fresh and new.  It feels like spring is poking its head up and wiggling its ears at me.  It’s enough.

Spring Break! Put your (paint covered) hands up!

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It’s only, technically, day two of Spring Break and it is the Most Exciting Spring Break Ever.  Yesterday I looked out the window to see a Canada Post truck parked in the middle of our road and a delivery man struggling up our sidewalk with a giant box addressed to me. 


What is it, you may be asking yourself.  It’s an early birthday present!  A food dehydrator!  I’ve wanted one for a long time, and was completely surprised.  Welcome to Dehydration Nation!


I spent the rest of the day spinning off the earth with excitement, and reading the user’s manual.  I felt dangerously like Crazy Eddie from Friends, the guy who was briefly Chandler’s roommate and who dehydrated everything.  This is a strawberry!  This is a cantaloupe!  Pineapples were on sale last week at my local grocery store, and fortuitously I had picked one up.  You’re first, Mr. Pineapple.

Mark kept stealing pieces, and I felt bad telling my child to lay off the fruit.

It’s in the dehydrator right now, and the entire downstairs, according to the boys, smells exactly like Maui.  It’s a very pleasing smell, and I hope the end result will be tasty as well. 

This morning I took the boys to the dentist, which was as pleasant as could be hoped.  There was a high degree of agitation in the five minute drive to the dentist, and much slumping and sighing in the waiting room, but it turns out that asking for the fluoride to be brushed on, instead of using those little trays can turn an entire dental visit around.  Who knew that fluoride trays could be the cause of so much sadness?  To celebrate our excellent visit, I took the boys to Colour Me Mine, where you can choose a piece of pottery to paint, and the Colour Me Mine people glaze and fire it for you. 

 
 
 
So far, spring break has been pretty excellent.  Next up: cleaning up the dog’s fecal matter in the melting backyard.  This is the downside of the exciting spring melt.  But the snow is melting, the sun is shining, and my house smells like pineapple!  Things don’t get much better than that.

Come to think of it, Superman is a douche

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some euphemisms just don’t work.

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

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

anthropologie.com

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

anthropologie.com

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

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

Eleven years later, and I look like this:

advanced style


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

A Darker Shade of Pale

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Aloha!  It feels like I haven’t written forever, but that’s because I was on vacation in Maui!  We flew in on the red eye last night, and so I’m feeling a little red-eyed.  Pardon the incoherence.  Despite sleeping only about five hours last night, the boys are shockingly energetic and pleasant, which indicates that a ball must be about to drop.  I am also about to drop but wanted to give an update on my lovely, lovely vacation.  As my friend Marilyn mentioned recently, it’s easy to get verklempt about the passage of time and formerly chubby cheeks and adorable mispronunciations, but when it comes to travel, older kids are the bomb.  There was a family – and I mean, parents, plus grandparents, plus two uncles – with one small child at the condominium pool, and all the adults were chasing and doting on and pacifying said small child.  Someone was always following closely, making sure she didn’t tumble into the pool, or slip on the cement, or drown in the hot tub, or eat a plant.  It reminded me of how busy that age was and how un-relaxing a vacation could be.  It also reminded me that I don’t remember anything that happened from 2005-2007, since that little girl was 17 months, and Jake was born when Mark was 17 1/2 months.  I was chatting with the mother and mentioned this, and she said emphatically “Well, she sure has put our plans to have other children on hold indefinitely!”, which seemed somewhat extreme.  In any case, between that family and another mother with three small children – who said to me “I’m still cooking dinner, doing dishes, and folding laundry.  How is this a vacation?” – I was feeling pretty excellent about my children who could be in the pool with only marginal supervision and who weren’t about to eat sand. 

Look at them hanging out at the hot tub like little old men.

It was a fabulous vacation, complete with marginally supervising the children:


Where are the children?  I don’t actually know.  A lot of time was spent at the beach


where I got to ogle all the sexy men:

Is it horrible to post a picture of this guy?  Because he reminded me of Saturday Night Fever.  You can’t tell in this picture but he had a ginormous gold chain on, plus hair like a silver John Travolta, plus – PLUS – his swimsuit was fluorescent animal patterned on the front only.  But you know what?  I give him points for confidence.  Rock it!

We watched the sunset, and also were entertained by the kite flying and pick up volleyball games:

It wasn’t all warmth and sunshine though.  My husband wanted to drive to the top of Halekala volcano, where it was over 10,000 feet of elevation, 36 degrees Fahrenheit, wet, and windy:

I also re-discovered a universal truth: one cannot eat and or drink whatever one wants whenever one wants without consequences.  Related: drinking three beers while barbequing every night, plus wine, plus umbrella drinks, may be excessive.

That photo was for my girlfriend – she knows who she is – who wasn’t there to help me drink those giant bottles.  I had to do it myself.

Finally, we had fun exploring new places and spending massive amounts of time together with a minimum of discord.


Shorts without pockets?  Is this an inside joke?  Or does it just mean no shorts without pockets?  I DON’T GET IT.  Also, since this refers to guys only, does that mean the ladies can party in bikinis after 9 pm?  I’m guessing yes. 

Being a MILF

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I was driving home from yoga this morning and I heard “You Shook Me All Night Long” on the radio, and it occurred to me – not for the first time – that the line “knocking me out with those American thighs” had much different connotation back in 1980 than it would today.  American thighs probably doesn’t have the same seductive imagery these days. 

Unless, of course, the owner of the American thighs are following the MILF Diet.  Have you heard about the MILF diet?  I had been blissfully unaware until yesterday, when I discovered that there is a book and website devoted to becoming a MILF via nutritional intake.  The book describes a MILF and her diet in the following way:

A true milf is confident, sexy, and radiates natural femininity. By eating whole, plant-based foods, you, too, can find balance and dynamic health, and unleash your inner MILF. It’s simple: you are what you eat. So, to fulfill your true potential for health, happiness, and MILFiness, it’s best to avoid refined sugars, processed foods, dairy, and meat.
 
You guys, that is totally MY diet!  Plant based, no meat, avoiding dairy, refined sugars, processed foods…do you see what I’m saying here?  I AM A MILF.  Either that or the MILF people stole my diet plan. 
 
Who am I kidding, I didn’t need a diet book to tell me about being MILF-y.  I felt Mrs. Robinson-like the first time I accidentally flashed my thong while gardening in my front yard, and noticed the young guy across the street standing there, staring at me.  HOWDY NEIGHBOUR.  Nice day, isn’t it?  That incredibly awkward situation did have an upside: I now only garden in yoga pants and with long shirts.  No need to disturb the neighbourhood, or to make my other across-the-street neighbour feel like it’s okay for him to mow the lawn wearing only giant sneakers and a pair of cut-off red sweatpants.  This is not that kind of neighbourhood, people!  We have real estate values to think of, here. 
 
MILF is one of those words – or acronyms, to be more accurate – that some people find incredibly offensive, and to be sure, it isn’t the most polite way of saying that a woman is attractive.  It’s better than, say, hootchie mama, but that’s about it.  Still, it’s best not to think of it literally; in the fucking sense, I mean.  I would prefer not to think of men – especially those who live across the street from me and with whom I now have very stilted, awkward conversations about the weather – thinking of me as someone they’d like to fuck.  Because ew.  Just…ew.  I’m sure this goes without saying, but bedroom-sexy-times imagery is something I would prefer to keep between me and my husband.
 
Apparently though, the term has evolved to simply mean a woman who is a mother who happens to be attractive, which is okay, unless you take everything from When Harry Met Sally as Biblical-level wisdom:
 
Harry: No man can be friends with a woman he finds attractive.  He always wants to have sex with her.
 
Do you see what I’m saying here?  I’m saying this term, which started out kind of gross and offensive, and which is generally now thought to have a gentler meaning, is really just gross and offensive, due to the nature of men wanting to have sex with attractive women.  It’s a circular argument.  That is, if When Harry Met Sally is considered to be an accurate representation of male/female relationships, and if it’s not, then I just do not know where to turn.  TOP GUN?  Never fire unless fired upon?  It’s unthinkable.  SAY ANYTHING?  They take your money and tell their friends everything.  It’s about economics, man.  No way.  THE BREAKFAST CLUB?  Don’t play with the bull, young man.  You’ll get the horns.  No, no, no.
 
One might think that I should possibly get on top of pop-culture references that are less than twenty-five years old.  This might be something to think about in future posts.
 
But really, do you know what I find offensive about the term MILF?  It’s an inaccurate acronym.  It really should be MILTF, but I guess that’s just too complicated.  Also?  In The MILF Diet, the author refers to – get this – DILFs.  As in “Dad I’d Like To Fuck”.  Is it me or has the whole thing just gone too far?  There was a line, MILF Diet author, and you crossed it.  That is a big fucking envelope and you are pushing it to the extreme.  First a diet based on how to get random male university students to want to fuck you, now we have to pull men and some kind of Freudian imagery into it?  Not to mention that DILF just makes me think of DILLHOLE, which isn’t exactly a term that makes me think of sexy-times.  The whole thing smacks of idiocy. 
 
It appears I may have had too much coffee today.  Wait.  WAIT.  Is coffee allowed on the MILF diet?  Probably not.  I have overestimated my position as a MILF.  I guess I will abdicate and just go on with life as a regular mom.