Well, hello there, Friday! It’s been a long time since I posted on a Friday evening. Normally I’m too busy sitting on the couch making out with a bottle of wine and watching Jeopardy or reruns of 30 Rock to think about writing anything. But lucky you, dear readers, because tonight I am sitting here making out with a bottle of wine in front of my laptop.
Fridays are always crazy around here; crazy in a “fun, exciting” way and not in a “dress the dog up in a bumblebee outfit” way. I won’t bore you with the details of Friday yoga practice and how it’s Primary Series day, unless you care. Do you? Anyway, Friday yoga practice is different from the rest of the week, and then the kids’ school has early dismissal on Fridays – at 1:10 – which means they eat lunch at the school, which normally they never do. And – sssshhh, it’s a secret – I always have a different lunch when they are at school. Sometimes I just eat guacamole. Today I had crackers and a spinach smoothie. THIS IS HOW CRAZY IT GETS AROUND HERE. Then, of course, there is no yoga practice tomorrow, and we know what that means: I crack open the alcoholic beverages as soon as is socially acceptable. Sometimes sooner. Not today though; today I had to take the kids to get their hair cut at 4:30, and so I did have to wait until an actually socially acceptable time to open that bottle of Cupcake wine.
I will tell you this: I am so thankful that, since the wet-socks-from-stepping-in-the-puddle-of-pee incident, the boys never want to play in the ballpit at Beaners.
Today I was at the spa for a wax. I started going to this spa ten minutes away from my house after my esthetician decided that she was quitting esthetics forever. I tried not to take that personally, as she told me during a bikini wax and I wondered if my yeti-like condition drove her to it. Anyway, the spa is awesome since I can get an appointment whenever I want, unlike the wheeling and dealing I had to do with my former esthetician, whose hours were varied and ever-changing (“I have an opening at 7:15 pm on Tuesday, or 2:00 pm on Friday next week…”). It is also a full-service spa, with nice little amenities such as fluffy robes, slippers, and complimentary herbal tea and organic gingersnaps that look only the teeniest bit like dog treats. I partake in none of those niceties because I’m just getting a wax, dammit, I want to get in and out as soon as possible. Anyway, I was waiting in the cozy room with the lounge chairs and fireplace, waiting for the esthetician to call me, and I noticed a man. It’s not unusual to see men in the spa, but usually they are with wives or girlfriends, getting couples’ treatments. However, it was 10:30 on a Friday morning and this man was by himself, in the lounge chair, wearing a robe and slippers and sipping on the complimentary herbal tea. He was also studiously reading a magazine, which, upon further examination, was O Magazine. I found myself completely obsessed. Was he trying to figure out how to Live his Best Life? Was he having an Aha! Moment? Was he disagreeing vehemently with Adam Glassman about the appropriateness of yellow skinny pants in the workplace? Then I noticed he was near the end of the magazine. Maybe he was finding out What I Know For Sure? I haven’t read O Magazine in a while, so I don’t know what the latest What I Know For Sure is, but I sure am curious.
Fortunately I was called in for my appointment. Any longer and I probably would have mentally written a novel about the Guy in the Spa Reading Oprah.
Here’s What I Know For Sure for this week:
1) If you are telling a group of people the many and convoluted ways that you stay healthy during cold and flu season, and those ways include but are not limited to excessive vitamin consumption, hand sanitizer use, and a homeopathic flu protocol, and those people are staring at you in silence, do NOT try to make things less awkward by talking MORE. The more you talk the crazier you seem, so STOP TALKING.
2) People who look like Santa are not always nice. I was parking my car and there was a complete asshole in the parking lot who looked exactly like Santa.
3) If you have two children who have the same sock size, buy a whole lot of the exact same socks. That way you never have to spend time pairing and matching the socks.
I had more things to tell you about, about crazy Fridays, but I just finished my second glass of wine and I DON’T REMEMBER WHAT I WAS GOING TO SAY. Oh yes, now I remember – apparently certain Banana Boat sunscreens are possible fire risks, because if you apply the sunscreen and then expose yourself to spark or flame prior to the sunscreen drying completely, you could set yourself on fire. Now, I’m certainly not dismissing or belittling those who have become engulfed in flames post-sunscreen applications, but how much of a problem is this? Who is exposing their own skin to sparks and/or flames immediately following sunscreen application? Maybe this IS a problem, I don’t really know.
Hey, guess what else I learned today? Justin Timberlake and Jessica Biel got married! I thought they were married already, actually. This was very anticlimatic information, like when I find out an elderly celebrity died who I thought had died many years ago. Oh well. Bringing sexy back, which for a married couple means getting into a bottle of Cupcake wine and wearing a Top Gun Halloween costume.
Category Archives: Pop Cult-ure
NOT DOCTOR SLOAN!
Well, dammit. I guess I’m never watching Grey’s Anatomy again.
You know, I ALMOST stopped watching after Meredith’s near-death experience, and I ALMOST stopped watching when Denny had a recurring post-death role, and I ALMOST stopped watching when there was a hospital shooting – the swat team was right there, how did they not take down the shooter – and I ALMOST stopped watching when Christina went all nuts and she and Owen had a big fight about the pregnancy. But through it all I kept watching because of Dr. Sloan and his pure unadulterated hubba-hubba-ness, and also with the hopes that he and Lexie would get it on again. And now I have no reason to watch it, although, knowing Grey’s, he and Lexie might be getting it on beyond the grave which is frankly, just terrifying and creepy.
In other words, I have no reason to watch this show anymore and I am going to be freed up to do something productive on Thursday nights.
Kidding. I totally won’t do anything productive on Thursday nights. I probably will just take that opportunity to watch the Marky Mark video a few extra times, or maybe just go to bed at 8:30. Or maybe watch that Marky Mark video and then go to bed, if you know what I mean, and I think you do.
Speaking of Grey’s Anatomy (grrrr) the other night Can’t Buy Me Love was on TV! I made my husband watch a few minutes of it, and he couldn’t believe that was Patrick Dempsey! I remember seeing Grey’s for the first time and thinking “Wow, that geeky guy from Can’t Buy Me Love turned out to be pretty hot.” Because I have actually seen Can’t Buy Me Love multiple times. Anyone else watch that movie and then learn to French braid their hair and become inspired to wear bomber jackets and tight jeans? Or was that just me?
I got a phone call the other day from my hair salon telling me that my hair therapist got called into court, blah blah blah, my hair appointment got pushed back two weeks. TWO WEEKS. This is what is known as an epic princess tragedy in the Boyhouse. Epic. We are planning to do our family photos next weekend and I don’t want a year of looking at myself with an inch of grey roots, complemented by faded, orange hair. I know, it sounds sexy, but believe me, it’s less flattering in person. In any event, I headed out to Superstore to purchase home hair colour, among other things, and I had one of those moments wherein I marvel at the contents of my giant cart and what it says about my life. I mean, it’s a strange still-life: hair colour and Rimmel Volume Accelerator beside whole milk and Nesquick Strawberry AND Chocolate syrups. Coconut water and Daiya cheese next to pepperoni sticks. Huge clamshell of organic spinach next to gigantic jar of peanut butter. In other news, has anyone noticed the price of peanut butter lately? Apparently there is a peanut shortage. Peanut butter…is expensive…what alternate universe are we living in?
Because it’s Friday, and nothing is funnier than unintentionally crude humour, here is what Jake borrowed from the school library yesterday:
“Welcome to the World of Beavers.” And so the beaver saga continues. Jake was reading in bed last night, and I asked him about his book so I could ascertain his reading comprehension. “Did you know that beavers come in different colours?” he asked. “They are usually brown, but sometimes black, and sometimes yellow! Yellow, Mom! Don’t you think it would be neat to see a yellow beaver?” They’re called blondes, my dear. And maybe in a few years.
Tony Romo and his huge boner
My husband was watching Sunday NFL Countdown, when I overheard the commentator say “Tony Romo had the biggest boner in NFL history.”
Who uses the word “boner” interchangeably with “screw up” anymore? Or ever, for that matter?
In any case this, for me, surpassed the golf commentator’s use of “stroking”, the football colour commentator’s use of “penetration”, and the hockey announcer’s use of “slipped one past the goalie” as the greatest sports observation ever. I wonder if Tony Romo heard that, and I wonder if he felt a deep, misplaced sense of pride. “My boner is HUGE. Biggest in the NFL. You hear that, Ray Lewis?”
Speaking of “boners”, remember how in my last post I commented that since giving up dairy my premenstrual symptoms – sobbing uncontrollably, desire to REDRUM if certain people left their socks on the floor and/or coffee table, dead grass and leaves tracked in by the dog induced rage – had largely abated? Yes, well. Yesterday I suffered through a solid eighteen hours of screaming abdominal and lower back pain, all due to my ladies’ holiday. At one point I lay down on the couch as the children played with Jake’s brand new Jabba’s Palace made out of Lego – purchased proudly with his saved up birthday money and allowance – and, inexplicably, I fell asleep. I say inexplicably because the noise level was such that no normal person could possibly relax enough to drift off. However, drift off I did and I woke up an hour later to complete silence. That would have been unnerving years ago, but happily the children – the dear, dear children, who can leave their socks on the coffee table anytime – realized I had fallen asleep and quietly went downstairs to play on the Wii. Lego Star Wars Wii, no less.
Mothers of small children: there is hope. One day, you too will be able to have a nap in the middle of the day and wake up to silence and not immediately assume that everyone is a) dead, b) kidnapped, or c) that the house is burning down around you and all the children are gone. IT’S TRUE. Someday soon you will be able to use the bathroom and the children will not clamour hysterically to get in, someday soon you will be able to serve a different dish for dinner and while they may not eat it, they won’t collapse to the floor, gagging and crying. Someday soon – and I say this because it’s September, and it can be a tricky time of year for little ones – you will be able to leave your children at school and they won’t be sobbing with separation anxiety.
The other day I was at the school, which is nothing new. I’ve been at the school so much for the past couple of weeks with various Parent Association responsibilities – I’M THE CHAIR, ALL HAIL THE CHAIR – that a new teacher actually mistook me for someone who worked at the school. Anyway, I was at the school and I ran into Jake’s old pre-kindergarten teacher. “Nicole,” she said, “I’ve been telling my new parents about the goodbye routine you and Jake had. It’s really been helping!” I was a little surprised, being that it has been four years since Jake was in pre-kindergarten, and I didn’t think that our goodbye routine was anything out of the ordinary.
Now, you know me, people. I do not generally give parenting advice, especially unsolicited parenting advice. Part of that is because I think that smugly imparting advice is douchey, and part of it is because I believe strongly in karma and am superstitious. I knew a woman who was extremely smug and boasty about her lamb of a firstborn, who was completely potty trained at eighteen months due to her superior parenting techniques. Her second born? A completely wild child, who was still in diapers at four. COINCIDENCE? It’s karma.
But I know a few of you are suffering with your child’s separation anxiety right now, and so I will share with you the goodbye routine I had with Jake, that dried up any tears from school dropoffs, and that I kind of stole from The Kissing Hand. As you may know, I rarely leave the house without lipstick. When it was time to say goodbye, I would draw a circle in Jake’s hand with my finger, then I would kiss the middle of the circle, leaving a giant lipstick mark. I would then rub the lipstick into his hand, so the kiss would “stick with him” all day. He would then do the same to me, minus the lipstick, of course. It really worked, and we did that all through pre-kindergarten and kindergarten. Now, of course, he doesn’t even allow me to kiss him in his lineup; instead we fist bump. FIST BUMP, MOTHER OF GOD. In any case, my heart goes out to you mamas dealing with school dropoff sadness; maybe my story will help, maybe not, but know that it gets better and one day you too may be fist bumping your child, and sometimes accidentally jabbing him with your rings. Then you will only have your own sentimental tears to deal with, and to that end, I have no advice.
Padme and Anakin and the Five Languages of Love
Getting right into the year 2005, I watched Revenge of the Sith on the weekend. Here’s a little piece of advice: do not watch the violent end of a movie minutes before leaving the house to attend a led primary practice. You will feel all shaky and NAMASTE, BITCH. Related: it’s very, very awkward when, at the end of a led practice, you turn to your neighbour to say “Namaste” and that neighbour is looking the other direction. So, you turn to your other neighbour, who is also looking the other way, but you feel that the first neighbour is now looking at you so you turn your head quickly, only to see that they have already bowed their head to their mat. Awkward.
Anyway, Revenge of the Sith! I loved it more than all the other Star Wars movies combined, which isn’t saying much, really, since I have seen The Phantom Menace and Attack of the Clones a number of times and yet I cannot remember what happens because I either fall asleep or become completely bored and zone out every single time. But I really, really liked Revenge of the Sith; it was interesting and fast-paced and compelling. I have only a few problems with it, and although this makes me feel a bit like those nerds that created “Jar Jar Binks Must Die” webpages immediately following the first midnight viewing of The Phantom Menace, I will nonetheless detail them here.
First, near the end of the movie, the conversation between Anakin and Obi-Wan goes as follows:
Obi-Wan: Anakin, the Sith are evil!
Anakin: From my point of view, the Jedi are evil!
FROM MY POINT OF VIEW? What kind of writing is that? George Lucas may have well have had them having a twitter conversation:
@ObiWan IMO Jedi = Jerks #haters #SithRule #CheatDeath
Although, it would have been tremendously cool if Obi-Wan had said “Have you tried Hare Krishna?” after saying “Then you are lost.”
My second issue is about Padme’s death. All this time, I had thought that Padme died a grisly death in childbirth, which, quite frankly, would have been pretty realistic. But yet, she died of a broken heart! She lost the will to live! Padme, you just had two babies – LIVE FOR THEM. You’re not the only woman who got knocked up by a guy who turned out to be a dick. I mean, we all make mistakes. Padme’s was having unprotected sex with a Jedi. Get over it and mother your children. Jesus.
Maybe Padme and Anakin should have discussed the Five Languages of Love. My friend and I were talking about these love languages yesterday, which are Words of Affirmation, Quality Time, Gifts, Acts of Service, and Physical Touch. We are now, as I told a young friend of mine who is in the stage of life when all her friends are getting married, in the stage where marital issues are starting to rear their ugly heads. My friend was telling me about a book detailing five different love languages, and how sometimes it seems like your partner is being a jerk, but maybe he’s showing his love in other ways. For example, maybe sometimes you want your shmoopie to give you some PDA, but he never does. Instead, he shows his love by always unloading the dishwasher (note: this does not happen in my house. If my husband unloaded the dishwasher, I would be so excited I would rip off my clothes and have sex with him right on the countertop). But anyway, our conversation centred around understanding how someone says I Love You. It was interesting, and it made me think that maybe Anakin was showing his love through Acts of Service (turning to the Dark Side so Padme wouldn’t die, ostensibly), but Padme really wanted some Quality Time. I don’t know. Things could have been resolved so differently.
Our discussion around the love languages got me thinking – what love language do I speak? How do I show my love? My husband would probably say that I need to work on my Quality Time. For example, the other night I was immersed in a book and he was talking to me. Instead of looking up from my book and listening, I had a “mmm, really?” kind of response. He totally busted me for not listening. Oops! But I will tell you about something really nice that HE did that is totally sweet and romantic. I was talking about how I wanted to go visit my grandma, but I didn’t want to take the whole family. The next thing I knew, he had booked me a flight and a rental car, and had figured out child care. If it was up to me, a year later I would still be saying “I want to go visit Grandma…” Hooray for decisiveness!
In other words, people, I am going on a solo trip! To Saskatchewan! I haven’t traveled by myself since 2003, I’m the teensiest bit nervous. So, I should say, is everyone around me. I have to drive two hours after flying to Regina, and, given my ability to get hopelessly lost in the city I’ve lived my whole life in, there is some concern that I will end up in Nunavut or, alternatively, South Dakota. My husband has been busy googling maps and reminding me to take the Garmin, my mother keeps asking nervously if I know how to get to the highway, and my dad is probably hand drawing me maps of the various streets around the airport as we speak. It’ll be FINE. How lost can I get? (Don’t answer that).
So anyway, I’m so in love with my husband, I get to go see my grandma, and I am going to be away from the kids for longer than I’ve ever been, which is causing me a little bit of angst. I’m pretty excited though – it helps that my kids are going to the lake with my parents, which they have told me is WAY more fun than when I come. What? Clearly, their love language is NOT Words of Affirmation.
Olympic Fever, sort of
One of the things I love most about blogging is how much I learn. My mind is expanding. I mean, really, who knew about modesty socks or fake cigarettes? WHO KNEW? I am enlightened. I am also confused because a very androgynous cashier called me “sir” today. I’m not sure why. I don’t think I look like a man. I was wearing makeup, my hair was down, and I was wearing a pink tank top, a top that I discovered later, was missing its inserts and not properly concealing my nipples. I don’t feel my appearance really warranted a “sir” but maybe this is a newfangled way young people refer to their elders nowadays? Sort of like how the word “actor” refers to male and female thespians? I don’t know.
It’s Olympic fever time around my house. True confession: I find watching any of the events to be dull in the extreme. I appreciate the athletes and their training, I’m happy to hear of a Canadian medaling, I understand other people’s excitement, and yet…I’m not that excited. I did enjoy watching the opening ceremonies however. I found myself becoming an encyclopedic explaining machine for the children, fielding questions about the British Empire, the Industrial Revolution, and Mary Poppins. The trouble is that I tend to err on the side of over-information. Children are by nature very black-and-white, and I end up explaining the grey areas like nobody’s business. Half the time I can’t tell if the kids are informed or completely befuddled. Lately some of the topics we have covered are drugs and ecstasy use, death, the dangers of not wearing helmets while bike riding, drunk driving, and what constitutes a cocktail. After the past twenty-four hours we can now add the rise of factories and urban living in eighteenth century Britain, child labour in the modern world, and the definition of a banana hammock.
The children, unlike their mother, are very interested in watching the events with their father, who may or may not be enthused by their incessant questioning. I observed them this morning watching the cycling and I realized that my husband is passing on his personal Olympic knowledge and general philosophies about life. In my house, it is only acceptable to cheer for Canada, or, if the Canadian athlete is not close to finishing in the top ten, the host country, with one exception. Under no circumstances can the American athlete be cheered for. The Canada/US rivalry must be upheld at all times, as evidenced by the 2010 gold medal hockey game, during which I actually thought my husband was having a heart attack. Fortunately he was not, and also fortunately, the Canadian team took the gold.
So I have a long two weeks of Olympic commentary looming before me. However, I think it will be more than two weeks before I get this image out of my mind. There are some things you just can’t unsee, like how my neighbour – who has lately been mowing a lawn in both a shirt AND pants, thanks be to god – parked his truck in front of my house last night, lumbered out wearing nothing whatever but a smallish pair of shorts, and stood there with his back to me, showing off a large percentage of his butt crack. Look away, Nicole, look away. And yet, like a particularly horrific train wreck, I was paralyzed and powerless to look away.
Whiskey and cigarettes
My husband and I are currently halfway through Season Five of Mad Men. The thought that we are almost at the end is filling me with great sorrow. We discovered this show a few months ago, and have ravenously watched it from the first season, some evenings watching two or three episodes in a row. I am bereft at the thought that we only have a few episodes to go. I don’t know what we will do when we are finished. I don’t remember what we did before Mad Men. I’m adrift, people.
I know I’m late in the game to watching this, but the writing is so fabulous. My favourite Don Draper lines are as follows:
Bohemian guy: How do you sleep at night?
Don: On a bed made of money.
Betty’s dad: You people. You think money is going to solve all your problems.
Don: Well, it’s going to solve THIS particular problem.
Peggy: You never say thank you!
Don: That’s what the money is for!
Oh, Don. You mercenary rascal. I do wonder if all the actors are required to be smokers for the show, or if they had to learn to smoke, or if they are now addicted to cigarettes because of all the smoking, or if they had to sign a waiver about cancer risks and smoking before taking on the roles. Also, do they need to shower after work? Because you would think they would be pretty stinky and smoky after shooting scenes. I find myself becoming obsessed with those little details, the same way I obsess about sexy scenes: did the guy get a boner when he shot those scenes? Or would he be too nervous to in front of the camera crew? Is that girl really naked? Because she looks naked. That would be weird, to be shooting a sexy scene while naked.
Anyone who has any acting/tv/movie knowledge, feel free to answer my questions. Otherwise, I’m going to keep wondering.
I do remember, when I first started working, that some people smoked in their offices. I remember a professor of mine telling me that he used to smoke while teaching. This seems so strange now, doesn’t it, given that the last time I tried to buy a lighter – to light birthday candles with – that the grocery store I frequent does not sell them because it is illegal to sell smoking paraphernalia in a location where pharmaceuticals are also for sale. I just wanted to buy a damn lighter for the birthday cake. Also, if Mad Men is to be believed an accurate timepiece, and I think it is, everyone must have been drunk half the time. I wondered aloud to my husband what whiskey tastes like, which filled him with surprise that I had never had a whiskey. Really, is that so surprising? Whiskey is not a huge drink for the ladies nowadays. In any case he pulled out a bottle of whiskey – we have whiskey in the house, how or why I do not know – and I will say this: it’s nasty.
The thing I love most about Mad Men, other than the writing and the plot and all the awesomeness, is the clothes. I covet Megan Draper’s entire wardrobe. I find myself mentally trying on her cute little dresses, not that I have reason to have such little dresses, but they are adorable. The dress that she wears to sing “Zou Bisou Bisou” is especially awesome:
I think this dress would look great on me. I suggested to my husband that I could get something similar for his office Christmas party, a statement which was met with dissention.
Sigh. I probably don’t need to think about shopping right now anyway, since I was rearranging my dresser last weekend, and the pile of sweaters on the bed led to a tense conversation about how many black sweaters are too many black sweaters. And that conversation was before my husband discovered the piles of sweaters on the kids’ beds, because I had run out of room on our bed. What? I like sweaters. I saw this sweater today and I did NOT buy it, which feels to me like a massive display of self control:
Looking at that now, I cannot believe myself! I didn’t buy it! It is a perfect black sweater! I have enormous self-restraint! Unfortunately I have no room in my dresser.
I did really need to reorganize my dresser, apparently, since I found at the very bottom of the very bottom drawer not only my old compression stockings and the bra and panty combination I wore to my wedding, but a pair of size large maternity pantyhose.
I’m not dumb but I can’t understand how he lifts me in the air just by raising his hand
It has CONTINUED to be summer around here, which is leading me to wonder where I am and to also SEIZE THE DAY, so there has been lots of swimming and outdoor activity around the Boyhouse. There has also been lots of discussions about Star Wars.
My kids talk about Star Wars all the time. In the mornings, they play Star Wars Wii, and then the rest of the day, no matter what we are doing, they talk about Star Wars Wii. They talk about the Star Wars movies and the Clone Wars and they spew out facts to me in a very intense way. Jake spent his allowance on books about the Clone Wars and now they quiz me about bounty hunters and padawans and other things that I cannot remember because I have no more room in my brain. Children, my brain is already filled with every song lyric ever written, I cannot make room for Star Wars. Also I appear to have a mental block about it, to their frustration. Mom, that’s Count DOOKU. He’s bad. No, that guy is a Jedi! Jedis are GOOD.
They like to watch YouTube videos about Star Wars and then act them out while watching them, which is both cute – especially when Jake is Anakin turning into Darth Vader, the intensity with which he does this – and also a bit alarming. I mean, isn’t there a whole subculture involving live action role playing? I sure hope my kids don’t turn out like these guys. But, I guess if they did, I wouldn’t have to worry about becoming a grandma prematurely, if you know what I mean. Silver linings everywhere, people.
On Thursday we were stuck at home, waiting for the shower door people to install our shower doors. Have you noticed I haven’t been talking about our renovations for a while? That’s because they completely stalled two weeks ago. The contractor kept teasing me with shower door installation dates. I cancelled dinner guests, I waited at home, I cleared my schedule, only to find out that the doors were not yet ready, and they would be installed another day. I kept looking at the bathroom, so close to being finished and yet so far. But on Thursday, they were certainly going to be installed, I was assured. And so while we were waiting I dressed the children’s stuffies in their own clothing – hilarity ensued – and watched fan videos of Weird Al’s Yoda on YouTube.
Sometimes I look at my daily activities and feel a deep sense of whatever the opposite of accomplishment is. As an aside, this video is deemed to be the best version, by both me and the boys.
The shower door installation people did show up, but I sensed something was wrong when I heard a lot of arguing in a language I did not understand, plus a number of panicked sounding phone calls. Any time I walked past the bathroom, the installers would fall completely silent and stare at me. It was quite unnerving. Finally one of them handed me his cell phone, and the man on the other end explained that the shower doors were cut incorrectly and so they would be reinstalled next week.
Sigh. The Dark Side is looking pretty good right now.