Category Archives: Pop Cult-ure

I think I’m a Winter

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I’m starting to talk like our contractors.  My husband asked me, casually, what the tile guys were going to do with the cement shower base and cinderblock bench.  “They’re gonna beef it up real good” was what I actually told him.  Because I now know ALL when it comes to pouring the cement for a shower base.  Also, if ever I am in a tiling situation where I am instructing someone, I know that the proper way to ask someone to affix a tile onto a surface is to say “Butter it up, slap that fucker on.  COME ON!  Shim it up a bit!  Fuck!  Let’s go!”

I was just out driving in an electrical storm, which is always a bit freaky, although they say a car is the safest place to be.  I don’t know, I think I prefer to be in the comfort of my own home, but maybe that’s just the irrational, “hail is pelting my windshield and it’s scaring me” part of my brain talking.  Speaking of irrational, when I went to pick the boys up for lunch, Mark came out with no jacket.  In the rain.  When asked about it, he said he didn’t think he needed it.  By the time I had to take them back to the school, the rain had upgraded from “raining a little” to “torrential downpour plus hail” and yet Mark still refused a jacket.  To be honest, I was just as glad because sending a child to school with two jackets is a recipe for one of those jackets to be destined for the lost and found.  “Run fast!” I told him as I dropped him off, hoping he wouldn’t be totally soaked for the rest of the day.

Yesterday was a beautiful, warm day, and this is noteworthy since it was a Tuesday, and, therefore, a soccer practice.  A warm day for soccer?  It’s bringing up the average temperature!  Meteorologists across the city were probably rubbing their lying hands with glee.  In any case, I was just as happy to be sitting in the sun.  Or, as it turned out, playing soccer in the sun.

The coach approached me a couple of days ago to ask me to help out on the field at last night’s practice.  He specifically requested that I, maybe, could wear sneakers?  We both looked at my feet when he said that.  I was wearing three inch wedges – in the playground, ridiculously enough.  What is wrong with me?  Anyway, I told him I most certainly would help on the field, and I did not mention the fact that despite owning many, many pairs of black shoes, I do not own a single pair of sneakers.  What?  I’m not a runner, nor do I ever frequent the gym, so…I pulled out my one pair of sensible shoes – Mary Jane-style Skechers that I wear when I work in the garden.  They worked for the purpose, anyway, although the “parents versus kids” game that I was supposedly participating in morphed into an “older siblings who want to annihilate their younger siblings versus kids” game, which, quite frankly, sucked.  I don’t usually complain about other mothers, and I try not to judge, but there is one mom on the team who brings her ten year old son to watch the practices and games, and whom she very obviously favours over her younger son (who is on the team).  I’m not a big FAN of favouritism, like most of us, but when she happily sat by as her older son effectively kept the ball away from the younger players, WHOSE PRACTICE IT WAS, well, Judgy McJudgerton.  Yes, your ten year old son is awesome compared to the U8 team.  Praise Jesus.

I am not – obviously – a fashion blogger, nor do I read any fashion blogs, but I do love when people write about clothing, shoes, bags, etc.  So I was kind of excited to read Swistle’s post about all her clothing essentially being the same three colours.  I was excited because my wardrobe is, as you may or may not know, almost exclusively black or grey.  It’s not just me, lots of people have a predominant colour palette in their wardrobe!  Remember how everyone used to get their colours “done” and would only wear colours in their “season”?  It occurs to me that maybe we are all subconsciously doing just that, without actually getting our colours “done”. 

The book is a little misleading though.  THIRTY special colours? 

Not to be an idiot, but I would have to think very hard to come up with thirty colours, unless I lamely did something like light blue, medium blue, dark blue, etc.  I most assuredly do not have thirty colours of anything in my wardrobe. 

So tell me, what’s in your wardrobe?  Do you find you buy your clothes in similar colours, or are you a veritable Rainbow Brite?

 

I has a sad

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Have you ever had one of those days where you are sad, but not for a particularly valid reason, and that lack of a valid reason makes you even more sad?  That was me today.  As I swept up the dust, again, I started to feel limp and wrung-out, with the thought of excessive noise and dust and general chaos for another week.  Looking outside, I could see trees bending sideways from the gale force winds, I could see the container of heat and drought loving flowers that I planted in the hot and dry corner of my yard, the flowers that are now dead because they have DROWNED from the pouring rain, I could see the grey, grey sky.  I had my usual annual impotent rage about the local meterologists claiming that the average daytime temperature for this time of year is twenty degrees, to which I say SHOW ME THE DATA USED TO CALCULATE THIS.  THIS CANNOT BE TRUE. 

So I was feeling sad, but ridiculously so.  I mean, poor princess: your lovely house is being renovated to be even more lovely and it’s a little bit messy in the meantime.  Poor princess: it’s a little chilly today, not that you need to be outside for any reason.  Poor princess: three little plants you bought died, which you can replace as soon as it stops raining.  Poor princess: you don’t have weather data to calculate the average temperature so that you could win an imaginary argument with the weatherman on TV. 

Wah, wah, wah.  I berated myself for feeling sad, but that didn’t help very much.  Yelling STOP BEING SAD!  STOP IT RIGHT NOW! at yourself is actually very ineffective. 

Eventually I did emerge from under my little black cloud, but only after such cheering activities such as changing the sheets, spraying down and wiping all the cupboards, going grocery shopping, and making a soba noodle salad with miso dressing.  Why would that help?  Because I cannot think of the word “miso” without thinking of The 40 Year Old Virgin “Me so horny, me so horny, me so STUPID!”  And this very lame line, I am somewhat ashamed to say, made me smile every time I thought about it.  It’s not even funny!  And yet. 

Adding somewhat to my bluesy feelings was the fact that I have had Moves Like Jagger going through my head, incessantly, since Friday morning.  Friday was our school’s annual year-end Stampede Breakfast (for those of you not familiar with the Calgary Stampede, a Stampede Breakfast is a pancake breakfast with cowboy hats).  The DJ played mostly top 40 songs for the kids, and my own kids got their groove on for ninety solid minutes.  They do indeed have moves like Jagger, in that they flap their arms and move their bodies a bit jerkily.  They loved it, but since that song – along with Party Rockers in the House Tonight and You Don’t Know You’re Beautiful – was played a NUMBER of times, it stuck in my head.  Do you know what it’s like to have I got the moo-ooo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oves like Jagger going through your head on repeat for 54 hours straight?  I swear I even dreamed about moving like Jagger.  SOMEBODY MAKE IT STOP.

Good Vibrations (not THOSE kind of vibrations)

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Hey, I’m guest posting for my dear friend Kimberly, who is recovering from gall bladder surgery and easing her way back into the world of the eaters, over at All Work and No Play Make Mommy Go Something Something.  Kimberly is an amazing woman and I’m not just saying that because her blog name is so very awesome.  She is one of the strongest, bravest women I know, but not only that, she’s FUNNY.  Like as in I think about something she wrote over two years ago and I still get the giggles (it was a metaphor of back hair, Italian heritage, and stallions).  So go over and check out my post, pretty please.  Check out the rest of her blog while you’re at it – she’s a lot of fun.  Thanks for letting me guest post, Kimberly – and get better soon!  xoxo

Birthday and Earth Day and Painting the Basement

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Today is voting day in Alberta and, as luck would have it, my polling station was located at my kids’ school, making it easy to slip in after drop off and vote.  You know you are at the polling station early when you beat the sea of seniors flooding in. 

How was your weekend?  Mine was absolutely fabulous, and I just have to mention the weather – warm, hot even, and sunny.  It was perfect birthday weather!  I am now older than Mrs. Robinson and yet I feel just as saucy.

I look just like this, minus the smoking and the (I think) fur coat.  Honestly, I kind of love her hair.  I would cut mine like this but I am committed to growing it out, because I regret it every single time I cut my hair.  Hoo boy, here’s a hot picture:

I would totally not trust Dustin Hoffman to fasten my bra.  He looks way too befuddled.  Come on, Mrs. Robinson, you’re better than that. 

I do wear a similar amount of makeup though.
So it was my birthday and it was a very happy one, complete with a date night on Friday, new Pandora beads from the boys – including a dog one, from the dog – on Saturday, ice cream cake, and a visit with my grandma, who is in town!  I also treated myself to homemade cosmopolitans which, while delicious, left my Sunday morning yoga practice a bit to be desired.  Well, as Bridget Jones says, if you can’t splash out on your birthday, then when can you?
Our Earth Day celebration took the form of a seeding and raking party with the neighbourhood parents over at the school’s naturalization area (read: area that has been planted with native grasses and plants; an “outdoor learning area”, if you will).  Did I mention it was hot and sunny?  It was a fabulous day; the kids were riding their bikes, playing in the playground, and blowing bubbles while we raked and seeded and chatted.  The day was only slightly marred by my apparent development of allergies to all the grass and dust.  I took some Benadryl for my sore, itchy throat and then slept like the dead.  LIKE THE DEAD.  I woke up, startled, when my alarm went off and it took me a while to shake that groggy feeling.  Who knew that Benadryl was so deadly? 
Speaking of saving the earth and whatnot, we had our basement painted last week.  Well, that really had nothing to do with saving the earth with the exception that we used special non-smelly paint.  But our basement!  It’s now blue!  I’m so happy with it, and will get around to posting pictures soon.  Years back in the dead of winter I wanted to paint our whole house blue – so cheerful!  Who could be sad in a blue house?  But I met with some resistance, and now we have compromised on a blue basement and wow, it’s lovely. 
We had hired a guy to do the painting, and it turned out that he was the type of guy who preferred to work without even the company of the radio, which meant that I completely forgot he was there.  Normally when we have had people working on our house, things have been very noisy and disruptive – i.e., the hardwood – but painting in the basement?  Silence.  Which meant that I would come in from my errands, and walk around the house singing.  Because, you know, I seem to think my life is like a musical theatre, the way I burst into song at any given time of the day.  Remember my impromptu Christmas duet with the old man at the liquor store?  It’s like that.  The problem was that the songs going through my head were twofold: Linger by the Cranberries, and Over My Head by Fleetwood Mac.  So throughout the day I found myself bursting out with “You’ve got me wrapped around your FINGER, do you have to, do you have to, do you have to let it LINGER?” or “You can take me to paradise, then again you can be cold as ice, I’m over my head – OVER MY HEAD – but it sure feels NICE.”  Then I would remember, I’m not alone.  I would stop abruptly, and all I would hear is the near-silence of the paint roller.  It was kind of ominous. 
It turned out that the painter’s girlfriend is a mail carrier, and coicindentally she was substitutng for our mail carrier last week!  She brought him a Jugo Juice and the two of them sat on our step for lunch.  Cute!  Young love!  I’m sure he had better things to talk about than the crazy singing lady-client.  Right?

Fear Leads To Anger, Anger Leads To Suffering

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I had a fairly eventful weekend, social-wise.  On Friday I had dinner guests, and I made a roasted vegetable lasagne – look for the recipe over at the cooking blog in the next couple of days – and it was absolutely delicious.  I was raving to a friend over the pure delight that is roasted zucchini, and it is so delicious, and had she ever tried it, and her response was “Of course!  I’m Italian.”  Aha!  The lightbulb goes off.  I am just going to say this: the popularity of cookbooks based on Scottish and/or Norweigan cuisine is very low.  In fact, I’m not sure there ARE cookbooks based on those cuisines, with the possible exception of the Lutheran Ladies’ Family Favourites, which I have in my possession. 

Then, on Saturday, I attended a baby shower.  I haven’t been to one of those in YEARS.  It has also been years since I was the lone stay-at-home mom in a room.  Represent!  It made me realize that the overwhelming majority of my friends are also stay-at-home moms, and the overwhelming majority of them have at least one child older than mine.  But in this situation, I was the seasoned mom in the room, with my cares of feeding/diapering/sleeping/swaddling far, far behind me.  I felt wise, like Yoda.

Have I mentioned my children are very interested in Star Wars right now?  They are watching the movies in order from 1-6, and they have finished Attack of the Clones.  A few things occurred to me while they watched it: a) they have a way better idea of what is actually going on in those movies, while I’m like “Who’s that guy?  Is he bad?  Oh, he’s GOING to be bad?  Oh.  Who’s that guy?”, and b) they were actually not at all upset when Anakin’s mother was killed.  WHAT?  Mark, especially, surprised me since he was quite distraught when Anakin left his mother in The Phantom Menace, and also almost every movie upsets him if there is some kind of sadness or unkindness displayed, i.e., Ice Age, Shrek, Cars 2, Lion King.  But Anakin’s mother being brutally murdered?  He’s okay with that.  HEY NOW.

There has also been much talk about fear leading to anger which leads to suffering.  Good times over at the Boyhouse!  Not to be all check out all the wisdom in Star Wars, but honestly, that is kind of true.  Fear DOES lead to anger; often I notice the angriest people are the ones who are the most resistant to and fearful of change, or new people, or the world in general.  They’re all out to get me. Yoda is wise – just like me, dispensing all my parenting knowledge at the baby shower. 

I kid.  I kid.  I dispensed no knowledge at the baby shower, except when asked specifically about a topic.  I didn’t want to be one of those moms, especially since I can’t really remember all that happened when my children were babies.  Hey, I had my kids really close together, I essentially am missing everything that happened between 2005 and 2007.  Hell, I didn’t really sleep through the night until 2010, due to various reasons, and given that my first child was born in 2004, that is a lot of sleepless nights. 

But who wants to talk about that, am I right?  I do not like to even mention my sleeplessness in a room full of non-mothers or soon-to-be-first-time mothers.  The voice of terror…I had a baby, and then I never slept again!  Not super helpful information, in my opinion. 

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how women can get pretty judgy and condemning of other women, especially when it comes to children and parenting.  Honestly, I hate that, but I think that it’s much more ubiquitous among new, first-time mothers, possibly because everything is so new and scary that we tend to get angry about issues (see also: Yoda).  This is why we tend to get all worked up over breastfeeding and co-sleeping and cribs and crying and baby-wearing and toilet training and rice cereal versus pureed vegetables, and it’s because everything is new.  New to us, I should say, because the human race is pretty much doing fine in terms of procreating.  But parenting is scary, and newborns are, quite frankly, terrifying with their wobbly giant heads and their flailing skinny arms and that cry that pierces every mother’s soul.  I have found as I have gotten older and have found a circle of beautiful mothers who I am blessed to have as friends, things get so much less scary.  As we grow into motherhood we realize that each day we can start anew.  Each day we can change something if we don’t like it.  We can wipe the slate clean and do our best every day, and if we have a bad day, it is not the end of the world. 

I feel a bit sheepish that I am actually using Star Wars as parenting wisdom, especially since I STILL don’t really know who Count Dooku is, but it’s true.  Let’s try to be less fearful, and therefore less angry.  And tell me about your weekend!  Unless you are going to tell me it was beautiful and warm, because it snowed here, and that is enough to spiral me into anger.

When I say "kind of a dick" I mean in a good way.

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Here’s proof that I have a very confident husband: he was completely unfazed by my shameless male objectification as I ranked the cast members on last night’s Grey’s Anatomy, based on hotness.  For anyone interested, here are my top two:

And here is who I rank at the bottom:
“Too young for you?” my husband asked.  Exactly.  Call me in 20 years, Dr. Avery.  Well, actually, in 20 years I will be almost sixty, so probably my tastes will have altered somewhat.  But theoretically call me in 20 years.
A while back, I heard someone say that if there was a Hooters for women, it would just be men in business suits walking around holding up their impeccable credit scores, and I have to say, that really spoke to me.  If I was to say I had a “type”, it would be an older, salt-and-pepper haired man in a business suit who is kind of a dick, but yet inwardly romantic.  Fortunately my husband fits into this genre.  It would be a bit strange if he didn’t, just as it would be strange if he suddenly announced that he prefers petite blonde women with big breasts, rather than crazy artificial redheads who really like to make lists and drink wine.  Come to think of it, I’m not sure that there are too many other crazy list-making wine-tippling artificial redheads that he is particularly enamoured with, but still.
Last night we watched Grey’s Anatomy and I engaged in sexist behaviour while the snow came down, giant fluffy flakes.  It turns out we had a record snowfall!  Today the snow is melting and the grass is looking much less brown.  Springtime in Calgary!  The wet snow is making the grass greener!  Hooray for giant wet snowfalls!
Another sign that it is springtime, other than the festive April snowshowers, is that my dog is behaving like an imbecile.  I’m guessing this is spring-related, anyway.  Yesterday before the snow I went with some friends and their dogs to the off-leash park.  We walked and chatted, and as we were almost finished our walk, I noticed my dog way behind us, sniffing and happy and rolling enthusiastically in the grass.  When he caught up to us it became evident that not only was he enthusiastically rolling in the grass, he was enthusiastically rolling in some other dog’s poop.  I’m not going to lie to you, people.  I pretty much hated my dog at that moment and in the moments that followed.  I especially hated him as we had driven to the dog park, and the ride home, though brief, was without a doubt the worst olfactory experience I have ever had.  My very good friend who was with me not only rode home in my rancid-o-mobile, but she gave me some no-rinse foamy dog shampoo when I dropped her off.  I can never repay her for this kindness.  I need to buy a case of this no-rinse foamy dog shampoo, to have on hand just in case such a horror ever occurs again.  Did I mention my dog is very fluffy?  Three applications later and he was back to his normal, non-smelly self.  However, it has taken me until now to fully forgive him for being so disgusting. 

It’s a good thing he’s so cute.

Heated Seats are Blessings, Like Children.

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My husband had heated seats installed in my minivan, and I am not exaggerating even a little bit when I say that this is the greatest gift I have ever received, with the exception of my children, without whom I would not likely even have a minivan.  I mean, there are not too many non-parents zooming around in minivans, are there?

But, my goodness, heated seats are possibly the greatest invention since the fucking wheel, especially for someone like me who is always cold and who is in the car at five in the morning.  Let me tell you something: at five in the morning, it doesn’t matter what month it is.  It’s cold. 

The heated seats have improved my quality of life vastly, not that my quality of life was particularly suffering before this, but still.  The last time I had this kind of increase in my life quality was when the boys were babies and I got a lightweight Chariot double stroller.  That, my friends, was paradise in a stroller.  Prior to that I had a heavy Evenflo back-to-front double stroller.  There was a very awkward phase in my children’s lives: Jake outgrew his baby bucket seat at around four months, and was too little to sit up on his own, and if I needed to get groceries, I had a floppy little four month old and a busy little twenty two month old to work with.  It was January when this phase began.  Snowy, cold January.  My options were a) bundle the children up, push them with all my strength in the heavy, cumbersome stroller through the unshovelled sidewalks, get as many things as I could possibly fit in the stroller basket, push the stroller back home, and then collapse with exhaustion, b) drive to the store, put the toddler in the seat of the cart, and strap the screaming baby into the Bjorn in the icy parking lot, while baby was in a gigantic snowsuit and I was in a gigantic coat, and then take the wailing and subsequently overheated children into the grocery store while I lost my mind, or c) stay home.  More often than not I opted for C, which led to a depressing period of loneliness and isolation.  But occasionally I would have to go out immediately, such as the time when Mark had just recovered from a ten day bout of the rotovirus and subsequent explosive diarrhea, and I actually ran out of diapers.  Let me tell you, the day I acquired the Chariot, with its lightweight frame and big wheels that could even go through snowbanks, my life improved dramatically.

Just writing that makes me thankful that the only calamities that now occur when I take the boys grocery shopping are the constant debates as to whether or not Caramilk bars are a staple item, or my concern that their running through the aisles is going to result in someone knocking down and breaking some old lady’s hip, and subsequently, me being shunned from the community.

Speaking of being shunned from the community, I was at the hair therapist this weekend, getting my roots done, and NOT getting my hair dramatically cut, since I’m growing it out, although the growing it out process is somewhat trying.  I also caught up on my pop culture, since I forgot my book, and besides, the book I am reading is Anna Karenina – still – which is not exactly a nice light read for the hair salon, especially when I find myself high on the fumes from all the hair colour.  But I learned a few things by reading the magazines at the salon: Sophia Vergara is three years older than I am – and it’s my birthday in ten days, squeeeee!, The Hunger Games movie is amazing and/or terrible, and Alicia Silverstone feeds her baby by chewing his food for him.  I know.  I know.  I’m late to the party. 

I have to admit, it does squick me out a bit to think of chewing food for my children, but then again, I am easily squicked out.  I don’t even, and never have, kissed my own children on their mouths.  Judge me if you will, but the thought of kissing anyone on the mouth, unless I am getting it on with that person (JUST my husband, thanks) gives me the heebs.  But I know I’m in the minority on that one. 

However, in the case of Alicia Silverstone, well, meh.  Who cares.  Except for the addition of saliva, isn’t that just what baby food is – mushed up regular food?  I mean, yeah, it’s not my thing, but who really cares.  Kids put way worse things in their mouths than their mother’s saliva.  Once, I had to put baby Jake down on the grass at a playpark and dart off to grab Mark as he climbed up a teetery, not-really-safe slide, and by the time I got back to Jake he had put a cigarette butt in this mouth, my god, people, who butts out a cigarette at a children’s playpark, you should all be ashamed of yourselves.  He also used to try to eat the gravel at playparks.  Mark used to chew on his own socks.  They both have thrived despite such horrors, so I’m sure Alicia Silverstone’s child will be just fine.  His name is Bear, though, which gives me pause.  I find the strange naming techniques of today’s celebrities to be quite unnerving, especially considering the rash of copycat names we are sure to see.  When I’m a flame-haired, overly-made up old lady in the nursing home, will my doctor be named BEAR?  Or Indiana, or even Neveah?  Because that will be odd.  Just think about it – a whole generation could be named things like Rats, because that is Star backwards, or maybe Alaska, or Giraffe.  Where does it end?  It makes me long for the innocuous hippie names of the sixties, like Starlight or Sunshine or Rainbow, because at least they are a) not things spelled backwards, b) a state, or c) a wild animal.