Category Archives: Pop Cult-ure

The very best way to spread Christmas cheer is by singing loud for all to hear.

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I went out for a few hours, came home, and found that my husband had wrapped all the Christmas gifts!  It was the best Christmas gift ever!  It instantly made me feel like giving HIM a big Christmas gift, if you know what I’m saying.  Voluntary gift wrapping is even sexier than voluntary dishwasher unloading. 

Here’s a little fact about me: if there is a song playing that I enjoy, I will sing along, regardless of the location.  This isn’t a conscious thing; I just tend to sing along, in my head, which often leads to SINGING OUT LOUD FOR ALL TO HEAR, a la Buddy the Elf.  It’s my way of spreading not only Christmas cheer, but just cheer year-round, I guess.  There is a good chance that if you see me in the grocery store, I will be pushing my cart, humming and singing along to the 1970’s light pop favoured by grocery stores everywhere: I’ve seen lonely times that I could not find a friend…but I always thought that I’d see you again.  Needless to say, if Hall and Oates is playing, there is no chance I will not be singing along.  She’s gone, oh I, oh I, got to learn how to face it. 

A large part of my inability to hear a song and not sing along is that – I’m going to boast about myself for a minute – I have an immense catalogue of song lyrics in my head.  I pretty much know all the lyrics to every song ever written, from By the Light of the Silvery Moon to In Da Club.  What can I say, other than my awful voice, I rock at karaoke.  The downside to this is that I have a massive percentage of my brain devoted to song lyrics.  If I could just free that part of my brain think of all the things I could accomplish, like earning my Ph.D., maybe, or figuring out how to drive to south Calgary without bursting into tears.

A few weeks ago I arranged to meet up with some friends in an area I was not familiar with.  I wrote down directions, studied them, and half an hour before the appointed time, I headed out.  Not unlike the time I was driving from the airport to West Houston and ended up in Sugarland, Texas, I drove past my turnoff.  There was much construction, and road signs were not up – for the love of god, Calgary, keep road signs up during road construction – and I ended up far into a residential district before I realized my mistake.  Then I pulled over and cried, before remembering that deep in the glove box is a Garmin!  I plugged it in, typed in the address, and then became insanely frustrated as the Garmin had not been updated in some time, and kept telling me to turn left where the streets were blocked off by construction.  Eventually I made it to my destination, and realized that I did not know how to get home, until my friends very kindly pointed me in the right direction.  Upon reaching home and relating this to my husband, he sighed heavily.  “You’re so smart” he said, “How can you be so bad with directions?  You need to realize you’re lost BEFORE you see a herd of cattle or the signs to Banff.” 

He has taken it upon himself to become my instructor, spreading maps all over the house and quizzing me about the major arteries of the city.  Some of this information must have been absorbed, because I drove to the southeast part of the city to meet up with Marilyn for lunch and I neither got lost nor burst into tears.  I had heart-pounding anxiety for much of the trip, but I made it!  I did! 

This newfound information has not displaced my song knowledge, however, or – needless to say – my propensity to sing out loud in public places.  On Thursday I found myself in the Superstore liquor store, singing a duet with an older gentleman.  I was pushing my cart (yes, CART) through the aisles, and I heard someone singing the very best festive song about date rape ever written: Baby, It’s Cold Outside.  I unconsciously hummed, then sang along – SANG ALONG – with a total stranger.  It was somewhat awkward when I realized I was part of this impromptu duet when I rounded the aisles and the older gentleman winked at me, me with my case of wine, giant bottle of Bailey’s, and a twenty sixer of gin.  It had all the makings of a great romantic comedy, other than the fact that a) I’m happily married, b) the man in question was in his sixties, at least, and c) this was all taking place in a liquor store at ten in the morning.

I’m so excited! And I just can’t hide it! I’m about to lose control and I think I like it!

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I’m a whirling dervish of excitedness today because it’s my husband’s work party tonight!  Squee!  I have a new dress and everything.  I know a lot of people hate going to their spouse’s – or their own – work parties because, yawn, boring.  And don’t get me wrong, I’m sure this party will also be a bore – they are foregoing a DJ in favour of a jazz band.  How will things get started in here if they don’t play the Black Eyed Peas? – but I get to wear a new dress!  And have cocktails!  And eat food that was not prepared by me!  That’s pretty much the top of the top, you know?  I am not cooking dinner.  And I’m going to be wearing not-jeans.

So now we are in December, and all the confusion around moustaches – who is a Movember participant and who is just a misguided moustachioed man – is gone, which is nice.  In my last post I said that moustaches were the mom jeans of facial hair, but upon deeper consideration, I have decided that they are more like the camel-toe pants of facial hair.  Much skeevier. 

In my university years, I was a terrible flirt (actually, I have always been somewhat of a flirt…but let’s just say university years for illustrative purposes).  I was in the bar with some girlfriends when I noticed a guy from one of my economics classes, who had a moustache.  This was in the early 90’s, so it was NOT the style of the time – at the time all the guys were shaving their heads and growing goatees.  Anyway, I had been enjoying a few drinks with girlfriends when I decided to ask that guy why he would possibly think a moustache was a good idea.  This was my thinking, but the actual words that came out of my mouth were the following: “Why do you have that moustache?  Do you use it to tickle the ladies?”  Suffice it to say that this moustachioed fellow found my sauciness intriguing in a way that I had not bargained for.  I had to spend the remainder of the semester giving the poor guy the cold shoulder, which brings me to an important life lesson: never ask someone if their moustache tickles the ladies.  Another lesson learned during my university years: in the deeply intelligent and insightful words of Harry in my very favourite movie of all time, When Harry Met Sally, “Men and women can never be friends, because the sex part always gets in the way.”  Truer words were never spoken.  Ladies, if you have any male friends, remember those words of wisdom and it will save you much awkwardness in the future when your “pal” wants to “take things to the next level.” 

Harry: No man can be friends with a woman he finds attractive.  He always wants to sleep with her.

Sally: So what you’re saying is that they could be friends with a woman they find unattractive?

Harry: No, we pretty much want to nail them too.

Speaking of entertainment from the 80’s, I wanted an addendum to my thoughts on Magnum P.I.  I have only ever seen one episode of Magnum, and it involved Magnum being stranded in the ocean somewhere and having to tread water for a very extended period of time.  My husband, being significantly older than me, was a Magnum watcher in the 80’s; any time he hears “In The Air Tonight” he says, in a very serious and emphatic way, “Best. Magnum. Ever.”  He also does the air drums – but who doesn’t?  Really, you have to be dead and/or armless to not perform the air drums when listening to that song. 

There was a point to this, but I seem to have forgotten it.  I may have had a little too much coffee today.  But I’m going to a party tonight!  I have to NOT fall asleep at 9:00.

Oh yes, I remember now.  Apparently “In The Air Tonight” was playing while Magnum showed his badass side by shooting a guy.  Shooting him dead!  You go, Magnum!

Remember when Hawaiian shirts were popular, and not just worn by the same guys who wear “Bikini Inspector” t-shirts and/or those t-shirts that depict an outline of a very fit male specimen, in sharp and ironic contrast to the actual body type of the wearer? 

The 80’s were really responsible for many poor fashion styles.  I could just say the mullet and the Hawaiian shirt and leave it at that, but really, there are so many other terrible examples.  I am going to take a deep breath and show you how brave I am by posting my eighth-grade yearbook photo:

Ack.  Ack ack ack.  I have no idea why I am actually wearing my glasses in this photo, because I normally only wore them for board work at school and then wandered around in a myopic fog for the rest of the time.  Even then, I thought those glasses were ugly.  Until I got contacts at age 15, I stumbled around in the blurry, blurry world, squinting when necessary.  But this photo is proof that things were bad in the 80’s – those glasses were ubiquitous, as was the spiral permed, teased hair that required a bottle of Salon Selectives hairspray a week just to maintain.  But how about this:

You can say that you didn’t have that couch in the 80’s, but you would be lying.  What I love about this photo is that I am wearing a Daisy Duke styled shirt over a tank top with a long denim skirt AND I am wearing lace-up white Keds.  There are so just many fashion faux pas in this picture, and yet – AND YET – this was not unstylish in 1987. 
One last photo:
This photo is less to illustrate how Garfield horoscope sweatshirts go with Levi’s jeans, and more to illustrate the decor of the 80’s – which was probably held over from the 70’s, really.  Panelboard!  Spider plants hanging from macrame plant holders!  Lamps that had built in side tables! 
This is a very long and rambling post, and so I shall conclude.  In conclusion:
1) Moustaches are skeevy. 
2) Men and women cannot truly be friends.
3) Magnum P.I. was a badass.
4) Clothing, hair, and home decor in the 80’s was extremely misguided and should never be replicated.
If we remember these things, the world will be a greater place.

Movember Madness

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Yesterday as I was driving the kids to school, Maneater came on the radio.  You know it’s going to be a great day when Hall and Oates is on the radio! 

Oh oh here she comes.  Watch out, boys, she’ll chew you up!  Oh oh here she comes.  She’s a MANEATER.
Now THAT’s what I call a moustache.  Is it me, or is anyone else relieved that this is the last day of Movember?  Don’t get me wrong: I have a very personal connection to prostate cancer and so I am very happy at the funds and awareness that are raised every Movember, but nevertheless, I will not be unhappy to see clean shaven faces tomorrow.  All those moustaches are just so…startling.  It took me well into the month to get used to seeing men – who I see on a near-daily basis – sporting moustaches of various lengths and thicknesses.  The other day there was a news story on our hurricane-but-not-really-a-hurricane windstorm, and every single man interviewed was sporting a moustache.  I completely lost track of the story, I was so distracted by the moustaches.  I kept wondering if the interviewees were participating in Movember or if they had moustaches all the time.  I kept wondering if the moustaches were charitable, ironic, or earnest in nature.  I couldn’t concentrate at all.
What is it about moustaches?  They have the ability – with the exception of Magnum, P.I. – to make any man look extraordinarily creepy.  They make normal men’s faces into that which would bring to mind the warning “Do not approach”.  They bring to mind “70’s porn star” – although when I noted that recently, a Movember participant asked why and how I would be aware of that comparison, to which I respond get off your high horse.  There’s no porn like 70’s porn, and we all know it.  Also, regardless of porn, didn’t everyone in the 70’s have a moustache?  They were as common as gold medallions nestled in chest hair. 
Look!  Moustache, gold medallion, AND chest hair!  It’s the trifecta!
It’s funny how styles change.  These days, I associate moustaches with seedy criminals and/or a few select members of my extended family.  I’m not anti-facial hair.  I can pretty much get behind most facial hair styles, the exception being a soul patch, but moustaches?  They are the mom jeans of facial hair.

Okay, I’ll grant an exception for this guy.  I’m posting this picture for my mom, who thinks he is the bee’s knees.  What a fabulous daughter I am.  Even if I am now clinically insane from We Need A Little Christmas.

****Thanks to all the guys who participated in Movember, and thanks to all the people who donated to someone brave enough to make themselves look like a person who would make small children cry.  Prostate cancer research is important, and you’ve helped.  Thank you.****

Nicole’s 10 Sexiest Men Alive List, or the post where I shamelessly objectify males

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The book fair is finished now, much to my relief.  By the end of it I pretty much hated children, a sentiment not unlike the one I used to get when I waitressed in university and would, after working a certain number of shifts in a row, hate the entire human race.  By the end of that certain number of shifts, I burned with internal fury.  You don’t care for those choices of salad dressing?  FUCK YOU.  You think that an appropriate way to get my attention is to pat me on the butt?  I SHALL NOW STAB YOU WITH YOUR STEAK KNIFE.
Not that I wanted to stab any children with a pencil in the shape of a paintbrush, mind you, but I was fairly tired of explaining that yes, $7 is indeed greater than $5, and no, $0.50 is not the same as $5.  We ended up raising significant funds for the library, and next to that, the fact that my sanity and nerves were shreds of their normal selves is nothing.  Right? 
Apparently People magazine came up with their “Sexiest Men Alive” list and though I haven’t read it or even know who is on the list, I decided – because all the cool kids are doing it – to make my own list!  At first I was going to top the list with my husband, because he really is one sexy guy.  Hoo boy, do I have a sexy husband.  But then I thought that would be boring and lame because who really wants to read a lusty letter to my shmoopie?  Also, saying that MY HUSBAND is the sexiest man would make me like one of those people who say that all they want for Christmas is world peace and an end to hunger.  Those people are assholes: a) we ALL want world peace and an end to hunger, and b) saying that makes the listener feel like a selfish idiot for saying that they are wishing for a Pandora bracelet.
A note about my own personal taste: I heard recently (from a source I cannot remember, if you know, can you help me out?) that if there were Hooters-style restaurants for women, they would contain men walking around in business suits flashing their perfect credit scores.  I heard that and thought YES.  You are speaking to me.  Another note: I have a shameless tendency to objectify actors.  I tend to be attracted to the character they are playing, well aware that they may be complete asses in real life.  I do not care about real life.  I care about how sexy they are playing a particular character.  I don’t want to get to know them, I just want to fantasize. 
Without further adieu, here is my list of Nicole’s 10 Sexiest Men Alive:
10. Jonathan Crombie
Who is that, you may ask?  He was my first crush; he played Gilbert on the CBC production of Anne of Green Gables.  I was ravenous for the Anne books, and when the CBC aired the television special, I very carefully taped it and watched the VHS recording many times after that.  I wish I still had that VHS – not that I have a machine that would allow me to view it – but it must have some awesome mid-eighties Canadian Tire commercials.  You can give like Santa, and save like Scrooge.  I actually only included him in solidary with Hannah who had Almanzo Wilder on her list, but it turns out he actually evolved into a very attractive man:
  

Hey Gilbert, I have (artificially) red hair.  Want to call me Carrots?

9. Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy

Mr. Darcy is – by far – the sexiest man in literature.  Possibly this is due to his massive wealth and aloofness, who knows.  All I know is I swoon when he can bear it no longer, he must tell Elizabeth how much he loves and admires her, and Colin Firth brings it to life, baby. 

8. Gabriel Byrne

When I went to see Little Women – in the theatre! – I was absolutely enamoured with Professor Bhaer.  He is bringing sexy back in an impoverished German professor kind of way.  Normally I don’t find poverty attractive, but when he sneaks Jo into the opera and then translates….rawr. 

7. Christian Bale

Again with the Little Women reference, Christian Bale is very saucy as Laurie.  And, although I’ve always wanted to be a Jo, the reality is I am probably a less-artistic Amy.  Also, Christian Bale is Batman.  BATMAN!  The superhero who is actually a highly trained martial artist, and a billionaire.  Sign me up.

6. Eric Dane

Doctor, doctor, give me the news.  Whenever I watch this with my husband, I say “Ooooh, Dr. Sloan.”, and my husband, who is a very confident man, says “Damn, he’s a good looking guy.”  Yes, he is.  Yes, he really is.  He is also much sexier with grey hair and a beard. 

5. Ralph Fiennes in The English Patient

Ralph Fiennes is so sexy he is explosive as Count de Almasy.  Remember when he gets all drunk and dances all intensely with Mrs. Clifton, or when they have sex in the closet?  It just doesn’t get hotter than that.  He would be horrible to have a relationship with, as I’ve discussed before, but who cares about that?  We don’t have the Sexiest Men Alive list to think about them taking out the garbage, now, do we? 

Look at him!  He has been walking.  For three days.

4. Val Kilmer as Ice

“That’s how he flies.  Cold as ice, no mistakes.”

He’s also pretty hot all oiled up while playing volleyball.

3. Hugh Jackman

I think Hugh Jackman is sexy in every role I have ever seen him in.  I wouldn’t mind seeing his Reel Steel, if you know what I mean.  But I think he is the best as Wolverine.  Or really, the guy who turns into Wolverine.  He’s a tough Northern Canadian guy who has claws coming out of his knuckles!  How sexy is that?

The lady will have two tickets to the gun show.

2. Ray Lewis

Let’s take a break from actors for a moment to focus on professional athletes.  RAY LEWIS.  His intensity and physical stature are breathtaking.  Can you imagine if this passion for football took place in other areas?  HOO BOY.

Now, anyone who has been reading my blog for any length of time should be able to guess my number one sexiest man alive (other than my husband).  Drum roll….
1. Jim Cuddy
That voice!  That talent!  “Oh, she loved the lines around his mouth.” 
She also loved the fact that he very patiently posed with the fan who did a frantic run-walk, new acquaintance in tow, to ask for a photo.  I’m not a stalker!  I swear!  But I lurrrrrve you.

LIVE IN THE NOW, Oil of Oregano, Lots of Links

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I have a little something something up at the Yummy Mummy Club – and I would be so happy if you popped over there to read it.  If you were so inclined to leave a comment, I would be VERY happy.  xo

I wrote all about living in the moment and enjoying the present, which I think is a very important thing to do.  I also think of – get ready for a dated reference here, people – Wayne’s World.  Remember the scene when Wayne visits a guitar store and looks longingly and lustily at a very expensive guitar (“Excalibur”) and Garth freaks out: “Stop torturing yourself, man.  You’ll never afford it.  LIVE IN THE NOW!”

I also have a lovely recipe for gingersnaps up at my cooking blog. These are my husband’s favourites, and I baked a batch last week, despite the fact that I normally only bake these around Christmastime.  Yesterday, he went out to run errands and came home with an iPhone!  For me!  I highly recommend you bake these cookies.  You never know what could happen.  They are magic!

How was your weekend?  I had an amazingly productive one: hair was cut and coloured, Christmas shopping was nearly completed, much writing was done, photos were chosen for the annual calendar given to the grandparents, dinner with my girlfriends was consumed, Christmas lights were hung, a jack and impact gun were purchased and the snow tires put on the minivan.  Full disclosure: the Christmas lights and tire change were NOT done by me, obviously, but they are DONE.  Then, Sunday morning I woke up with a sore throat, headache, and general fatigue and lethargy that did not bode well for the busy week I have coming up – a week of running the school book fair. 

I jumped into action.  I took oil of oregano several times, which was extremely unpleasant and probably ranks in the top five worst tastes ever.  I drank Vitamin C drinks, I ate two giant slices of chocolate zucchini bread (file under “Feed a Cold”), I swallowed a few spoonfuls of honey, I took Tylenol Cold Nighttime Relief and went to bed at 8:45.  I woke up eleven hours later feeling, if not 100%, much, much better.  I feel like patenting this combination for my very own “nip it in the bud” prescription.  I have a feeling that the eleven hours of sleep probably counted for more than the other home remedy/ over the counter/ homeopathic antidotes, but I hope that the oil of oregano did something.  I would hate to think I took that horrible stuff to no purpose. 

And now I am off to set up the book fair.  I wonder if there will be much Justin Bieber paraphernalia, or will his possible thirty-seconds-of-action-leading-to-a-lifetime-of-paternity-allegedly indicate the demise of those “Future Mrs. Bieber” stickers?

Boring, Useless, Who-Gives-A-Shit Information

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Many, many years ago, before my mother-in-law discovered email and all the associated animated emoticons that could be utilized therein, she used to send me actual written letters, usually accompanied by a piece of knitting she had been doing – the knitted dishclothes I prefer, for example.  In one such letter she had written all about her daily doings for about four pages, then abruptly concluded with the line “Well, that’s enough boring, useless, who-gives-a-shit information for today.”  It’s something that still makes me smile, and I often mentally refer to certain things as such: boring, useless, who-gives-a-shit information. 

That is how I feel about reality television.  I never watch it, except for sporadic episodes of American Idol and, although I am loathe to admit it, The Bachelor.  I don’t watch much television but when I do it is what I like to think of as escapist television; comedies such as Parks and Recreation, for example, or Modern Family.  Serious television programs don’t interest me much unless they involve Sipowicz threatening to beat down a perp to give himself up or Dr. Sloan doing anything at all.  If Dr. Sloan took to the airwaves reading a copy of Today’s Parent, I would avidly watch it. 

As an aside, I’m quoted a few times in this month’s Today’s Parent, on the joys and pitfalls of stay-at-home parenting.  Also as an aside, the other day I mentioned that I was a stay at home mom, and received the huffy response “It must be nice to be able to afford such a luxury.”  I was  a bit taken aback by the resentful and bitter tone.  I never know how to respond to such.  It IS nice, actually.

Anyway, back to reality television.  I don’t watch it and I most certainly do not find it tempting to watch, especially if the program involves a) children, b) domestic chaos, or c) dysfunctional families.  I have my own children, I have access to my own domestic chaos, and if I want to see a dysfunctional family I will go to my next family reunion.  And so I’ve never watched the program that features the Duggar family and their very large brood, but I am aware that there is another bun in the oven, so to speak.  I’m aware of this somewhat against my will, since it is all over the news and, relatedly, all over Facebook.  In fact, someone posted this picture just the other day:

Oh, ha ha.  Good one.  Except for a few little things: a) a clown car involves all the clowns being in there at the same time, which is clearly not the case given the wide range of ages, and b) the more correct terminology would be the UTERUS, not the vagina.  Even if the children were all clustered in this poor woman’s body at the same time, they would not be stuck in her vagina.  They would be in her uterus.  But it does not matter, it is an incorrect comparison anyway. 
I really couldn’t care less how many children other people have – I maxed out on two but I’m well aware that everyone is different when it comes to ideal family sizes.  However, when I did hear that this woman has birthed nineteen (soon to be twenty) children, the first thing that came into my head was “Wow, her poor vagina!”  I mean, there are not enough Kegels in the world, if you know what I’m saying.  Which brings me to a funny story.
When I was pregnant with Mark, I worked on a natural gas trading floor in a group of men.  It was an open environment which meant that I often had someone standing behind me, peering at my computer screen.  Since I was pregnant, I had a bit of concern about the impending birth and the subsequent effect it would have on my delicate feminine essence, let’s say.  So I put “Kegel Exercises” into my scheduler and twice a day a little reminder would pop up on my screen, after which I would dutifully perform them.  One day a young male colleague and I were working together, and, predictably, my reminder popped up on the screen.  I clicked “DISMISS” quickly, but not quickly enough, as his face turned red and he suddenly needed to get something from his desk, right now.
I wonder if he could tell I was already doing them.

It makes me just feel like crying, baby, ’cause baby, something beautiful’s dying.

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“There’s a new Tim Hortons commercial that’s going to make you cry,” my husband called from the living room.  “I’ve already seen it AND cried this morning.”  I replied.  Oh, Tim Hortons and their tear-jerking commercials.  Years after it first aired, my husband can still say, stiffly, “I come watch” and I will tear up. 

But it’s not just Tim Hortons’ commercials.  I’m an emotional wreck these days.  In other words, I should not have, in hindsight, spent the afternoon of Jake’s sixth birthday watching videos of him and his brother from when they were small.  What was I thinking?  I wasn’t, clearly.  I’m suffering from some kind of pre-empty-nest syndrome.  Last night there was a barbeque at the school and when a friend asked if I was going, I replied that no, I was just going to stay home and be sad.

What a pill.  Fortunately, Top Gun was on TV and, like a moth to a flame, I found myself watching it.  It’s not even a guilty pleasure.  It’s just a pleasure.  They don’t make movies like that anymore.  I have been watching it for twenty-five years and it just never gets old.  “The plaque for the alternates is down the hall in the ladies’ room.”  STILL FUNNY.  It makes me want to go visit a bar near an air force base just to see if the pickup lines “I’m a pilot.  Actually, a naval aviator.” would still be used.  Of course, I’m not sure I fit the demographic that those delivering the pickup lines would be looking for, but one could hope.  Never have I been serenaded by a group of naval aviators singing “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling” but it could totally happen. 

There has always been much talk about the glossy, oiled-up, homoerotic volleyball scene (“Playing…playing with the boys!”) and every time I see that movie I rewind that scene at least three times.  Iceman…because that’s the way he flies, ice cold with no mistakes.  Whew!  I saw that movie in my formative years and I swear it set me up for a lifelong enjoyment of the bad boy/asshole.  No soft and sensitive guy for me, it seems, which is probably a good thing.  I think I have enough softness and sensitivity to go around.  Of course, after watching the movie I felt like pounding away on my piano and yelling to my husband “Hey you big stud!  Take me to bed or lose me forever!”  So maybe I’m not totally soft and sensitive.

The first time I saw Top Gun it was in an ice-cold theatre on a hot summer night in Estevan, Saskatchewan.  Eleven-year-old me was fascinated by it.  I longed for a life of adventure, a life beyond my young and boring existence.  Now I’m thirty-six, with my happy and comfortable life that I love, my life which is largely devoid of adventure.  But when that opening music plays, I long to roll down the windows of the minivan and drive really fast down the highway.  The highway to the danger zone.