Category Archives: Pop Cult-ure

A bowl of cherries

Posted on by

“You know when you get a little bit drunk and then put a whole bunch of books on hold at the library?” I asked my friend Jen while we were enjoying coffee and sunshine Saturday afternoon. “That’s what happened last night.”

I felt I owed Jen (HI JEN) an explanation as to why I couldn’t just put the book she had recommended to me on hold; the night before I had an extra glass or two of wine and ended up wildly putting books on hold on my library app, without any regard to the availability of said books. It was somewhat surprising to me, then, that I had a large volume of books for which I was either number one in the queue, or the books themselves were already in transit, on their way to my local branch. Even more surprising was the number of Erma Bombeck titles that were heading my way, as we sipped our coffees. I guess that says something about my headspace.

Hilariously, my friend Alana (HI ALANA) described the process of picking up a whole pile of books at the library after such a night as the Walk of Shame and yes, I will be keeping my head down as I pick up my copy of If Life Is A Bowl of Cherries, What Am I Doing In The Pits?

I was feeling pretty blue on Friday, what with the ongoing hip issue and the pouring rain and 3 degree weather. I was sure my newly-planted herb garden would be ruined with the cold, but it seems to be just fine. Little note: did you know that Thai basil tastes exactly like black licorice? I had no idea, but last night (Tuesday night is stir-fry night!) I made a Thai red coconut curry, and sprinkled a little of it on top of my dish. Here’s another note: I hate black licorice. The kids don’t like it either but eagerly tried a leaf each. “It tastes EXACTLY like those black jellybeans at Grandma’s!” they said in horror, eating more.

If you’re feeling a bit blue and it’s raining and very cold, may I suggest NOT going to Service Canada? I went there to renew the kids’ passports, and let me tell you: it was something else. First, huge shout-out to David, who honestly had the most zest for his job and pride in his work that I have ever seen in my life, in any occupation. I do not say that facetiously, this guy was really quite amazing; he even called me on my cell later in the morning to profusely apologize, because he had erred in the date given as the last-possible-day that the passports would arrive. He was one day off. I had a question for him, while we were going through the very tedious process, and when he answered I asked if he was sure. Sure? SURE? Ma’am, I have to tell you, I process many applications and I have been error free for well over a year. Okay. Thanks David!

But the issue was this: there was a grievous problem with my printer ink, but only on ONE of the applications. There was much discussion around this; would my application be rejected? Forty-five minutes and serious discussion with the supervisor, the supervisor’s supervisor, and a random colleague who “used to work at the passport office itself,” the answer was it will probably be okay. “I mean, we just can’t say for sure. We just don’t know WHAT Ottawa will do.” David said to me very earnestly, which I feel is not just a comment about the passport office, but on the government as a whole. I had to be pretty zen about the thing, including when they suggested that I could drive downtown to the Harry Hays building, which would be quite the undertaking with all the downtown construction and road closures, then I would have to find and pay $25 for parking, walk several blocks with my then-very-painful hip, and wait in a lengthy lineup, but I WOULD find out FOR SURE if the printer ink was a deal-breaker. Well, I opted not to do that because I had to work, and also by this point I felt like I was about to lose my mind.

I guess I will find out, according to David, by July 15 if the application was rejected and I have to go through all of this again.

So I was feeling pretty out of sorts, which probably explains all the Erma Bombeck hold titles. The boys felt badly for me, and suggested we watch Top Gun on Saturday, which was immediately cheering. It reminded me of one of my favourite things I have ever written, Life Lessons From Top Gun, which I humbly suggest you read if you, too, want to be like David: cold as ice, no mistakes.

I must say, things are looking up this week. For one thing, the lilacs are fully in bloom. I was feeling a bit sorry for myself as I completely missed the Mayday being in bloom, as I was housebound at the time. But the lilacs are gorgeous and making up for it.

This weekend ushered in a new era; one in which I am now the shortest person in the house. My younger son surpassed me, which was a bit sooner than I anticipated. I know we all like to think with fondness about our children’s young childhood, but I will say that I really love having teenagers. They are so interesting, even if their passport photos are much, much less cute than they were five years ago. MUCH LESS. They actually look like teenage angst meets white-boy thugs. Like, if you saw someone who looked like they do in those photos, you would probably cross the street, or at least avoid eye contact. But they are so fun and interesting, and in more exciting news, tomorrow is the Grade Nine Farewell. I wonder if girls still sneak liquor from their parents’ cabinets in to the dances via their hopefully washed-out hairspray bottles. Ah, the aroma of Salon Selectives and spiced rum. I’ll keep you posted. xo

But did you know when it snows my eyes become large

Posted on by

Several times a week – sometimes even several times a day – I peer into the mirror and notice a smudge of mascara under my eyes. It’s only after I’ve taken a tissue with makeup remover to it that I realize the exercise is futile; that the smudge in question is not mascara at all, but it reflects the actual colour of the skin under my eyes. I’m not sure how many times I will dab at my under eye circles before I realize that they are not removable, but right now the number is high and growing.

Aging is a privilege and I never forget that for a moment, and so I should probably just embrace my haggard self with joy and acceptance. I have been using Neutrogena Rapid Wrinkle Repair Eye Cream for many months now, and I will say that it is great for under eye wrinkles; I have no crows’ feet and the lines are minimal. However, despite its claim that it “brightens the under eye area” and “reduces the look of dark circles” it has done nothing in that vein. Or perhaps – and this terrifying thought just came to me – perhaps it is doing a LOT and without it I would resemble an actual zombie.

Moving on.

It’s a short week around here and in the manner of short weeks, it feels excessively long. Part of this was that my husband was out of town; the kids are so easy now that it shouldn’t really make a difference, but it does. Last night – and last week as well, due to Mr’s long working hours – I took my younger son to his drum lesson. The drum lessons themselves are held on the second floor of a seedy-ish building, and the drum teacher seems to be constantly a little bit high. “Heyyyyyy, let’s play some DRUMS” is his general greeting, and with his beard and beanie and general demeanor, he is exactly the kind of person you might peg as a drum teacher. This is not in any way a judgement; I think he’s actually great. My son has really clicked with him and meanwhile, I’m listening to a lot of beats related to “Paint it Black” and “Gimme Some Lovin’.”

Speaking of beats, for Mother’s Day the boys gave me a tambourine. They all – this includes my husband, on the bass – jam downstairs, and since my own beloved instrument – the piano – is highly not portable, as well as being not conducive for jamming, they decided I needed something to be included. I now feel like my lifelong journey to Dancing Queen status is complete.

How was your Mother’s Day? The Saturday prior was my mom’s birthday, and so we went to my parents’ for the night. I made a cake and I was very happy with how it turned out, and that I am getting used to using my decorating tips:

I was particularly pleased since I wrapped her gift from the boys, and it looked like this:

Why don’t I just give it up and go for gift bags? Why do I always feel like I am a person who can actually use wrapping paper and tape effectively? I feel like I’m missing some sort of gene here, the gift wrapping gene. My husband looked at it and burst out laughing. “Why didn’t you trim the paper more?” he asked, like someone who is unaware that every time I do that I trim too much off and then end up taping pieces on the exposed box in order to compensate. I would never dream of starting over with a new piece, because I don’t want to waste all the paper that has already been inevitably crinkled up in my sad attempt to gift wrap.

Gift bags, I must embrace them.

The past week or two has been glorious in terms of temperature; the sun has been shining and I’ve gone for walks in only a sweater, with no gloves. In fact, it has been so nice that I have actually had the windows open in the house. This is a good thing and a bad thing: I like to listen to my Spotify playlist entitled Nicole Karaoke, and, as you may infer by the name, it contains songs that I love to sing along to. Well, I love to sing along to most songs, but these are my particular favourites. The negative part comes when I find myself really belting out the tunes and then realizing that my neighbours are likely out enjoying their yards and are probably privy to my passionate version of Kiss From a Rose or Eye in the Sky. BABY! I compare you to a KISS FROM A ROSE on the grey. OOOOOHhhh. As we all know, my zest for singing far outweighs my vocal talents, so thoughts and prayers for my neighbours. The one consolation is that my octogenarian next-door neighbour is a little deaf, so she’s probably safe from I am the EYE IN THE SKY, looking at YOUUUUUUU I CAN READ YOUR MIND. 

The rain and cold – and possible snow – started today. Knowing this was coming, yesterday I took advantage of the sunshine to go to the garden centre, purchase the hardy, frost-and-snow tolerant plants I wanted to add to the garden this year, and plant. Later when I walked Barkley, I noticed half the neighbourhood frantically working in the garden, trying to make hay while the sun shone, so to speak.

The rain (and possible snow) will be great at getting those plants settled in, anyway. Plants become stressed when planted in too-hot conditions, I heard a local expert say on the radio this morning, which, well, there is no fear of that. I plan on reading a lot this weekend.

On that note, I have lately been reading books with very heavy subject matter: a devastating memoir of a man with epilepsy who was the victim of gross medical incompetence, a memoir of a woman who was physically and emotionally abused in her arranged marriage, and The Tattooist of Auschwitz. After that trio, I needed a palate cleanser, and so I read this:

It was exactly what I needed, and it might be what you need too, if you are in the mood for a light and hilarious book with a real feel-good ending. I loved it so much I went straight to the library and picked up her first novel. Between that and some David Sedaris, I plan on having a long weekend with entertaining books.

I hope you all – you Canadians, anyway – have a wonderful long weekend! May you escape the snow. xo

The apple that rolled away

Posted on by

Last week I was startled to learn that Johnny Rotten is not only still alive, but he just turned 63. I grouped him in with aging rockers who have defied all odds by living past the Eighties, such as Billy Idol and, of course, Keith Richards. I was talking to a friend about this (HI TARYN), and she told me that Johnny Rotten is actually a person on the straight and narrow, which I did NOT know. I guess this is a cautionary tale for anyone jumping to conclusions about people based on their occupation, appearance, and, possibly, the company they keep. On further investigation, I discovered that Johnny Rotten tried heroin one time and then quit after it made him throw up, and also he was predisposed to not use based on the cautionary tale that is Sid Vicious. In addition, he got his stage name due to his total lack of oral hygiene, which led to rotting teeth which he had completely replaced in the early 2000s, not just because of vanity, but because the dental rot was affecting his health.

On that note, I have a dental cleaning tomorrow! I am “looking forward” to it as much as I “look forward” to getting a mammogram or Pap smear. I cannot wait for the hygienist to tell me again that my dental tape – which I use to floss every day, EVERY SINGLE DAY – is all wrong, and that I might as well be using nothing. I will refrain from mentioning that big, gross study that said that flossing in general is ineffective; you will tear my dental tape out of my cold, dead hands.

After a few months of fairly mild winter weather, we are suddenly living in a Planet Hoth Simulator; it is the kind of painful cold that makes it difficult to do anything at all. It’s difficult to get undressed to get into the shower, and then difficult to get out of the shower. It’s difficult to get dressed again and difficult to do regular things like get groceries or, you know, leave the house at all. The dog hasn’t been walked for days, although it’s “warming up” this afternoon so I might give it a go. Here is a sadly Canadian thing: this morning I chatted with a friend about how it “didn’t feel SO bad” this morning, at minus 24. It’s all relative, I guess. I’m trying not to complain.

Thankfully the cold weather, along with sleety snow and treacherous roads, hit the day AFTER my son got back from his Epic Winter Camping Overnight Adventure. He got off the bus, enthusing about how great the trip was. He Loved Every Minute Of It. The apple not only fell far from the tree, but it rolled several thousand metres away, ending up in an entirely different orchard, with entirely different fruit.

Well, not entirely. The one thing he admitted he didn’t love was the food. “There weren’t any vegetables!” he said indignantly, adding that the only fruit available was in the form of apple cinnamon instant oatmeal. It made me smile. Imagine hauling fresh produce on a 12 kilometre uphill ski! Although the teacher in charge, and one of the volunteer dads each hauled a Chariot with ski attachment full of supplies all the way, which made me appreciate their fitness levels.

We do eat a LOT of vegetables and fruit around here, to the point where strangers comment on my grocery cart contents. If you are looking for ways to eat more veggies, well, I’m your huckleberry.

Lately, inspired by the lovely Suzanne (HI SUZANNE), I’ve been toying with sharing my weekly meal plans, including school lunches. I recently read something that basically said people have lost the basic ability to cook, due in part to the really super detailed recipes on blogs and in cookbooks. Is that true? When I was learning to cook, I had a very simple step-by-step beginner’s cookbook, and I was completely paranoid to deviate from the recipe AT ALL. OMG, I used a teaspoon of oregano and it was only supposed to be half a teaspoon! But with practice, all is coming, as they say in the yoga world. I realized that, other than for baked goods, I rarely use a recipe for anything. Even when it comes to baked goods, I change and modify the recipe almost always, mostly to cut sugar or to make it vegan or what have you, depending on who in the house is going to be eating it. So I think in the coming weeks I will start sharing my meal plans – which are pretty much the same week after week, with some variations on a theme – as well as my “recipes” for those meals. The “recipes” are always inexact and approximate, which is what will make them fun. They also contain vast amounts of vegetables, which you have probably already guessed.

One thing that you likely already know, if you have been reading this blog for any length of time, is that my husband and kids eat meat and I do not. I do cook meat for them, and I do not make separate meals. Essentially, which you will find out when I start posting my meal plan, I make a veggie-centric dish six out of seven days a week, and most of those days I include meat on the side, so the guys can add it to their meal. The one day I do not do this is Sunday, but that’s a whole other post.

Today I saw a woman asking for advice for her picky eaters; a woman I know who wrote a book and is evidently a parenting educator, strongly advocated for not taking her children’s personal tastes into account when making dinner. Just make dinner, and if they don’t like it, they can go fuck themselves, was essentially the takeaway. Well. I have very strong feelings about this. I always cook dinners that I, personally, like. I think it’s the prerogative of the cook to make things that they themselves enjoy. However. Imagine what it would be like if someone cooked for you and discovered that you have an absolute hatred for celery, as I do. Imagine then that this person was like “Well, I love celery, so CELERY IN EVERYTHING! You don’t like it? THEN YOU MIGHT AS WELL STARVE.” I think there is maybe a middle ground to be found here.

One thing I pride myself in is having calm, pleasant dinners with my family, and I don’t think that atmosphere can be maintained with an attitude of I’m making whatever I want and I don’t care what you like. The kids are teens now and basically hoover up everything, but when they were small, I would make sure that they had at least SOMETHING they could eat at dinner. One meal, yes, but sometimes things can be added or subtracted from that meal. For example, for years one of my sons would eat taco shells with cheese and vegetables on taco night, but all separately. To this day, my son who loathes tomatoes will eat a pile of pasta, just buttered. He also is the son who eats all the roasted vegetables I serve with pasta, so I consider that very acceptable. Everyone leaves the table full, and happy, and they always thank me for a “great dinner” whether it was something I spent all afternoon on or something I threw together in twenty minutes.

Anyway. This has gotten fairly wordy so I shall close. I think it’s going to be a fun way to spend February, writing about the Meals of the Boyhouse. I mean, what else happens in February? Valentine’s Day and rage about Costco carts? Well, there might be some of that too. I’m only human. xo

Age is just a number: FALSE. Age is a word.

Posted on by

“I finally figured out who you remind me of!” a man, who I have known these past two years, said to me the other day. I waited, smiling, and was not at all prepared for the big reveal. “Charlene Prickett! You are so much like Charlene Prickett.”

There were a few other people around us at the time, and they all chimed in that yes, they could really see that, and yes, that’s exactly it. Charlene Prickett, local celebrity and the star of the television fitness program It Figures, whose popularity soared in the 1980s.

I take this in the spirit in which it was intended; our personal styles might indeed be very different, but Charlene Prickett was a BOSS when it came to accessible home fitness routines. And I might not be one for brightly-coloured bodysuits and tights, but I think we can all agree that legwarmers make for an amazing wardrobe.

The last time anyone told me that I reminded them of a celebrity, it was in the mid-nineties. A very inebriated man told me I looked exactly like Shania Twain; our hair colour and cut were fairly similar in that era, and also I was wearing a denim vest over a white tank top. As I said, though, the man was not a particularly accurate judge, given his level of intoxication and probable intent of obtaining some sort of sexual favours from me, a woman who should have been thrilled to be compared so favourably to a country music sensation but was, instead, nonplussed.

Thanks to the recent Facebook “aging challenge,” the last few weeks have seen an influx of photos comparing a person’s current appearance to that of many years ago, a comparison that I find very interesting. I truly think that the people I know have all improved with age, not just in appearance, but also in spirit and personality. Society likes to disparage aging but really, it’s a wonderful gift. I may have massive Bitchy Resting Face and hair that requires colouring every five weeks due to grey roots that I am unable to embrace just yet, I may have Crypt-Keeper-level forehead wrinkles and marionette lines, but I am very happy with my life and, by extension, my appearance. Happiness makes you shine, or some such inspirational quote.

Sure, I might not have the youthful look and perky bust that I did in the mid-nineties, but at least I’m not wearing ill-advised denim vests. With age comes wisdom, I suppose, and hopefully better fashion decisions.

If you look closely, you can see where the belt buckle is situated on my torso – approximately two inches from the bra line – and also that I am wearing a knotted crop top. With denim shorts. This was in 1997, in my defense, and is likely in style right this minute. Well, it’s January, so perhaps not, but let’s wait to see what happens when the snow melts.

I’ll tell you what has not aged well: my kitchen sink. This is perhaps an overstatement; the sink itself is just fine. However, on Saturday I was washing dishes and suddenly the sink became detached from underneath the countertop and started to slowly tip forward. I did what any strong, invincible woman would do: I started screaming. My husband – after draining the sink – jerry-rigged a support beam from an extension rod used for paint rollers before whipping out his circular saw and building a more solid one out of wood. Where did he get the wood? I have no idea. It’s a good thing he didn’t Kondo his workshop, I guess.

The plumber came to fix the sink more permanently on Monday, and praised the solidity of the support beam. Even though it’s fixed now, I’m planning to leave the beam in probably forever, just in case. We don’t see undermount sinks come apart very often! the plumber said cheerfully, which made me wonder about the workmanship of everything in my house. Can ALL the sinks come detached now? Is this just something that’s waiting to happen?

I am not, obviously, very good with house-related issues, but I’ll tell you what I AM good with: quoting the entire screenplay of When Harry Met Sally. I discovered that the greatest movie of all time was released THIRTY YEARS AGO last weekend, and since I saw it in the theatre, well. Thirty years! It’s been three decades since I discovered my fictional twin; even back in 1989 I was too structured, completely closed off…but in a good way, and I am always cold when it’s 72 degrees out. I do not have days of the week underpants, but there’s still time! As far as I’m concerned I haven’t even hit middle age yet – I’m hoping to live past 86 – and so maybe that will be a thing for me when I’m in the Home. But there definitely won’t be a Sunday. Because of God.

One Thousand

Posted on by

Can I Get A Witness

I can hardly believe this, but this is – get ready for it – my ONE THOUSANDTH POST. One thousand posts. Can I get a medal or something for this? Very few people old-school blog anymore, but I am glad to have this diary of my life over the past – get ready for it – DECADE. Of course, I could have just kept a regular diary, but what would have been the fun in that? It’s nice to have a witness to this everyday life. Can I get a witness?

The Winner, In A Landslide

As I’ve mentioned before, I often think of the Soundtrack of My Life; it occurred to me the other day that there are songs that are inextricably associated with other people, in my mind. For example, my friend Hannah (HI HANNAH) is linked forever and always with Some Kind of Wonderful, and so now that I have asked if I could get a witness, I will be a) singing that all day, and b) thinking of her. For fun I asked Facebook friends what song reminded them of ME and it was a very interesting experiment. A friend who knew me way back in elementary school mentioned Corey Hart (HI MELISSA), a friend from high school reminded me that we always sang Hello City when we were together in chemistry class (HI TRACY), a friend from university mentioned Total Eclipse of the Heart, the Old School version (HI ALICE), and there was a nice mix of interesting music from friends made in the past decade (HI EVERYBODY). The most common song, however, was Landslide, which is both unsurprising and apt, given this time of year.

This Is Me In Grade Nine

My BFF, who I met in grade nine, (HI TARA) said what reminded her of me was Light My Fire, stemming from that period in which I was obsessed – OBSESSED – with The Doors, and also wearing all-black-all-the-time. Well, my interest in listening to The Doors has certainly diminished to zero, but my all-black fashion statement largely remains.

This is me in grade nine, baby. Yes, my love of black and also excessive jewelry has remained, nearly thirty years after the fact.

Speaking of which, I have had This Is Me In Grade Nine stuck in my head for days – DAYS – because the start of school has ushered in a new era: my oldest is, indeed, in grade nine. I am assuming the same will be true next year at this time as my youngest will be there as well. Usually I have Back To School, Back To School, To Prove To My Dad That I’m No Fool from Billy Madison stuck in my head for days; this is preferable. I got a red leather tie and a pair of rugger pants, I put them on and I went to the high school dance.

This is further proof that my brain is needlessly filled with song lyrics and if I could just channel that brain power I could probably work for NASA.

Dogpression

Barkley knows what packed backpacks in the kitchen means, and he does not like it. Now that we are four days in, he has come to weary acceptance, so long as he can come along for school drop-off.

Winter Games

I have been using the silent house and also the free time before my new registered classes start next week to get a few menial, tedious, and annoying jobs done. These include but are not limited to calling the cable company to order a new remote, necessitating me looking up serial numbers and account numbers and clearing up last name confusion, registering myself and my husband to vote in the upcoming provincial election so as to not have to wait for an enumerator, and calling a certain government agency to ensure an issue that was not caused by anyone in this household but instead someone who we actually paid for their services and still makes me irritated to think about it has been cleared up. (Spoiler: it hasn’t!). Yesterday I was on hold for what seemed like an eternity, only to be redirected a few times before getting the correct person for the job, who ended up completely unable to help anyway. The interesting part of this story, at least to me, was that while I was on hold, the theme from the Calgary 88 Olympics was played. Two things: a) that really took me back in time, and b) is it just me or does that seem like a strange choice of music? The rest of the music was pretty neutral elevator-Kenny G-type music, and then wham! Bah bah bah bah bah bah bah bah bah BAH BAH!

It’s Just Like New Year

September feels like a much milder form of January, doesn’t it? Everyone with their fresh starts and getting back to the gym and making crazy school lunches with bento boxes? I personally have a couple of resolutions for September and on, and one of them is to not use my phone when the boys get home after school. I instituted a “no screens” rule for myself and the boys, although it has since been amended to “no screens until homework, physical exercise, and something creative has been done.” For me, though, it’s no phone at all, unless someone texts or emails me. It’s really helping me be more present, which is an ongoing goal of mine, and also allows me more time to read and play the piano. In fact, it’s given me so much more time that I feel a twinge of shame about my (former) phone habits.

Only 1255 Pages To Go

I have had A Suitable Boy on hold from the library for some time, thanks to a recommendation from my friend Mary-Lynn (HI MARY-LYNN). Imagine my surprise when I went to the library to pick it up and discovered that it is almost 1500 pages long. Hoo boy. I have been keeping a spreadsheet of all my books read, in an attempt to be more like my bibliophile friend Allison (HI ALLISON), and so far this year I have averaged one book every 3.5 days. This is going to mess me up big-time. To add fuel to the reading fire, two more of my holds came in yesterday, so if anyone needs me, I’ll be over there, reading. I know, I know, it’s the journey, not the destination, but I like my current book-to-day average.

I Love Your Pictures

A few months ago, someone had posted on Facebook about how sick they were of seeing photos of other people’s kids, and no one cared, and just keep those photos to yourselves, you terrible attention whores. I’m paraphrasing, but only slightly. Then a friend told me that someone told HER that seeing back-to-school photos was the worst, and if your kids weren’t in kindergarten, then nobody cares. You terrible attention whores.

I am taking this opportunity – this One Thousandth Post opportunity – to say that I CARE. I love seeing all your photos, of your kids, of your pets, of your fancy drinks, of your houses, of your vacations. I love your selfies, your outfits-of-the-day, your bikini shots, your workout shots, your nature shots, I LOVE IT ALL. I want to see MORE updates about your lives, not less. What else are we on social media for? Outraged political updates? I think we have enough of those. After all, look how well all those political posts pre-US-election turned out.

I mean, I even love seeing photos of what you had for dinner, so long as it’s not already digested. Which brings me to this travesty:

You Know How I Feel About This Emoticon

People, this is a bridge too far. TOO FAR.

A Confession

Posted on by

Aretha Franklin is, without a doubt, my favourite singer of all time; what a gift she was to the world. I love every single thing she has ever done, but I especially love this clip from 2015 because wow. Talk about owning it. I love how she swans out in a gigantic floor length fur coat, 2015 be damned, dripping with jewelry and in that absolutely fabulous dress, to belt out Natural Woman. That voice, not dimmed in the least by her age, which was 73. In fact, her voice may have been better than ever. I love how she just drops the coat to just finish it off. What a goddess.

Sirius is honouring her by making the Soul Town channel into a tribute to Aretha for the next week. This morning I heard her renditions of Satisfaction and Let It Be, and she makes the Stones and Beatles sound like absolute hacks. Go home, boys, you’ve been owned. That woman was a queen, let’s not ever forget that.

Speaking of Sirius, a few weeks ago I mentioned that after years of my declarations that I Do Not Need Sirius In My Car, I finally acquiesced and my husband had it installed, just in time for our Epic Road Trip. I am so glad we did because I don’t think I could have listened to our Summer Mix 2014! CD one more time. The only blip came when my husband, whose musical tastes are much more contemporary than my own, refused to listen to Seventies Soft Rock or Pop Hits of the Eighties, two of my staple channels. I am extremely open-minded about music in general – I enjoy a wide and eclectic variety of genres – and so I let the doggy have his bone, so to speak. This went fine until the last long leg, when I snapped and declared that I Could Not Listen To “The Middle” One More Time. Deadlock had been reached, and we ended up compromising by listening to Bloomberg for four straight hours, which was both fascinating and kind of depressing, as this was exactly when the Chinese trade sanctions were starting.

The other day I was scrolling through my news feed and I came across this:

Never before have I felt so seen by an Onion headline, not since this one:

Oh, remember those days when the kids were small and a vacation was not at all a vacation, but rather a trip, and one in which all regular chores and drudgery had to be done, just in less convenient circumstances? Thank god that passed. When the kids were little our “vacations” were exclusively limited to “trips to visit my in-laws” and I remember the sheer exhaustion of it all. In fact, when the kids were two and three I remember saying to a fellow preschool mom that I couldn’t imagine ever PAYING to go on a vacation just so I could be exhausted in a different place. Clearly my sleep deprivation was affecting me deeply; obviously I am in a different stage of life now, one in which I can sit by the pool with a drink and a book for hours before wondering casually if the kids were hungry yet. It gets better Current Me wants to tell Past Me. Whenever I see a woman on a plane with little ones in tow, and the look on her face says why am I doing this I always give an empathetic smile and a silent prayer for her that she will get five minutes to herself.

But back to the Guest Offering Help With Dishes. This is a confession, you guys, which means I am not proud of this, but instead I am telling you something a little bit shameful, and that is that I really cannot bear to have help in the kitchen. Well, that’s not exactly true; my younger son is my dish drier, my older son is the table-and-chair wiper, my husband scrapes plates and loads the dishwasher and packages up leftovers (but only in containers that I have approved, because I am an insane control freak). Guests, though. I want my guests to just enjoy another drink and relax, or chat with me while I do the dishes, but I do not under any circumstances want help.

I know, I know, it’s terrible. In fact, I wonder if it’s some kind of pathological illness. Why wouldn’t I welcome help? It’s perverse! After all, I happily help in other people’s kitchens. But when it comes to mine…well. A few months ago we had dear friends visiting, and after dinner my sweet, sweet friend Sammi (HI SAMMI) started stacking plates. She took one look at me and said “You don’t want me to do this, do you?” I shook my head and we burst out laughing at my weird mental deficiency. Then she had a glass of wine while I washed the dishes AND I WAS HAPPY.

When we were staying at our friends’ place in Vancouver (HI CHRIS!) I was helping in the kitchen by drying the dishes. I asked my friend where to put a particular knife, and he said “Oh, anywhere. It’s a small kitchen, I’ll find it.” People, I stood there for several seconds in shock because I had obviously found Bizarro Nicole. What, you don’t have a specific nonnegotiable spot for every single kitchen item and when said item is put away wrong, you don’t silently plot the murder of the individual responsible? Huh. 

Well, the world is a rich tapestry. It takes all kinds, as Grandma would say. My husband and I were chatting the other day and I said that I was “easy-going.” He raised his eyebrows at me. “I am! I’m very easy-going!” I said defensively. He wordlessly went to the knife block and switched the knives around while my blood pressure skyrocketed and my eyes bulged out.

I’m easy-going about many things but the knife block is not one of them. Or the entire kitchen. Or the entire house. But otherwise! Very placid and carefree. Yes. Very.

Unmoored

Posted on by

The boys have been visiting my parents this week, and I don’t mind telling you that I have spent this week feeling greatly unmoored, particularly yesterday. I had no classes to teach yesterday and it was a moon day, which meant no early morning yoga either. I spent a few hours just wandering around the house, drinking coffee and looking at social media, until I decided that I should probably go to spin class, if for no other reason then to get out of the house at a specific time.

From all accounts, the boys have been having an Epic Week, which is to be expected when visiting indulgent grandparents who live on a lake with access to every kind of fun thing you can imagine. During last night’s phone call, they informed my husband that yesterday they a) went mini-golfing, b) went to the Aquasplash, c) had ice cream at the local parlor, and d) went for dinner at a restaurant specializing in chicken wings. If there could be anything better for young teen boys, I do not know what it could be.

After class today I am heading up there myself, and am crossing my fingers that the extreme thunderstorms will hold off for a few hours after I get there, so I can also have some fun in the sun. It’s been beautiful and hot here, the garden is in full bloom with riotous colours, life is good.

***********************

I recently read one of the best books I have EVER read, and that is really saying something. It’s called The Women In The Castle, and a student had recommended it to me a month or so ago. The description seemed pretty meh, to be honest, and I had just finished a bunch of very depressing reads. For those interested in depressing reads: Nearly Normal, which deals with the most dysfunctional childhood you can imagine, living off the grid for years with her clinically insane grandfather, then squatting in abandoned places with her mother while her mother has sex with near-strangers right beside her, and as much drug use as you might expect for such a story, in the 1970s. After that was Educated, another crazy dysfunctional childhood with an absolutely nutjob set of parents. Both of these books are testaments to human resiliency but honest to god, they are also so sad. Finally, I read Diana: Her Story and I have much to say about that, but will save it for later. Shortly thereafter, I got around to reading Lilac Girls, which my mother had lent me and which deals with Nazi experimentation on Polish women in a concentration camp, which pretty much finished me off, mentally. I considered reading the Sweet Valley High box set I had found as a countermeasure, but I had a few library books come in.

So I had mentioned in a class that I had read these depressing books and needed a pick-me-up, and a student came up to me after class and recommended The Women In The Castle. I dutifully put it on my library hold list, but it a) deals with Nazi Germany, and b) I wasn’t sure that it sounded like an uplifting, life-affirming book. When it came into the library I reluctantly started it, and then found I couldn’t put it down. What a wonderful, incredible, thought-provoking book. Believe me when I say you will not regret reading this, even if you are not a fan of historical fiction.

*********************

Speaking of historical fiction, I was thinking about the movie Forrest Gump yesterday. It’s been 24 years since that movie came out; I loved it then and I still love it now. The other day I came across this question: what’s your favourite little moment in a big movie? We all know I’ll have what she’s having, but what about Don’t fuck with Mr. Zero and Someone is staring at you in Personal Growth? Those are perfect moments in a perfect movie. Actually, When Harry Met Sally is full of perfect moments. However, if I have to choose one small scene in a big movie, I would have to go with this one in Forrest Gump: when Forrest finds himself listening to a Black Panther talk about the war in Vietnam, and he is watching Jenny’s boyfriend yelling at Jenny from across the room. The douchebag smacks her and Forrest goes mental, all the while Hey Joe is playing to a crescendo. That, in my opinion, is a scene of perfection.

There’s another small moment prior to that, when Jenny introduces her gross boyfriend to Forrest, who is all dressed up and decorated in his uniform. The boyfriend says “Who’s the baby-killer?” and it occurred to me yesterday, that guy would fit in perfectly on twitter.

**********************

Just now, I looked at twitter. There was a recipe, and I am not joking here, for Red Velvet Corn Dogs. I thought for certain that it must be a mistake, or maybe one of those cutesy recipes in which a cupcake is shaped like a corn dog but no. No. The recipe calls for, among other things, red velvet cake mix and a 10-count package of hot dogs, so the apocalypse is officially on us. Also, 2 quarts of canola oil, for frying. “Enjoy with your favourite dipping sauce!” is the note that the recipe cheerfully ends on. Enjoy. With your favourite dipping sauce.

**********************

A few weeks ago, I was in the baking section of my beloved local Co-Op when I saw this:

Whoops! I know that, come fall, everything will be pumpkin spice this and pumpkin spice that, but this is a bridge too far, in my mind. Perhaps the Red Velvet Corn Dog people might find this useful and inspiring. Mark my words, we shall soon see Pumpkin Spice Refried Bean Pie, if this is any indication.