Category Archives: Romance

Late to the party.

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I have been relentlessly cheery today, so much so that I’m even annoying myself. Maybe it’s all the green smoothies I’ve been drinking; today I made one with frozen strawberries and, while it was very tasty, it looked like sludge.

But it has a great personality!

But it has a great personality!

I think my cheerfulness is actually directly related to the unseasonably warm temperatures we have been experiencing. It’s a spring-like feeling, the sun shining and the snow melting into messy piles of brown slush that very closely approximate the “great personality but non-photogenic” smoothie I had for lunch, which is a little disturbing to think about. Spring in January! Obviously I am not taken in by this; I recognize we have a solid four months before spring is actually here, but that does not mean I am not enjoying being able to move my fingers while walking the dog.

So I’m feeling cheerful and have spent the morning happily doing things around the house, singing random cheerful songs like “Burning Love” and “Sweet City Woman” and even, strangely enough, “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree”. I’m not singing these songs now, however, because the boys are home and they have a friend over. I have to keep checking to ensure that there is just one extra kid, because by the sounds of it there are about 40. What are they doing that necessitates so much enthusiastic yelling? I DO NOT KNOW. Well, it’s Friday, and in approximately ninety minutes I’m going to pour myself a big glass of wine and watch Downton Abbey. My husband and I, for the past several months, have been working our way through all six seasons of The Sopranos, which we own on DVD. Why we have all six seasons on DVD I cannot explain, but we have been doggedly watching them like it’s our duty to humanity. We swore we wouldn’t start a new series until we finished, and finally, finally last weekend we finished. I know I’m about seven years late to this party, but that was certainly an anticlimactic ending. I was expecting some sort of apocalyptic-all-ends-tied-up Breaking Bad-esque ending, but no.

In any case, I am now free, free as a bird – AND THIS BIRD YOU CANNOT CHANGE – and so I started watching Downton Abbey on Netflix. Here’s the problem: as a rule, I do not watch television during the day, unless you count the morning “news” I watch while eating breakfast. Lately I haven’t even been watching that because the local newscast has almost exclusively focused on a) FLU OUTBREAK PANIC PANIC PANIC EVERYONE GET YOUR FLU SHOTS OMG OMG WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE, followed by b) we are all out of flu shots and we don’t know why. I can conjecture why. In any case I’m sure there were other things happening in the world, however, by the time the local news decided that “other events” were worthy of coverage, I would have already turned the television off in exasperation at hearing the same flu clinics are mobbed we’re all going to die and now we’re out of vaccines, sorry, we can’t imagine why there was such sudden demand. It’s been so bad that I find myself watching the Business News Network with my husband and having earnest conversations on whether or not to hedge our currency exposure.

Sorry, I nodded off for a second there.

Anyway, back to Downton Abbey. I find myself hopelessly addicted to this show, but the problem is my husband seems to be completely uninterested for some reason. Apparently if the show doesn’t contain strip clubs, chopping off people’s heads and hands before sending them to a watery grave, murderous rampages, or a former junkie chained to an underground meth lab who is forced to produce crystal for a dead-eyed sociopath who is in love with a logistics coordinator for a manufacturing conglomerate who is illegally shipping said meth around the world, then my husband is just not interested. Even when I explained it was a British period drama about social hierarchies, he remained unmoved. And so I’m trying to watch the episodes before he comes home from work in the evenings, but that is proving to be difficult, what with preparing dinner, and cleaning up from dinner, and supervising homework. Apparently trying to voraciously wolf down episodes on the sly is not in keeping with being an involved parent.

Why not, you may say, just watch the episodes while he was home? Screw it, as it were. Well, the issue here is that my husband actually likes to TALK to me, apparently. He finds me scintillating for some reason. And trying to carry a conversation – even one about currency exposure and should we be looking at Asia? – while constantly pausing and rewinding Downton Abbey just isn’t working for me. So I think I’ll knock off a bit early today, and spend the rest of this lovely Friday afternoon conjecturing if Bates and Anna are going to get it on, servant style. What? I’m only on the first season, DON’T TELL ME.

I’ve never been in a drunken stupor, but…

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Here it is, Wednesday of time change week and not one complaint has passed my lips. Not one! My husband, in years past, has generally adopted the traditionally masculine attitude that my vehement feelings against the observation of Daylight Savings Time and the subsequent semi-annual fuck up amounts to Nicole Making A Big Deal Out Of Something Very Minor And Unimportant. Yesterday, however, he admitted he was feeling quite tired and out of sorts and maybe it was due to time change. At this admission, I feel vindicated.
 
My children have been just fine; I guess they’ve reached the age where an hour here or there is No Big Deal At All. However, I stand in solidarity with all you mothers out there who are dealing with hot crying messes every evening and wide awake little people at ungodly hours of the morning. I shall not rest until the country has caught up with Saskatchewan, which is miles and miles ahead of the rest of us for their refusal to adopt Daylight Savings Time and its abhorrent spring forward/ fall back rituals. Also, please feel free to give a verbal dressing down to the next person who says that DST is “for the farmers”. Bitch, please. Do you have any idea what time farmers get up in the morning? The actual clock has nothing to do with it, so shut up, goddammit. If I was that kind of person I’d allude to a conspiracy theory cooked up by people who want to keep mothers down by totally fucking up their children twice a year. But I’m not. Still: DOWN WITH TIME CHANGE.
 
Speaking of fucked up, how about that mayor of Toronto? Wowza, is that embarrassing. I mean, we’ve all done silly things under the influence of alcohol or excessive Girl Guide cookie consumption, but smoking crack? In a drunken stupor? Listen, we all know how I love my red wine, and my cosmopolitans, and my margaritas, but I don’t think I’ve ever been in a drunken stupor in my life. I don’t like hangovers and I don’t like falling over. The closest I’ve come to that, lately, is becoming extraordinarily drunk at the Banff Springs Hotel with my husband and two people we met at the bar while listening to a blues guitarist. The couple was from Boston, and so they and my husband immediately bonded over the Patriots. 
 
So no drunken stupors for me, but I’ve done plenty of silly things after consuming one too many glasses of wine/ cosmopolitans/ margaritas.
 
1) I completed this Cosmo quiz and realized that the answer is “yes”.
 
 
 
 
2) At Blissdom Canada, I lay down on the hotel hallway and put both legs behind my head to show Allison and Hannah that I totally could. I blame Allison for being such a doll and bringing the peach daquiri mix and rum.

 
3) I bought hot pink yoga pants online.
 
 

4) I once danced the macarena in a Mexican bar wearing Daisy Duke shorts, high heeled sandals, and a crop top.

5) One Friday night when my husband was golfing, I live-tweeted my viewing of Top Gun. “Permission to fire, sir!” “Never fire unless fired upon.” GREAT advice.

 
6) I have, on numerous occasions, accidentally flashed my cleavage.
 

7) I was not drunk while making this gingerbread house! But the result was so depressing I had to comfort myself with a bottle of wine.

 
8) I was also not drunk in this photo! But I was fairly high on painkillers following varicose vein surgery. I was also super excited to eat the pretty fruit kabobs my friends had sent over.
 
9) I illegally brought drinks in glass containers down to the pool in Maui – in the dark! – and forced my dear, sweet friend Joanne to do the same. Everyone give some love to Joanne – she was my accomplice in illegal activities. And yet I look so INNOCENT.
 
 
 
10) I got pregnant! Hey, it was Stampede week. And then six to eight months later, I walked around looking like this:
 

But he knew that when he married me!

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I am planning a solo trip to visit my grandma, several weeks from now, and I think the planning logistics may just be the death of me. It occurred to me yesterday, not for the first time, that there is a fundamental difference between me and my husband. He travels frequently for business, and here is how it goes: he emails me his travel itinerary, he packs his bag, he leaves. Here is what happens when I go away on a solo trip:

1) Check everyone’s calendar for the least-inconvenient time for me to leave.
2) Book flight. Ask husband to book the rental car.
3) Arrange for the kids to be at my parents’ place for a couple of days.
4) Explore options for the dog. Book dog into kennel. Arrange for grooming at the same time. Discover they don’t have dog pickup on the weekend. Figure out if husband will be able to pick up dog before closing time on Friday.
5) Have minor mental breakdown over the dog issue; husband works very long hours; picking up dog before 7pm will be a problem.
6) Discover an immovable appointment just before kids are due to go to their grandparents’. Cry.
7) Make gigantic list of my own packing needs, in addition to what the kids will need for a couple of nights away.
8) Remember that my mother does have ample washing facilities in case they run out of clothes. Panic anyway. Make notes about cortisone cream that was forgotten last weekend and was the cause for my husband to go out in the middle of a gigantic prairie thunderstorm, and also about vitamins, allergy medication, children’s Tylenol, and what about Mark’s inhaler? It EXPIRED? Cry.
9) Make list of items to pack for the dog.
10) Cry.

It’s exhausting to be me.

It’s not like it’s easy to be my husband – I do feel sorry for him during the summer break, heading off to work while the boys and I go to the pool or the amusement park or just hang out all day, eating bonbons, etc. However, clearly he is the winner when it comes to travel. Some of this is naturally occurring – in my anecdotal experience, with my own small, statistically insignificant sample size, women tend to take charge of the packing/ children-and-pet logistics when travelling. Some of this, though, is me and my control-freak, manage-the-details, burst-into-tears-when-encountering-a-difficulty ways.

This is not the first time I’ve realized the Mars versus Venus nature of our marriage. It’s a good thing: I’d hate to have two people like me in the house. Can you imagine? Me: “Wahhhh, what will we doooooo?” Hypothetical Drama-Queen Husband: “OMGOMGOMG! WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIEEEEEE!” No, a household really only needs one such person. And that person is ME, every 27-60 days.

Remember last year’s list about the things I love but my husband hates? Time for a redux, but this time it’s a list about my husband’s least favourite things that are inevitable, being married to me. Let’s make it a meme! Join in and tell me what your husband (or wife, whatevs) dislikes the most but yet must put up with in the name of marital harmony.

My Husband’s Least Favourite Things, But That Are Necessary When Living With Nicole:

1) Histrionics. I am generally a pretty even keeled person. I’m not a drama queen, generally, but sometimes (PMS) a girl has reason to get a little worked up (PMS). For example, last night when I sat straight up in bed in the middle of the night (read: 10:15 pm), ran to the kitchen, looked at the calendar, discovered the appointment for me and the boys to get our Nexus cards, an appointment we’ve been waiting for since last year, and began to sob raggedly. My husband calmly pointed out that the appointment was the day before my flight and I had many, many hours to get the boys to my parents’ place, and yet I was a complete wreck (PMS).

2) Questions About My Appearance. I think this is a universal male thing. “Do I look fat in this outfit?” “Do you think my butt is getting bigger? I do.” “How does my hair look?” “What do you think of these shoes.” His answer is always “You look great.” Whether this is truly his love-is-blind feeling, or this is a survival mechanism he has developed, I don’t know. All I know is that he would rather be poked in the eye with a safety pin than answer those questions.

3) Cilantro. I realize this is one of those genetic things, either it tastes good or it tastes like soap, but regardless even the word cilantro makes my husband shudder. I like it, which means that there is a lot of separate, after-the-fact adding of cilantro to my meals. Which brings me to…

4) Vegan meals. Sure, he’ll happily eat quinoa salads (hold the cilantro) and rice bowls and all sorts of vegan delights…as long as there is a side of meat. See also: my gig over at Yummy Mummy where I am the Meatless Mummy Con Carne. I once asked him if it was hard being married to me, and the first thing he said was “No. You’re easy to be married to. Except you’re a pain in the ass to go out for dinner with.” Well I never. The boys are excitedly planning a dinner at a barbeque where one of my husband’s old friends is playing in a blues band, and my husband checked the menu online to see what were the vegetarian options. In a barbeque place that specializes in meat platters. The vegetarian option is a green salad. I guess I’ll eat before hand. The second thing my husband said about the negatives of being married to me is…

5) My taste in movies and, relatedly, my inability to watch an entire movie not of my choosing without falling asleep. He also seems to find it “irritating” to watch my favourite movies with me, while I recite the dialogue (see also: When Harry Met Sally. Where was Sunday, what had I done with Sunday? I told him the truth and he didn’t believe me. They don’t make Sunday. Because of God.) I am a DELIGHT to watch movies with.

6) My black clothes. He seems to think that colour in wardrobes is a good thing. But if all your clothes are black then you’re always colour coordinated! Right?

Your turn, lovely readers. What does your spouse dislike, but is just part of being married to you? Do tell! xoxo

Putting on my married lady pants

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Yesterday I had one of those days where I had amazing feats of accomplishments, one after another, except that the accomplishments themselves were so boring that they practically brought tears to my eyes.  I wanted to share my amazing level of accomplishments with my husband, and so I started to list off all the things I had done, and yet before I even had listed a quarter of the things I noticed his eyes glazing over and his head nodding.  I could practically see that he was thinking about work, or a meeting, or possibly an episode of Top Gear while I described my day: I walked the dog and then I went to Costco and then I put everything away and separated all the chicken breasts into individual containers for freezing…oh wait, before that I stripped all the beds and washed the sheets…and then I went to get the kids for lunch…

My husband’s head did snap to attention when, between describing “preparing vegetables for dinner” and “weeding the garden” I mentioned that I washed the windows.  I a) got the ladder out of the garage and b) got ONTO the ladder, both ALL BY MYSELF.  He, for some reason, found this information alarming.  And yet I still have both legs and an uncracked skull and also I can see out my window without rage about all the water spots and dust, so it’s a winning situation all around. 

I did not mention to him that I may have hit the minivan with the ladder whilst fetching it from the garage and also that I may have put a dent in the garage doorjamb whilst putting it back in the garage.  I DID clean the damn windows myself.  I feel like I need an award.  Maybe a badge for my sash.

I think what I will do is pour myself a large Friday-style glass of wine and put on what my sweet young girlfriend calls “married lady pants” – a certain kind of comfortable pants that give off that vibe of “we have a legally binding contract”, as opposed to “Let’s listen to Barry White and get it on all night long”.  In my case, such pants are pink pajamas that sport a hummingbird motif, although I’m pretty sure my husband finds said pajamas to be sexy as hell.  He probably thinks “Wow, those hummingbird pants are hot.  Can’t wait to see what they look like on the floor.”  Or so I tell myself. 

The other night I was sitting on the couch in my pink hummingbird pajamas with a mud masque on my face and whitening strips on my teeth, and I felt a teensy bit sorry for my husband.  My friend Clara wrote a post about the secret to a good marriage is accepting that the two of you make an engine, part gasoline, part spark.  Cannot help but think that my whitening strips that make me lisp a little bit is NOT doing my part for spark.  Freshly whitened teeth are nice though, so I’m going to go ahead and give myself half points.

A date to Home Depot

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Breaking News: the ground has thawed in YYC!  Yes, only a tiny drift of snow remains in only the shadiest part of my yard, and all other gardens are showing signs of life.  Little green shoots!  Tiny baby plants!  Buds on the trees, with the regrettable exception of the once-beautiful-now-apparently-dead, fifty year old hawthorn tree.  I’ve been cleaning up the gardens and cutting back the dead foliage on my perennials, and making big, big, big plans for the front garden.  Well, not BIG plans like ripping out all the lawn – which I would like to do but I encounter resistance from my husband – but plans such as replanting and changing the look of things.

With this in mind, my husband and I went to Home Depot together to buy dirt.  DIRT.  It was possibly the lamest, least romantic date ever, and that includes the time we went to Lowe’s to pick out a high efficiency toilet.  But there we were, with a cart full of dirt, about which we actually had a discussion regarding if this was the ideal kind of dirt.  My husband decided that he needed some kind of ventilation thing for the garage and then left me, with the cart full of dirt, to go look for it.  And I tell you this: there’s nothing like standing by oneself in Home Depot for a long period of time, examining the various cleaning supplies (stainless steel SINK CLEANER?  YES PLEASE.) to make you feel like a 1950’s housefrau, or, alternately, a six year old girl.  No fewer than eight separate Home Depot employees came up to me, wondering if I needed help?  Did I need to find something?  Was I lost?  I don’t mean to play up gender stereotypes or anything, but there was one other woman in the store and she was efficiently purchasing paint supplies, which means that I was not exactly doing my part for feminism.  Eventually, after about fifteen minutes of standing there between the paint and the plumbing aisle, I decided to go look for my husband.  Maybe he forgot I was there?  I ended up in the lumber department, where various burly men turned to look at me as if to say you’re in the wrong place, miss.

By the time the eighth employee asked if I was SURE I didn’t need anything, I said “Well, my husband kind of left me here.  If I’m still here at closing time, I might need a new husband.  Or a ride home.”  The young employee laughed a little nervously.  Was that the wrong thing to say?  In any case, it was only a few minutes after that my husband appeared with a number of vents and something completely unrecognizable but apparently related to the ventilation project.  He suggested I go find the checkout line and he would meet me there.  On the way I stopped by the display of gardening gloves, engaging in conversation yet another employee who gave me some unsolicited information on the various types of gloves.  Possibly I was on the closed-circuit video: she’s finally on the move!  Catch up with her in the gardening glove section!  In any case, it took me a few minutes to get to the checkout, when I saw from a distance my husband looking around for me.  “Where did you go?” he asked, frustratingly.  Where did I go?  Pot and kettle, I swear.

It was still better than the Home Depot-related trauma I suffered last year when we were doing our renovations and I was tasked with picking out fixtures.  I recall wandering around Home Depot, completely overwhelmed by the choices and close to tears, snapping pictures at random and probably raising the ire of the employees, who may or may not have seen me as some kind of competitor spy.

In any case, we now have a whole lot of dirt, the weekend is looking lovely, and I am soon going to have the shiniest sink since Hannah went all fly-lady on me. Also, it’s Friday and it’s golf season, which means wine, Greek salad, and a whole lot of NYPD Blue.  What are you doing this weekend, dear readers?  I hope something lovely. xo

It’s not easy being green.

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I was digging through my bottom dresser drawer on the weekend and found a little bag containing a number of cards, including a Blockbuster Video membership card.  How long has that been there?  There was also a Northwest Airlines World Perks card I had from my working-girl-business-travel era, which was some time ago.  Clearly I need to clean out my drawers more often.  At least I didn’t find any maternity pantyhose, like I did last time.

In case you missed it, it was my birthday on the weekend!  Best weekend ever, I tell you.  My mom made me a cake and my husband went out and bought me a case of wine, including a very nice bottle of Amarone that we shared while watching my new copy of Les Miserables, which as you may know I’ve been wanting to see for…well…for as long as it’s been out, I guess.  It was a great movie, and I restrained myself from singing along to the entire score.  I am only human though, and occasionally I would slip out with a Who am I? 2-4-6-0-1! which is when my husband would wander downstairs to see how the boys were doing on their video game or into the kitchen to fetch me more wine.  Good husband! 


The boys gave me a new yoga outfit, which I proudly wore on Sunday morning, negating the Shala’s need for lights:



I felt a bit like a walking glo-stick or lime popsicle, but in a good way.  I kind of love it.  And hey, my birthday is right before Earth Day and right after Pot Day, so wearing green seems like a great idea.

Other things I love:

1) We have finally finished reading the Diary of a Wimpy Kid series.  I have been reading it to the boys at bedtime for the past couple of months and believe me when I say this: I cannot think of another series of books that I have so loathed.  The kids loved it, mind you, but I felt that it was the lamest, most mean-spirited series in the history of time.  It pushed so many buttons for me and reminded me of why I hated the tween years.  Obviously I am not the target audience but in any case I’m ecstatic it’s all over.  Next up: Charlotte’s Web!  Hooray!  No one knew that a little grey spider played the biggest part.  No one was with her when she died.  Wah.  Poor Charlotte.

2) 31 Inanimate Objects With Secret Inner Lives.  The gherkin!

3) 14 Engagement Photos. Although, the train track picture is giving me heart palpitations.  DON’T PLAY ON THE TRACKS! 

4) Mad Men.  I am really enjoying this season, especially the swingy fashion of the late sixties.  If I could get away with wearing minidresses, go-go boots, false eyelashes and white lipstick every day I would.  If I wouldn’t look like death with white lipstick, that is.  And if it wouldn’t look strange to wear false eyelashes, minidresses and go-go boots to the school, dog park or grocery store, which are my three main destinations.

I think it’s almost time for another Nicole’s Favourite Things, now that the temperatures are actually ABOVE freezing and little green things are starting to poke out of the ground.  Watch for it in the coming days!  Spring!  Finally!  Things feel grand.  xoxo

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Thanks everyone for playing along for my giveaway.  Justine was the big winner!  Congratulations Justine – something fun will be on your way, just as soon as I get to the post office. 

Come to think of it, Superman is a douche

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some euphemisms just don’t work.

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

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

anthropologie.com

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

anthropologie.com

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

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

Eleven years later, and I look like this:

advanced style


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