Category Archives: Romance

Hippity Hoppity

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Last night my husband and I went on a DATE to (belatedly) celebrate our tenth anniversary and I got a new dress and shoes!

It was exactly a year and a week since I had my varicose vein surgery, and so I thought I would celebrate by wearing shoes and stockings, rather than my usual boots.

It was fabulous going on an actual date – my husband and I go on about four dates a year, so when we do go out it’s an event.  Last night was also an event in that, as we were driving to the restaurant, we came across a squished roadkill rabbit!  Ew!  Gross!  Even in all its grotesqueness, I couldn’t stop giggling, thinking of all the disappointed children who would be doomed to spend the holiday without chocolate eggs.

It reminded me of the story I was told once by a guy who worked out in Rimbey, Alberta, who hit – but did not kill – a deer with his car on Christmas Eve, and ended up, in order to be humane, having to shoot it, his children looking on from the backseat of the car.  His children who thought their dad had just shot one of Santa’s reindeer.  I wonder if those kids are still in therapy.

We did have a lovely Easter weekend, complete with colouring eggs and then – as we traditionally, if unorthodoxly do – having the children hide them for us to find, in the backyard.  We did that this afternoon, once the sun came out, although the kids took to hiding some of them in the snow that’s still there.  For those of you who live in milder climates, I envy you.  You probably don’t know the joys of digging a hardboiled egg out of a snowdrift.

This morning the boys had an Easter treasure hunt, complete with complicated clues such as “Where do wet clothes go after they have been washed?” and “What do Mini-Wheats and pizza sauce have in common?” (answer to the latter question: they are kept in the same cupboard).

That is my new favourite picture of the boys, reading their clues.  It sums up their personalities perfectly.
Speaking of a-little-bit-evil, right this second the boys are watching The Phantom Menace, which I saw in the theatre but not since – and for good reason, because it’s terrible.  It turns out that I actually have very little knowledge about anything Star Wars-related, to my children’s grave disappointment.  In fact, due to the combination of Lego Star Wars Wii and a number of Early Reader Star Wars books, my children know much, much more than I do.
Did anyone watch the Master’s this weekend?  I watched it by osmosis, which means I know who won and I know that the runner-up (is he called a runner-up?  I don’t know.) had a double eagle, which is only the fourth time in the history of the Master’s that such a thing has happened.  It was, my husband said, a very exciting Master’s.  Maybe the most exciting Master’s ever!  Which…well…is not really that exciting. 

So, that was my weekend.  Colouring eggs, a date, some roadkill, a treasure hunt, lots of golf commentary, and the lamest and most totally confusing movie ever.  How was your weekend?     

Eight! Eight! Eight is Great!

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Yesterday I was doing some things around the school (putting up posters asking for volunteers to help in the naturalization area.  Do you want to help?  No?  Yeah, neither does anyone else.) when I heard the kindergarten class singing their morning song.  It is a song familiar to me, since I heard Jake singing it all last year.  Hi there neighbour!  What do you say?  It’s going to be a HAPPY DAY.  It proceeded to wedge itself into my brain, supplanting Pinball Wizard (That deaf dumb blind kid sure plays a mean pinball!).
When my alarm went off this morning, I thought “It’s going to be a HAPPY DAY”, because not only is it my tenth anniversary – I did not receive any tin foil, sadly, but my husband did present me with a bouquet of my favourite Gerber daisies – but it is also Mark’s eighth birthday!  Nothing says romance like going into labour and delivery on your second wedding anniversary after being on bedrest for three weeks with pre-eclampsia and checking your own urine for protein twice a day! 
But it is a special and happy day in our house.  I have made a big gooey chocolate layer cake, there is the promise of TAKE OUT PIZZA tonight, and a nice bottle of red with my name on it.  Figuratively speaking.  The wine is not actually named Nicole.
Happy Birthday Mark!

The Tin Anniversary

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I don’t know if you remember what the weather was like nine years and three hundred and sixty three days ago, but I do, perfectly.  For a month it had been minus thirty and snowing, but suddenly the temperature turned warm and mild.  It was a beautiful day in Banff, and I was walking around with a sleeveless dress on:

To tell the truth, I was kind of freezing.  Then the wind came up, a little:

That was ten years ago, on this coming Friday!  That is a long time.  I looked up the traditional gift for a ten-year anniversary and discovered that it is TIN.  Can’t wait for my tin foil.  Maybe I will festively open up a can of chickpeas – or maybe not, since that seems to be typical of any Friday. 

I love being married to my husband and I did have a beautiful wedding, marred only by a slight breakdown ten years ago TODAY when I broke a nail and my esthetician at the time was not versed in acrylic nails.  What kind of esthetician is not versed in acrylic nails, you may ask?  I don’t know, but I cried hysterically.  My soon-to-be-husband tried to calm me down by a) pointing out that I was going to be wearing gloves, anyway, and b) calling his best man, who was married to an esthetician who promised to handle any subsequent nail emergencies.  I did get the nail fixed, thank god, because the hysteria from my single broken nail was threatening to overshadow the whole day. 

It’s funny that I would be that upset about a NAIL, because I was the opposite of a Bridezilla.  In fact, I may have been a different kind of Bridezilla, because I really didn’t care about most of the proceedings.  My poor mother was beside herself because I wouldn’t choose centrepieces for the tables.  I shruggingly said she could choose what she liked, which sent her into a spiral of centrepiece obsession.  My sister-in-law, in what can only be described as an act of incredible generosity and kindness, actually sat down with my mother and made centrepieces. 

But I was operating on the idea that there are only three things that people remember from any given wedding: what the bride looked like, if the food was decent, and if there was good music or if there were a plethora of boring speeches.  I prayed for no weird breakouts, I chose a crowd-pleasing meal that I did not actually consume but I heard it was tasty, and our DJ rocked it out with such hits as Old Time Rock and Roll and YMCA. 

We only had the bare minimum of speeches; my feelings then as now were that wedding speeches generally fall into one of two categories: the overly emotional (“Take care of my little girl!”) or the incredibly inappropriate (“So then he got totally hammered and streaked across the field, and then puked all over everyone, and she still married the guy!  Even after she found out the size of his dick!”).  Sometimes, unfortunately, speeches can belong to BOTH categories, which is terrible for the listener.  I was once at a wedding where there was an open mike, and guests were encouraged to share anecdotes about the bride and groom.  This is a very bad idea.  This is especially a bad idea when booze is involved and ex-boyfriends of the bride have been invited.  That is all I’m going to say.

But ten years of marriage!  In the spirit of the day, here are ten things I love about my husband:

1) He’s a great husband, and he allows me to live my life of luxurious housewifery.
2) He’s a really good father, even if he does allow the children to be flatulent at the dinner table.
3) He’s really hot.
4) He doesn’t like when I cry so he eats anything I make for dinner.
5) He would never forget my birthday, and always is incredibly thoughtful when purchasing gifts.
6) He loves to plan vacations, and so all I have to do is sit back and enjoy while he handles the logistics.
7) He is trying to teach me to be less directionally-impaired, so I don’t have to pull over to the road to sob because I’m lost. 
8) He shares my stupid frat-boy sense of humour, and always knows exactly what I mean when I say we’re having a “pretty nice little Saturday“.
9) He’s reliable, trust-worthy, confident, and smart.  He is so confident, he corrected me when I wrote about the ten sexiest men and FORGOT JOHN CUSACK.  It takes a big man to do that.
10) He makes me happy with myself.

Happy Anniversary, shmoopie.

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.

PSA: Don’t be a dick.

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Do you remember back in the day when you were trying to get pregnant, and it wasn’t happening very quickly, and everyone you knew was getting pregnant, and you were sad and frustrated and felt like stabbing every single person who asked “So when are you going to have a baby?” or who carefully examined what you were drinking to see if it contained alcohol or who had some unsolicited advice about getting pregnant or who said things like “You’re not pregnant yet?  Can’t wait forever!  Tick tock tick tock!”?  Remember that?  I know it wasn’t just me. 
I was reminded of this the other day and here is my public service announcement of the day: It’s really fucking insensitive to ask a woman of childbearing age about their fertility.  So don’t ask.  Related PSA: Don’t be a dick.  Actually, that should be a lifelong public service announcement. 
Segueing from PSA’s to PDA’s, yesterday I went to pick the boys up from lunch and a friend quickly walked over to me in the playground, asking if I noticed the teenagers on the hill behind the school.  There, lying on top of each other on the frozen ground, were two teenagers passionately making out and, um, grinding.  Soon the two of us were joined by three other mothers picking up their kids; the five of us staring at the oblivious couple.  Aw!  Young love.  It reminded me of that day last summer when a young couple started making out passionately in front of my house, groping each other eagerly.  The guy made it to second base.  Sometimes it just can’t wait, I guess.  
Following the advice of several people, I decided to check out Staples in my seemingly endless quest for Christmas printer paper.  I should note that this is NOT a sponsored post, but maybe it should be because even though prior to Monday I had never set foot in Staples and now I am a little bit in love with it.  This is what I saw as I entered the parking lot.
Do you think it is NOW available due to my whining?  Probably NOT but I will take the credit anyway.  I walked into Staples and – as usually happens when I’m in a new and large store – I felt completely overwhelmed.  I stood for nearly five minutes looking around, wandering into one of the aisles, having no idea where to look or what to do.  It’s almost like I’m practicing to be a senior citizen.  What’s that?  Where is the paper?  The pretty paper?  No, not THAT paper.  The only thing worse would be going into Future Shop or something like that.  Five minutes in Future Shop makes me want to huddle in a corner in the fetal position, crying and rocking back and forth.  Finally, a super friendly guy with the biggest smile ever asked if I needed assistance.  How could he tell?  He directed me to a display that was almost right in front of me. 
Squee!  Not only was there a large selection, but there were also pretty little seals in the shapes of snowflakes and seasonal address labels!  I finished my shopping on the weekend, but I could not resist what was in front of me: 
Angry Bird stuffies!  Thanks to my husband and his new iPad, the boys (and my husband himself) are now into Angry Birds.  The three of them played it together for much of the weekend while I re-read Sense and Sensibility.  It is exactly like what I thought life would be like when I had two boys.  The three of them play a video game, I do something girly.  Maybe on the upcoming weekend they will play it and I can give myself a pedicure or something.  Anyway, I thought these would make cute stocking stuffers.  Then I saw the cutest little snowman Pez dispensers with a really excessive amount of Pez refills:
They needed a home too.  Clearly the boys’ stockings are going to be VERY WELL STUFFED.  Then – then, OMG – I saw something that I am hoarding just for me:
Peppermint Lindor!  These are really, really hard to find, in my part of the world anyway.  They are EVEN BETTER than After Eights.  They are even better than frozen York patties.  They are even better than Swistle’s Died-And-Gone-To-Heaven-Mint-Chocolate-Brownies.  They are the G-spot-orgasm-plus-he-gave-me-a foot-massage-and-unloaded-the-dishwasher of mint chocolate.  I bought the above three boxes but I would have bought the whole damn display if I knew where the carts were kept.  However, as it was I had items slipping out of my arms every time I took a step, so I limited it to three.  I don’t care what Kate Moss says, peppermint Lindor taste WAY better than skinny feels.

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?