Category Archives: Schoolgirl Crushes

Yes, John Cusack too.

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Okay, okay.  I wrote my last post and then had an avalanche of people ask me WHY John Cusack wasn’t included.  Even my husband – my husband! – read the post and asked why John Cusack wasn’t on the list.  Here’s the truth: I forgot about poor John Cusack.  Poor Lloyd Dobler.  I blame the book fair. 

There.  Now I feel better.
As of Saturday, I am officially finished my Christmas shopping – including stocking stuffers and the photo calendars we order for the grandparents and various others who I think need to look at a photo of my children every single day.  Look at them!  They are adorable!   I normally try to get my shopping done by mid-November for the simple reason that I loathe the mall, especially at Christmas.  All those people shopping for Christmas cheer that have a decided lack of it, who would drive over their own grandmother for a parking space.  I like to keep my festive happiness intact, and so I finish my shopping early.  This does not mean that I won’t be visiting Staples today, in an attempt to find the elusive Christmas-themed printer paper.  Why is it so difficult to find?  Nan not-so-gently suggested that perhaps I am having a difficult time finding it because it is no longer 1996.  Oh Nan!  But how am I to send out my annual super boring Christmas letter if I have no Christmas themed paper?  My relatives and in-laws depend on my super boring updates.  Must I write them on plain paper?  Must I draw my own poinsettias?  This is wrong on many levels.  BRING BACK THE CHRISTMAS PRINTER PAPER.
Speaking of shopping, this morning I was in the grocery store and it is a miracle I made it back alive.  I knew I was in trouble when I was choosing a cart and a busload of old women swanned in.  I live in a senior-heavy neighbourhood, and once in a while there will be a little shuttle bus bringing people – women, mostly – from the seniors complex to do their grocery shopping.  This is not a good day to be in the grocery store.  The aisles were crowded with very slow moving old ladies carefully looking at the different types of baked beans (more than usual), complaining about the lack of mandarin oranges, and crowding the deli counter looking for a particular type of ham.  Sadly, there was only one checkout open, and the lineup of old ladies behind me was quite long.  The old lady directly behind me persisted in pushing her cart into the back of my legs, causing me to develop a severe case of grocery store rage.  Push.  Push.  Push.  I could hear her complain, as I unloaded my perfectly-reasonable amount of groceries, about the fact that the bus driver would be back at ten o’clock, and she would never make it out of the lineup on time, due to my excessive number of items.  I glanced at my watch.  It was 9:35.
I remember my grandma being like that as well.  Once when we were visiting, my brother and I were supposed to take her to church, which was directly across the street from her seniors complex.  And by directly across the street, I mean that it was a two minute walk away, at the very maximum.  My brother and I showed up at her building thirty minutes before church was to start, only to find her sitting in the lobby, steaming.  “We’re going to be LATE,” she reprimanded us. 
I briefly considered letting the old lady go ahead of me, as I often do.  However, a) she was with a gaggle of other old ladies, and I didn’t really want to let five of them go ahead of me, and b) I was seriously irritated with the fact that she was still repeatedly, but possibly unwittingly, pushing her cart into the back of my legs.  However, karma hit me right in the face when the very slow witted but super chatty carryout guy started to bag my groceries.  I took a deep breath and braced myself for the usual onslaught of chat, and it exactly covered the topics I expected: my children and their school, the cold weather on the weekend, and Stampede Wrestling.  My status with the slow witted carryout guy is quite high since I once told him that I know a former Stampede Wrestler.  It’s a rarefied existence I lead.

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.

Groundhogs, The Bachelor and male pattern baldness.

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Certain special days do not translate well for everyone.  For example, Robbie Burns Day – does anyone who is not of Scottish heritage really want to eat haggis and listen to bagpipes?  I’m half Scottish and I certainly don’t want to – or President’s Day, which does not carry over very well to countries that are not the United States.  Groundhog Day does not really apply to this part of the country.  I understand that there are pagan, weather-lore, and even Catholic and Protestant Epiphany-based roots that contribute to Groundhog Day, but we all know that it simply does not apply if one is living in Calgary, as I am.
It’s amusing, though, because Calgarians WANT to participate in Groundhog Day, despite the fact that no groundhogs would ever live here and anyway it would be supreme animal cruelty to make one come out of its den in this climate to observe its shadow, and so there is someone whose job it is to dress up like a groundhog:
Photo from balzacbilly.com

Occasionally I will succumb to a severe lack of judgment, which is what happened the other night when I watched five minutes of the Bachelor.  The Bachelor is one of those cultural phenomena that seems to indicate society’s downfall.  It is, arguably, one of the worst anti-feminist piece of entertainment around.  Just the concept is terrible: women desperately competing to win the attention of a man and/or kickstart a modeling and/or reality television career.  It is one of the saddest things ever, and the fact that I watched a piece of it is sadder still, although I still believe that from a lemons-to-lemonade standpoint, a drinking game wherein viewers have a shot every time the phrase “I feel we have a real connection” is uttered would be the best possible scenario.  Of course, this would probably lead to death or, at the very least, severe alcohol poisoning, so perhaps not. 
But anyway I tuned in for a couple of minutes and discovered two things: a) a woman whose Nascar-racing fiancé – and father of her child – DIED was actually going to drive a Nascar, um, car because it was “something she needed to do”, and b) the bachelor who is currently on the show seems to be one of the stupidest people in the world, and I do not say that lightly. 
Yesterday I heard, and shared, a quote which I thought was funny: “The best way to hide male pattern baldness is to make a shit load of money.”  I thought it was an ironic commentary on the misguided importance placed on material wealth, but I fear I may have inadvertently caused hurt feelings.  NOTE TO MY BALDING MALE FRIENDS: smooches, guys, you all look great.  As a rule, hair is of minimal importance to women, unless of course you are wearing your hair in a mullet, in which case I have nothing further to say.  But if you still think that hair is important in physical attractiveness, then I invite you to observe this man:

Image from reelmovienews.com

So to summarize: hair is not important, but being stupid – as in the current “bachelor – IS.  Groundhog Day is today and Alberta is leading the world in humanely treating groundhogs, by wearing ridiculous costumes.  Happy Groundhog Day!

Talk me down, baby.

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So it seems like a LOT of us like the Canadian boys! This is a point of national pride! Thanks for all the comments, I absolutely loved them. They reminded me of the many, many crushes I had in my long-vanquished youth: Judd Nelson, Michael Hutchence, Mark Wahlberg, Han Solo. Check, check, check, CHECK. Speaking of Michael Hutchence, in my days as an INXS fan, I would listen to Need You Tonight incessantly, and my mother was always completely repelled by it. “For God’s sake, Nicole,” she would say as I would rewind the cassette in the car, “What kind of PERSON says ‘You make me sweat’? That’s disgusting.” “Oh MOTHER” I would reply impatiently, “You just don’t GET IT.” This I would say while tightly rolling up my acid washed jeans and tossing my spiral permed hair, just to solidify my position as a sophisticated woman of the world.

So how was your weekend? Please tell me you did something exciting, because this was the highlight of mine: getting the carpets cleaned. Last week I was in despair about our filthy and disgusting carpet, and I just could not live another minute with our filthy and disgusting carpet, and so the carpet cleaner came and our carpet does not look significantly different, leaving me to the disheartening conclusion that our carpet’s life is at its end. We have lived in this house for ten years and have done many, many renovations. When we purchased this house it had a) a main floor that had been painted Pepto Bismol pink, which clashed jarringly with the rust coloured rock fireplace, b) trim and doors that had been painted a shiny, dark forest green, c) a kitchen with five different patterns of wallpaper and homemade cupboards that were constantly getting stuck and jammed, and d) a bathroom with dark brown fixtures. Classy! So we have done a lot of renovations, and now it looks like we are going to get rid of our carpet altogether and I am NOT looking forward to the upheaval. I become horribly crabby when the house is in more chaos than usual. I’m tense just thinking about it. I AM looking forward to not having filthy, disgusting carpet, however, so I’m trying to look at the big picture, rather than the (hopefully) 48 hour picture.

The filthy, disgusting carpet is not being helped by the fact that it’s raining and cold, again, and the dog is lending a lovely wet-dog aroma to the house in addition to his wet paw prints. Last January, when I was feeling particularly down, I came up with the brilliant idea to paint our living room blue! And the kitchen orange! Such happy colours, no one could be sad with a blue and orange house! My husband was fairly silent on the subject, cognizant of my distaste for chaos and confident that I would eventually come to the conclusion that I would rather live with taupe and butter yellow than tape up the cupboards, cover all the furniture, wash the walls, and paint. He was right. But with all the rain right now I’m starting to feel like blue might not be such a bad idea…no. NO. Someone talk me down off my rainy weather ledge, please, before I do something drastic. Like paint my kitchen orange.

Hey, did you hear Michael Jackson died?

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I know. Shocking isn’t it?

Kidding, of course, I’m not THAT out of touch – you’re out of touch, I’m out of time, but I’m out of my head when you’re not around – but I do find it very difficult to relate to people I saw interviewed on the anniversary of his death, whenever that was. I saw tearful people confessing that they had a hard time accepting it, that they had to move on but sometimes it’s just hard to get out of bed, and I thought, really? I just cannot relate to that at all. I mean, perhaps if someone very close to me had died, but Michael Jackson? I mean, I like to car dance to Billie Jean as much as the next person, but I cannot really say that celebrity deaths affect me in a particularly emotional way. Or any way, really. Usually, when I hear a celebrity died I either immediately assume it’s due to a drug overdose, or I am confused because I thought that person already passed away (i.e., my thoughts on Dennis Hopper’s death).

However, MJ’s death (can I call him MJ? I’m not even really a fan) did mean that there is one less celebrity alive who I actually recognize. I was at the hair salon today, getting my inch of grey roots covered (“The hair is actually white, not grey” my stylist informed me) and of course I read that hair salon staple, People magazine. I would guess that at least ninety percent of the people in People are, at best, vaguely recognized by me. The other ten percent comprise people I recognize, but somewhat wish I didn’t, i.e. Mel Gibson. How’s THAT for a nutjob? I heard the transcript from one of his infamous phone calls on the news and I could barely understand it, so bleeped out was the conversation. It was like watching an episode of Hell’s Kitchen, the bleeps so numerous I actually was not able to get the gist of the conversation, such as it was, except that it rated pretty high in the crazy and angry category.

Speaking of celebrities: apparently there’s a baseball player named Corey Hart? When I saw that, at first I was confused: are people listening to Corey Hart again? Perhaps I should look out my Boy in the Box record. Ah, but it’s someone else. Not the Corey Hart whose glossy face lined my rosebud papered bedroom in the eighties. Canadian girls who were teenagers in the eighties: I just heard that Corey Hart married Mitsou! Remember her? I thought he was supposed to marry me. Along with Corey, I also had well-within-wedlock fantasies about Tom Hooper from the Grapes of Wrath and, just to round out the musical Canadiana, Jim Cuddy!

Alert! Gratuitous photo of me and Jim Cuddy, twenty years after crush was first established.


If you are thinking that you’ve seen this photo before and that maybe I should give it a rest: join the club founded and chaired by my husband.

Another crush of my youth, strangely enough, was the long-dead Jim Morrison. Remember Denis Leary’s bit about the Doors movie? “I’m drunk, I’m nobody, I’m drunk, I’m famous, I’m drunk, I’m f***ing dead. Big fat dead guy in the bathtub, there’s your title.” Thank goodness I got over my thing for troubled, alcoholic, tortured artists, in order to marry my non-alcoholic, non-tortured, although long-suffering husband. It’s MAGICAL being married to me!

So here’s the question for you: who did you have a crush on in your youth? Do you still find said crushes attractive?

The Sun Came Out!

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This was the view from my back door yesterday morning:

Spring!

It’s mostly melted now, but it was snowing and grey for most of the day until about 6:00 pm, when the sun festively came out. Jake’s mystery illness presented itself as a nasty headcold, and I just could not face bundling him up, running through the snow and howling winds, dropping Mark at school, and doing it all over again two and a half hours later, so I decided to keep Mark home yesterday. “If I let you stay home, we need to do some schoolwork”, I said sternly, to which Mark replied, “Oh boy! Okay! What’s my first assignment? This is going to be great!” So evidently my nerdy and bookwormish tendencies have been passed on to the next generation. In fact, the entire day was spent pretending our house was a school. Mark kept asking which “centres” he could play at. “Is the writing centre open? Is the dinosaur centre open? I’m going to set this book aside for the reading centre. Okay? Okay Mom? Okay?”

The other night I was premenstrually sobbing to my husband about the passage of time and how the boys are not going to want to spend time with me as they grow and how I’m just going to be the horrible bitchy mother-in-law everyone complains about and in a couple of years Jake is NOT going to want to grocery shop with me and woe is me, I’m sad. My husband replied cheerily that, not to worry, Mark will likely always want to do math puzzles and crosswords with me, which seems apt, after yesterday’s events. (“Is the science centre open?”).

Ah, it’s all good. Of all the characters in The Breakfast Club, I have always secretly identified with the character played by Anthony Michael Hall – “In the physics club, we talk about physics, properties of physics” – although I had a huge crush on the Judd Nelson character. Ooh, the bad boy. It’s funny how all of the most attractive movie characters are also the ones who would be the worst to be in a relationship with. Take the Ralph Fiennes character from The English Patient, for example. Ralph Fiennes, so yummy, so intense, and yet, imagine being married to the guy. It would be terrible! The guy hardly ever smiles, and forget about lighthearted conversation. “What do you want for dinner, honey?” “I HAVE BEEN WALKING. FOR THREE DAYS.” I know this is controversial, but it would be much more amiable to be married to the jovial Colin Firth character than the sexy Ralph Fiennes character. At least he remembered their anniversary.

Huh. I meant only to write today about the snow, and my bookworm of an older child, and Jake’s miraculous recovery today and how I have a very! exciting! weekend! ahead of me, but somehow I got on the topic of attractive movie characters who would be hell to be married to. So, that sounds like a great game for a Friday! What movie character do you find terribly attractive and yet, you know would not be good relationship material? Ooh, just thought of another one: John Cusack in Say Anything. I know. I know. Controversial. But really, wouldn’t that lack of ambition get to you after a while? Okay, weigh in, this should be fun!

Halfway to 70, or Taking the A Train to Cougarville

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Tomorrow is my birthday! I am not at all shy about telling people it is my birthday. If it didn’t make me look like I have a mental illness, I would walk around with a tiara and a “Birthday Girl” button, or possibly even a sandwich board. I love my birthday. I don’t mind the whole “getting older” part because hey, who wants to be dead? Not me. So here I am, a day away from being halfway to 70, which is pretty much taking the A Train to Cougarville.

Obviously I am on that train because yesterday I was a volunteer with Jake’s class for their field trip to the firehall! The firehall! Nicole likes firefighters! A friend was telling me about her daughter’s field trip and how great it was with the female firefighter leading the tour; inwardly I was like I am going to be so ripped off if the tour is led by a female firefighter. I mean, girl power and everything, but come on. And what do you know? The firefighters were all male and attractive, which makes for a happy field trip. Also I got to live out my lifelong fantasy of putting on the outfit – is it called an outfit? I don’t know. The boots and pants and coat and things. You know what I’m saying. – plus the oxygen tank, all of which gave me even more respect for the firefighters, male and female, because that gear is HEAVY. I could not take five steps in all that gear let alone RESCUE PEOPLE and carry those heavy hoses and whatnot. I actually said, yes I did, that the firefighters must be in good shape. I said this out loud to a firefighter, which really puts me on Destination Cougarville.

It’s a good thing my loving husband is such a confident man, to withstand my chatter about the firehall. For the record, he is way more attractive than a thousand firefighters put together, firefighting gear notwithstanding. I’m a lucky girl. Or lucky middle aged woman, whichever.

Oh yes, and the kids learned about fire safety.

Ah, but for every high there must be a come down, and so after the firehall visit I had a dentist appointment. A friend posted a poll recently: what would you rather do, have a pap test or go to the dentist. I will tell you, people, I would much rather put my feet in the stirrups with one of those awkward paper gowns on than have my teeth scraped for thirty minutes. Yikes! My very sweet hygienist said, at one point, “You really love that red wine, don’t you?” Yes. I do.

So, it’s a busy busy week, what with MY BIRTHDAY, and a firehall visit, and the dentist, and now tonight is the start of soccer season! It’s actually warm and sunny which feels strange – where is the snow? Where are the gale force winds? So I had better look out my turquoise windbreaker track suit and hop on the train to Soccer Mom Town. I have a lot of cheering to do.