I’ve been having a lovely day, despite of an inauspicious moment this morning when I was getting dressed and wondered what happened to my sweater. I wondered if I had somehow shrunk it, which seemed unlikely since I never put sweaters in the dryer. The usually long, drapey sweater was fitting bizarrely like a crop top. I finally realized – and don’t think too hard about how I achieved this – that I had put it on upside down.
The boys and I have been reading Roald Dahl books lately, and it occurred to me while reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory that no book of that type could be written in today’s cultural climate. For one thing, Charlie and his family are starving to death and take much joy and salvation in being offered a lifetime supply of candy. I need not reference the obvious objections to excessive sugar intake, childhood obesity, etc., but I will mention that throughout the book I kept thinking lawsuit waiting to happen. I mean, the children constantly going missing and then ending up a) stretched b) emaciated c) blue? I kept thinking that Mr. Wonka had better have a good lawyer, and then I recalled that back in the day of Charlie’s inception the children’s downfalls due to their own gluttony, greed, and general assholishness would have been considered just desserts (see what I did there?). In any case, the dramatic conclusion was much cheered by my own children.
Speaking of chocolate, I managed to get all of the teachers’ gifts purchased and arranged today, and chocolate featured strongly. I also stopped by my local Planet Organic to buy hazelnuts, and realized I also needed raw cashews, and hey, that’s a great price for tofu, and wow, coconut milk is $1/can less than at my regular, old-people, non-pretentious grocery store. I went to the cashier with four cans of coconut milk, two packages of tofu, and two large bags of bulk raw nuts, and I felt a bit like a pretentious douchebag. Then I realized where I was and felt that probably there were many, many more people who were many times the pretentious douchebag that I am, and so instead I just felt the kind of excitement that only comes from buying so many thrilling ingredients for various vegan recipes. Because yesterday I made the most delicious dessert from coconut milk, dark chocolate, hazelnuts and – of all things – dates; it was so scrumptious that my husband, my red meat loving husband, said it was the single best thing I have ever made. Honestly, he probably high-fived himself for marrying me, it was THAT GOOD. Or maybe he was just saying that to get me into bed; either way. Everybody wins! And nobody, hopefully, meets their maker in a violent ending a la Willie Wonka’s factory of near-death experiences.
Okay, by now everyone who watches Mad Men has seen this week’s episode, right? So I can say this without fear of spoiling it for anyone? OF COURSE BOB IS GAY. I called that weeks ago, based entirely on his short shorts. Also, was I the only one who loved the line “Imagine if every time Ginger Rogers jumped in the air, Fred Astaire punched her in the face!”? I giggle every time I think about it, which seems to be more often than is appropriate. That is quite the mental image. Also fabulous was the scene when poor demented Mrs. Campbell talks about her nurse, Manolo, awakening feelings in her loins and Pete snaps “Do NOT be more specific!” Hee hee, I feel like the line do NOT be more specific could be used in so many different situations. I’m saving that for later. Not to mention “Diplomacy Club is just another excuse to make out!” I have to disagree on that one; having been in Model Parliament in high school, there was no making out that I could discern. Although I could be wrong on that front; I may have been too absorbed in backcombing my spiral permed hair to notice.
Happy early Father’s Day to all you daddy-o’s out there. Hey Daddy-O. Don’t be a square.
Category Archives: SEX
Putting on my married lady pants
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.
Naked Shuffleboard
My weekend plans got kiboshed, and so yesterday I decided that since we were staying home, I may as well get a little bit of gardening done. It’s too early to really plant anything, I thought to myself, So I’ll just get a couple of really hardy plants. I walked into the garden centre and immediately forgot everything except LOOK PRETTY FLOWERS WHEE. Honestly, I almost forgot my own name for a few minutes as I meandered among the aisles, completely overstimulated and humming along to the Carlos Santana tune playing over the speakers.
I was flirted with in that jovial, harmless, elderly way by five – FIVE – old men while I filled my cart to overflowing with annuals and perennials. It occurred to me later that none of the old men had carts of any kind, and in fact none of them actually appeared to be buying anything. This indicates one of two things: a) the old men drive their wives to the garden centre, and then wander off looking for people to chat with, or b) the old men go to the garden centre to pick up women. My god – is the garden centre the meat market for old people? Think about it: who is actually shopping in a garden centre on a Thursday afternoon? Me, a couple of extremely harried-looking moms with little ones in tow, and OLD PEOPLE. The more I think about it the more likely it seems; after all, if an old man was there with his wife he would probably be choosing plants WITH HIS WIFE, no? I wonder how many old people relationships start out in garden centres. We all know that old men make out like bandits in retirement homes, almost entirely due to numbers being in their favour, but maybe garden centres are known for the place to meet the swinging singles.
I bought some eye cream a couple of months ago, given I am getting older and when one wakes up at 4:45 every day, one has a tendency to look like a crypt keeper. I went out and chose this cream out of many others, thinking that this would be a transformative event in my life. Eye cream! You would think that two months would be long enough to make a difference, however, it has not. This is probably because I constantly forget to apply it. This is my evening beauty routine: remove eye makeup, use special exfoliating cleanser, rinse well, use tissue to remove what I hope is residual eye makeup but is often just an undereye circle, apply toner with cotton ball, brush teeth with whitening toothpaste, stare at teeth in the mirror and wonder if I should give up coffee, decide (related to undereye circles and waking up at 4:45) that this is not a feasible option, apply nighttime lotion, rub extra hydrating cocoa butter into my cracked, dry excuse for hands, fall into bed and pass out. I seem to be unable to add eye cream to this routine.
I ran out to the grocery store today to pick up a few things, plus some whitening strips (see also: coffee consumption. And red wine.) While looking for whitening strips, I noticed something extremely disturbing: right next to the denture cleansers and accessories was a display of condoms, lubricants, and medications for yeast infections. Ew. Now, the patrons of my grocery store are largely elderly, due to the senior’s mecca of a neighbourhood that I live in. I thought about the garden centre and felt that this was just too much. The signs are everywhere. KY jelly right next to the Polident tablets? Ultra sensation-like wearing nothing- ribbed for her pleasure multipack of condoms right next to the Fixodent? A whole row of Monistat next to the Seabond? Do you see a pattern here? Life, apparently, begins at seventy.
Moar Happyer; A Diversion
“I don’t get it,” Mark said from the back of the minivan, the minivan that was rocking with hip tunes from the seventies. “Why does that guy want to be a Fireside Girl?” “Maybe he wants to sell those cupcakes or get badges.” Jake suggested.
For reference, this was the song that was on the radio. I know, I should really listen to more current music, and I DO, I really do. But sometimes I need a break from accidentally belting out the uncensored lyrics to “Thrift Shop” in front of my kids. “Mom, that word is really bad. It’s even worse than FRICKING. It means the same thing as this,” the kids will say in their best reprimanding manner, raising their middle fingers so I can see for myself just how inappropriate it is.
In other words, I’ll keep my old-people radio station that advertises for Grey Power Insurance. Related: it’s almost my birthday! Time to break out the tiara, drink lots of wine, and eat cake! So, pretty much like every weekend. Last birthday I celebrated turning-older-than-Mrs-Robinson; this year is kind of anti-climactic since I don’t know what cougarish fictional character I’m going to be older than. I have a good ten years before I will be older than Dallas from Suburgatory.
Although I do have one of these foam fingers, only it’s green:
My foam finger is highly underutilized in the bedroom department, however.
Speaking of sexytimes, Barkley has finally stopped attempting to, ahem, dominate a certain little Shih tzu dog named Freddie at the off leash park. This is big news. It is also the end of a short lived, yet very embarrassing era in which I would have to grab Barkley’s collar, yelling “Barkley, NO!” while simultaneously apologizing to the older lady to whom Freddie belongs. I was somewhat curious why Barkley continued to try to have his way with Freddie given that a) Barkley is a eunich, and b) Freddie is male. Perhaps Barkley is gay? My friend Nan informed me that if Barkley is gay, then her dog, who regularly attempted to dominate pillows in a similar manner for many months, must be a foamosexual.
Foamosexual. It’s a word that never fails to make me smile, although now that I posted a picture of a foam finger, it’s kind of disturbing.
Other cheerful things that are happening around here: Jake told me he loves school, and that is because in his mind school is a video game and whenever he accomplishes a goal or a difficult task, he considers it a “level completed”. I feel like something is a bit off with that, but whatever works. Level up, buddy. Mark is finishing his last swim class today and I’m fairly sure he did not “level up”, as it were. “I’m the slowest swimmer in my class!” he told me, to which I did NOT respond that I was consistently the second worst athlete in every single phys ed class growing up. He should just be glad I procreated with his “Award of Excellence” father, just to get some athleticism genes. I mean, that’s not the only reason I procreated with him. He’s number one! *raises foam finger*
It is also “Tacky Tourist” day at school, and I for one welcome this dress-up day as being much, much easier than “Dress As What You Want To Be When You Grow Up” day or “Dress As Your Favourite Storybook Character” day, both of leave me bemused and devoid of all creative ideas. At least, I thought it was easy. This is what they looked like this morning:
Of course, we got to school and all the kids had crazy straw hats and sunglasses and cabana wear but STILL. Maui t-shirts count for something, I think.
Come to think of it, Superman is a douche
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.comIf you have been searching for that elusive blue toile romper, look no more! It can be yours for only $168.
anthropologie.comOld 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.
Don’t masquerade with the guy in shades.
This morning I was driving to the yoga shala, and the radio was playing Sunglasses at Night. Boy in the Box was one of my favourite albums back in 1985, and so I turned it up and sang along. I pulled into a parking stall, still singing. You’ve gone to bed with a guy in shades, oh no. Then I turned off the car, went into the shala and did my practice. An hour and a half later I got back into the car, turned it on, and Sunglasses at Night was on the radio. Again. At the exact same part of the song as it was when I turned the car off. You’ve gone to bed with a guy in shades, oh no. I sat motionless for a moment, feeling like I was in some surreal universe. Where am I? Did I actually GO into the shala? Did I record Sunglasses at Night on a CD and not realize it? WHAT IS HAPPENING? It was, I should mention, the same radio station, which means that a hit from 1985 was played twice in less than a two hour period. Very strange beginning to the day.
Speaking of strange and also going to bed with a guy in shades, I heard George Michael’s I Want Your Sex on the radio the other day. Feel free to make a comment about the nature of the radio stations I listen to at this time. Anyway, I clearly remember when I Want Your Sex came out and how terribly shocking it was at the time, back in the day before Eminem and Nate Dogg wanted a bitch with double-D’s to fuck in the back of a Hummer truck, or Rihanna was looking for a guy to go downtown, or even when Nelly wanted someone to fuck him good AND suck him good. George Michael was scandalous back in 1987, but here’s the thing: I find the expression I want your sex to be very strange indeed. You want my…sex? Is this something anyone has ever said in the history of time? I mean, until Bruno Mars recently intoned that your sex takes me to paradise. Bruno, do you mean having sex with you takes me to paradise? Because that would make a lot more sense.
You can tell that it’s Friday, can’t you? Suddenly things are getting X-rated around here. Unrelated to my strange thought processes spurred by hits from the mid-to-late eighties, it’s International Women’s Day! International Women’s Day, and I just typed an entire paragraph about inappropriate song lyrics. Anyway, it turns out I’m going to be spending International Women’s Day evening with a couple of my favourite girlfriends, who are coming over to taste test some new recipes. One of them is chocolate pudding made out of cauliflower. I know what you’re thinking, but it is actually pretty good, and it’s not just me saying that – Jake told me it was not bad, which I consider to be a win, given he was aware of the ingredients.
This is not to say my kids don’t like vegetables; they do, just not cauliflower. Does anyone really like cauliflower? I like it roasted, but other than that, it is a pretty lame vegetable. It doesn’t even have a pretty colour and YES, I realize I am focussing on appearances, but it doesn’t taste great either. I like vegetables that are beautiful inside and out, if you know what I mean.
I had something lovely to say here about inner and outer beauty, but Patio Lanterns just came on the radio, which may be the worst song ever written, other than Might As Well Go For A Soda, and so now I have lost that train of thought. Patio Lanterns, for the love of god. Is there a worse song? Because right now even Macarthur Park seems awesome.
In any case, have a lovely International Women’s Day, let’s celebrate each other and how far we’ve come. xoxo
Nicole’s Favourite Things: Holiday Edition Part 1
Yes, you read that title correctly. There will be a part two.
Despite its darkness, and despite the fact that a) it was minus 12 this morning, b) my hands are constantly purple, and c) traffic and the streets are mayhem, I love December. It is one of my favourite months; the approaching holidays and associated festivity just make me smile.
And hence a two-part post of my favourite things! The first post shall be about gift ideas; the second post shall be random things I love about the holidays.
Related: every single time I think of the term “the holidays”, I think of NYPD Blue. This may seem counterintuitive but if you – like me – are a fan of NYPD Blue, you may remember the famous Andy Sipowicz line, when he is threatening to put “a pole” up “the ass” of some internal agent who is up to “louse up” Lt. Fancy’s career. “Let’s not quarrel, eh? It’s the holidays.” Word.
As always with my favourite things, I am not sponsored by any of the companies I talk about; I received nothing for free. I just love these things and maybe you will too!
Nicole’s Favourite Things – Holiday Gift Edition
Wine
Nothing says “I love you” or “It looks like you could use a drink” or “How else do you get through family get-togethers?” like a bottle of wine, am I right? Wine is a very simple and greatly appreciated gift for anyone, other than maybe teetotallers and recovering alcoholics. I always love receiving wine, and I give bottles to people I don’t know very well but still want to give gifts to; for example, our school’s long-suffering secretary. All you really need to know is if the recipient prefers red or white, but even then, it’s hard to go wrong. I buy my wine in bulk from the Superstore liquor store; a $12 bottle of wine has a lot of gift bang-for-the-buck.
Chocolate
Not everybody loves chocolate, but the vast majority of people do. ‘Tis the season for chocolatey goodness. My personal favourite is mint chocolate, and number one on my list is a good old fashioned box of After Eights. My children have inherited this from me; my husband came home with a box on Saturday, as a festive treat and MAYBE to get lucky, and 3/4 of that box is now gone. I had ONE. This is why I’m hiding the dark chocolate peppermint Godivas from the children.
I’m also hoping to get some in my stocking (some chocolate, not something something some, if you know what I mean and I think you do). I haven’t seen any peppermint Lindors yet this year, but maybe Santa will come through for me. Santa baby, just slip some mint chocolate under the tree, for me. Been an awful good girl.
Sweaters
Cozy sweaters are a fabulous gift idea, and are simple for the giver: sizing is generally small/medium/large, so it’s forgiving if you don’t know someone’s exact dimensions. I love a nice cozy (black) sweater, and Jacob has a wide selection. Ever since I embraced the skinny jeans trend I have also embraced the big flowy sweater. They are so snuggly and if you happen to have a muffin top peeking over those skinny jeans, they conceal it nicely. I think this one is super cute:
However, I am probably not getting one for Christmas since I have several drawers that are stuffed full of black sweaters and my husband seems to think that is plenty in the black sweater department.
Sweaters are a nice gift for the man in your life, as well.
Ha! I kid. If I gave this to my husband, there might be a divorce, or at the very least, no one would be getting a “present from Santa” if you know what I mean. And I think you do.
Lotions, potions, and beauty products
One of my favourite gifts to receive is a bottle of scented body lotion. Calgary is a very dry climate, add that to going back and forth from dry indoor heat to the dry frigid outdoors, and the semi-obsessive handwashing that accompanies cold and flu season, and I go through a lot of lotion. I don’t wear perfume, so I like to have nice girly scented lotions; my favourites are from Bath and Body Works, which frequently has a buy three/ get three sale. My wintry favourites are Twilight Woods, Moonlight Path, and Secret Wonderland, but there are just so many to choose from.
My views on “natural” deodorants are generally that such products are aimed at smelly hippies, who remain smelly hippies even when using said products. I dislike the chemicals in regular antiperspirants but have always been a skeptic about natural deodorants. However, my friend makes these products and now I’m a believer. One of our mutual friends – who is very athletic – told me that they really do work, and so I was persuaded to try it. I sweat a lot during yoga, and the deodorant still held up. In fact, I asked a friend – who is an ANGEL and a very, very good person – to smell me after a sweaty Sunday morning Primary Series, and she said not only did I not stink like a hippie, but I actually SMELLED GOOD. That should be endorsement enough, I think.
It makes a great stocking stuffer, although it might seem strange to give someone deodorant as a gift – if you don’t know the recipient well it might seem like you are trying to tell them something – but the jar is so pretty! And the scents come with fun names like Sweet Jane, Sexy Sadie, and Lucy in the Sky. There is even a men’s scent called – get this – Johnny’s Cash. Cute! If you can talk the man in your life into trying a natural deodorant, which is no small feat if you have a non-hippie husband.
Pajamas
There is something so luxurious about a new pair of jammies. I eschew anything remotely sexy when it comes to sleepwear. I’m all about fuzzy flannel bottoms and tops that are emblazoned with Snoopy or Hello Kitty. Part of this is because I just like cozy pj’s, dammit, and part of this is because I like to have my children choose them for me. It’s amazing I don’t have Star Wars or Angry Birds on my pajamas.
Jewelry
Is there any woman alive who doesn’t like a nice piece of jewelry? I have been wearing silver hoop earrings since I was thirteen years old, this year I told my mother I’m hoping for silver stud earrings and I think she fell over. She kept repeating “You don’t want HOOP earrings? Silver hoops?” I’m all unpredictable now, yo. Last year I had a Pandora bracelet on my wish list and my over-indulgent husband actually gave me two:
The greatest thing about the charm bracelet is that it’s a gift that keeps on giving! New charms are always a lovely gift idea, for any occasion.
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Looking for more gift ideas than these Nicole-centric ones? Look no further: my friend Beck put together a list of non-Oprah-like gift ideas last year (full disclosure: I was one of her writers, and you MAY see a few similarities between last year’s list and this one), and for the Trekkie in your life visit my friend Nan’s site.