Category Archives: SEX

Saturday the Fourteenth, the Black Boot Edition

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I am not a very superstitious person, so I am not going to put any weight on the fact that I woke up last night and the clock read 3:16.  In related news, did you know there is a football game with very high (emotional) stakes tonight?  Things are going to be TENSE in the Boyhouse, as they often are during the playoffs when a certain New England team is playing.

I may take this opportunity to quietly update my neglected-of-late cooking blog, because watching the game may add too much stress-by-osmosis to my life.

I will tell you that I have never been so happy to see Friday the Thirteenth than I was this week.  This week really kicked me to the curb.  I was sitting on the couch, staring at the TV, and my husband looked up from the – I kid you not – Enron documentary that we were watching and said “Wow, you really look worn out.”  Honestly.  I do not get sick very often so when I do I feel like I have been completely run over by a large piece of machinery. 

But!  On the cheerier side I am almost completely back to normal, enough to be able to make ribald jokes regarding vegetarianism.  Informing someone that you are a vegetarian will invariably result in the question of whether or not you eat fish, and while I realize that there is such a thing as pesco-vegetarianism, I am not of that group.  I still consider fish to be meat, so I do not eat it.  The follow up question to the fist one is, without a doubt, “But how do you get enough protein?”  And this is where I usually smile and lift my eyebrows, and intimate that my husband must be one lucky fellow, don’t you think?  Generally that ends the questions.  There’s nothing like referring to your skanky bedroom antics to get people to never ask you anything again.

Hilariously, I once told a male friend that I am a vegetarian, and his response was completely different; he exclaimed “Really?  But you seem so NORMAL.” 

While I am a vegetarian, I will admit that I do have some boots that are made from – gasp – leather.  I have some pairs which are vegan, true, but I’m not entirely convinced that the process used to create man-made shoe materials is actually BETTER than leather.  I don’t know.  It’s a complex issue.  It’s kind of like about ten years back, when everyone was on a super low-carb diet, but no one was losing weight because they were all eating highly processed low-carb substitutes for high-carb items, i.e., low-carb bread and cookies.  For the record, I was never on that diet.  It is VERY difficult to be on a high-protein, low-carb diet when you are a vegetarian; no one is THAT skanky. 

Related to perceptions of what is “better” or not, I saw a fellow being interviewed who was part of the “Occupy Calgary” movement, and he was passionately championing more electricity use as opposed to that of fossil fuels, when in fact electricity in this province is almost all coal-generated.  Heh.  Facts, people.

Anyway, I realized that I had promised to post pictures of my new boots, the ones that made the salesman tell me that I was – awkwardly enough – Puss in Boots.  I thought that in addition I would post a few pictures of my favourite boots, both vegan and, um, non-vegan.  Enjoy!

The new boots!  My mother referred to them as “hooker boots”, which I take as a compliment.  My husband takes that to mean I’m low on protein.

The same boots, but with turned down cuffs.  Puss in Boots!  These are not particularly practical, because they are not lined, but they are cute, I think.

These boots look really slutty with leggings.  I wear these when I wear a skirt or dress and I think they are pretty saucy.

This photo is specifically for Nan and for Kimberly, neither of whom believed me that Ugg boots could be even remotely attractive.  See?  They can!  I purchased these at half price in an outlet mall in Palm Desert.  Why do we not have outlet malls like that here?  Please note the gratuitous shot of my new Pandora bracelet, but please ignore my freakishly giant hands.  Seriously, my hands really are that big.  I have issues finding gloves that fit.

These are my practical, dog walking boots.  I wear these when it is cold and snowy, but not cold enough for my Joan of Arctic Sorels.  I feel very patriotic when I wear these boots, what with the maple leaves on them.  Canada – I love you.  Let’s get some of those American-style outlet malls, hmmmm?

These are my actual favourite boots; they are perfect for walking with their low heel, and they are lined to be warm for fall weather.  Sadly, they are not warm enough for winter.

These boots are comfortable, but they are really only good for dry, non-snowy sidewalks since they do not have a very grippy sole. 
That concludes a partial walk through my boot closet.  Can you tell which are leather?

The fog has lifted.

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The fog has lifted, so to speak.  It turns out that I have a raging sinus infection, which certainly explains why I was just getting worse and worse and why I would sleep for ten hours a day and still be completely exhausted and why I felt like I was walking around underwater and why I sat up yesterday when the alarm went off and had to lie back down with a stabbing pain behind one eye and a dull ache in my ears and teeth.  I had a doctor’s appointment yesterday, and since this doctor is new to me, I was a bit nervous.  My old doctor always erred on the side of undermedicating, and so I mentally prepared myself to argue for some kind of medication.

Turns out, I didn’t need to argue, the doctor immediately diagnosed sinus infection and prescribed a round of antibiotics, plus an over the counter medication.  I went to fill my prescriptions, and the friendly pharmacist informed me that they did not have that over the counter medication, but I was not to worry.  It was not necessary, he said, my doctor only recommended it to help manage the pain and congestion.  Blink.  Blink blink.  “That seems pretty necessary right now,” I said, before bursting into tears.  My puffy, blotchy, sobbing ugliness spurred him into action and he found a suitable substitute. 

I feel much better today.  I can feel my old energy returning, and I also do not feel like ripping off my own head.  I have been able to accomplish some of my everyday tasks: I did the laundry without collapsing into the warm-from-the-dryer clothes, I cleaned the bathroom without crying, I walked the dog without contemplating death.  I may even bake a banana bread later today, without fear that the noise from the stand mixer will cause unspeakable anguish. 

All in all I would say that’s a good day.  Which is not to say I’m 100%, since I tried to send my husband a jokey sort of text that said “I’m sexting you!” but for some reason it came out “I’m decrying you!”.  I’m not sure how that happened.  He did not respond, probably thinking that this is my normal behaviour now.  Or maybe he thinks I’m actually crying, which is a fairly unremarkable occurrence.

A few months ago, my husband went to run an errand and came home with an iPhone for me, thereby catapulting me into the modern age.  Previously I had only a flip phone with no voice mail and I had never sent a text in my life.  Upon receipt of my iPhone, I immediately texted a friend – one who mocked me for my lack of technological savvy – saying merely “I’m texting you!”.  I was so excited.  I was less excited when my husband took my old phone to be recycled.  He went through, deleting my old information, and came upon a whole pile of texts that I had received, utterly unaware that I had received them.  One of them was from January 2011, and said “Hey Nic, so sorry but I won’t be able to make it tonight.  Call me later!”  Oops. 

All of which is to say my lack of texting and/or sexting abilities may have nothing to do with my recent illness, and more to do with the fact I listen to the kind of radio station that advertises for Grey Power Insurance.  A girlfriend sent me a message the other day, saying that she was thinking about me as she heard a Hall and Oates song on the radio.  Hall and Oates!  She knows me well indeed.

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.

Boring, Useless, Who-Gives-A-Shit Information

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Many, many years ago, before my mother-in-law discovered email and all the associated animated emoticons that could be utilized therein, she used to send me actual written letters, usually accompanied by a piece of knitting she had been doing – the knitted dishclothes I prefer, for example.  In one such letter she had written all about her daily doings for about four pages, then abruptly concluded with the line “Well, that’s enough boring, useless, who-gives-a-shit information for today.”  It’s something that still makes me smile, and I often mentally refer to certain things as such: boring, useless, who-gives-a-shit information. 

That is how I feel about reality television.  I never watch it, except for sporadic episodes of American Idol and, although I am loathe to admit it, The Bachelor.  I don’t watch much television but when I do it is what I like to think of as escapist television; comedies such as Parks and Recreation, for example, or Modern Family.  Serious television programs don’t interest me much unless they involve Sipowicz threatening to beat down a perp to give himself up or Dr. Sloan doing anything at all.  If Dr. Sloan took to the airwaves reading a copy of Today’s Parent, I would avidly watch it. 

As an aside, I’m quoted a few times in this month’s Today’s Parent, on the joys and pitfalls of stay-at-home parenting.  Also as an aside, the other day I mentioned that I was a stay at home mom, and received the huffy response “It must be nice to be able to afford such a luxury.”  I was  a bit taken aback by the resentful and bitter tone.  I never know how to respond to such.  It IS nice, actually.

Anyway, back to reality television.  I don’t watch it and I most certainly do not find it tempting to watch, especially if the program involves a) children, b) domestic chaos, or c) dysfunctional families.  I have my own children, I have access to my own domestic chaos, and if I want to see a dysfunctional family I will go to my next family reunion.  And so I’ve never watched the program that features the Duggar family and their very large brood, but I am aware that there is another bun in the oven, so to speak.  I’m aware of this somewhat against my will, since it is all over the news and, relatedly, all over Facebook.  In fact, someone posted this picture just the other day:

Oh, ha ha.  Good one.  Except for a few little things: a) a clown car involves all the clowns being in there at the same time, which is clearly not the case given the wide range of ages, and b) the more correct terminology would be the UTERUS, not the vagina.  Even if the children were all clustered in this poor woman’s body at the same time, they would not be stuck in her vagina.  They would be in her uterus.  But it does not matter, it is an incorrect comparison anyway. 
I really couldn’t care less how many children other people have – I maxed out on two but I’m well aware that everyone is different when it comes to ideal family sizes.  However, when I did hear that this woman has birthed nineteen (soon to be twenty) children, the first thing that came into my head was “Wow, her poor vagina!”  I mean, there are not enough Kegels in the world, if you know what I’m saying.  Which brings me to a funny story.
When I was pregnant with Mark, I worked on a natural gas trading floor in a group of men.  It was an open environment which meant that I often had someone standing behind me, peering at my computer screen.  Since I was pregnant, I had a bit of concern about the impending birth and the subsequent effect it would have on my delicate feminine essence, let’s say.  So I put “Kegel Exercises” into my scheduler and twice a day a little reminder would pop up on my screen, after which I would dutifully perform them.  One day a young male colleague and I were working together, and, predictably, my reminder popped up on the screen.  I clicked “DISMISS” quickly, but not quickly enough, as his face turned red and he suddenly needed to get something from his desk, right now.
I wonder if he could tell I was already doing them.

Cheerful thoughts for a crappy weekend

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It has been a dull, dreary weekend.  It started for me at 6:20 am on Saturday when Mark woke me up with the words no one likes to hear, “Mom, I feel like I’m going to barf.”  Fortunately no barfing ensued, but unfortunately he spent the weekend feverish, lethargic, and without an appetite.  Then the snow continued to fall, the endless snow in this endless winter.  I feel like Laura Ingalls in The Long Winter but without the actual hardships; no one is starving, freezing to death, or spending days either grinding wheat to make bread or twisting hay into fuel to keep warm.  I’m actually wondering if the snow will never stop.  Maybe a woolly mammoth will take up residence in my yard.  That would be interesting, to say the least. 
So I spent much of the weekend monitoring Mark’s temperature, staring sadly at the grey sky and masses of snow and obsessively refreshing the online weather forecast, and wallowing around nursing hurt feelings from perceived slights by a variety of sources.  Poor me!  It was like a little black cloud was following me around, and I spent many hours in a state of gloom.  When I feel gloomy like this, there are a few ways for me to turn things around: wine, yummy food, and thinking of cheering things. 
Here are the cheering things from this weekend:
1)      Yesterday, while I was getting my roots done in the salon, the perky, very young new shampoo girl chatted with me about her weekend plans.  She was telling me that she was going to go dancing that evening, and then proceeded to ask me, startlingly, if I ever went to her favourite nightclub.  When I responded, she exclaimed “Why not?  It’s so fun and they play GREAT dance music!”  I refrained from mentioning that the last time I “went dancing” was the last time bodysuits and high-waisted coloured jeans were in style; likely I was wearing those with my Rachel haircut, drinking $3 triple vodka slimes.  Probably the dance music was along the lines of “I Like To Move It (Move It)” and “What Is Love (Baby Don’t Hurt Me)”.  She proceeded to discuss the pros and cons of clubbing: on the one hand, if you get there before ten o’clock you avoid the lineups, on the other hand, if you go that early then the dance floor is dead.  Just completely dead.  I had an image of me completely asleep in a corner by the time the club started shaking; besides which I have no idea what people actually wear to clubs anymore.  Maybe bodysuits and high-waisted coloured jeans are actually back in style.  Nonetheless, I did appreciate her high-energy chatter even if I felt like I was ninety years old.  What do the kids like to do on Saturday nights nowadays?  As it was, my husband and I watched The 40 Year Old Virgin, which never fails to make me laugh.  “Now you let your seed blossom into a plant.  Then you fuck the plant.”  Good times.
2)      My husband was watching golf this weekend, and the announcer said “I’ve really been impressed by the way he stroked it.”  I’m sure Clarence Carter was very pleased.  Ah, there’s nothing like sports related unintended sexual innuendo.  Of course there’s curling – “Hurry!  Hard!  Hard! HAAAARRRRRRRDDDD!  WHOA.  Whooooaaaa.” – and football – “Now that’s some really good penetration” – but golf, I find, is the most amusing.  On a non-sports-related front, a friend mentioned that he finds the new “chip” credit cards entertaining – “Just go ahead and stick it in the bottom”. 
3)      A friend of mine wrote an article about undergarments, specifically shapewear, and just casually mentioned that nothing gets between Oprah and her Spanx.  That image is alarming, to say the least, but in the cover photo of this month’s O Magazine, you can really tell that it’s true!  Ewww!
4)      It’s my birthday in four days!  I can hardly believe it because a) it’s really really cold, and b) I missed about a week, mentally, due to my surgery so I keep thinking it’s only March.  No.  It’s BIRTHDAY TIME!  I need to find myself a tiara and dust off my “IT’S MY BIRTHDAY” sandwich board.  As an early gift, my husband made me a mixed CD – a mix tape!  Squee! – and it’s chock full of my favourite types of music, including, but not limited to, the Tina and Ike version of Proud Mary and the song Baby Come Back.  You can blame it ALL ON ME.  I was wrong, and I just can’t live WITHOUT YOU! 
And now you can blame me for putting that song in your head.  Tell me some cheering things, come on, tell me something good!

What makes a happy couple? Not outdoor soccer.

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Last week I was applying makeup while wearing my robe and Jake peered over at my exposed legs.  “Mom, you should go put your stockings on,” he said in a voice of concern.  I assured him that I didn’t need to wear my stockings anymore!  Happy news!  He repeated his request, slightly louder.  I repeated my response in a slightly different way, simplifying it as I thought he didn’t understand, like maybe he had an issue with comprehension of the English language.  Finally, he tearfully snapped.  “MOM!  Please just put your stockings on!  Your legs are creeping me out!”
Ew!  And this is after a week of healing.  It’s like Frankenstein’s monster’s legs, but paler.
I went and put on yoga pants.
Yesterday was a lovely day and I spent the majority of it bundled up and sitting out in the sun, reading, like the elderly person I have now become.  The boys rode their scooters and bikes and dug holes in the dirt while I wondered how much longer it will be until I can clean up the yard a little, plant a few things, cut back the old dead perennials.  There is still snow on the ground although it’s trying to melt.  My husband watched the Master’s, and for those of you who are not golf fans – I suspect that I’m talking to most of my readership here – it is being touted as the most exciting Master’s EVER.  At one point there were six players who were tied for the lead, which is evidently quite rare.  Tiger Woods even was a contender – I coulda been a contender!  I coulda been a somebody, instead of just a nobody. – but he did not win.  It is a little amazing to me that he still has a large fan base and that people were clapping (in the muted, golf way) for him.  I guess this gives hope to Charlie Sheen.
It’s funny about relationships.  I’ve been reading a few articles lately that have addressed the issue of how to “keep the spark alive”, and while I have a hard time keeping the ribald jokes to myself (Blowjobs! Pornography!  Alcohol!), I think it’s an important topic.  My husband is, obviously, an avid golf fan and an avid golf player, while I, most clearly, am not.  I am a yoga practitioner, whereas my husband, most emphatically, is not.  But yet, I find that our separate interests are part of our keeping said spark alive, even if we frequently “parallel talk” – i.e., “I shot a birdie on the tenth hole, then bogeyed the eleventh.”  “My back’s a little stiff from Kapotasana.  I think I should stretch.”  There is no way that we are ever going to be a “golf couple”; I am never donning one of those little hats and killing myself with frustration.  We are also never going to be a “yoga couple”; my husband is never going to “inhale happiness exhale peace.”  We’re a happy couple, though.  Even if I know, against my will, that Rory McIlroy completely fell apart on the back nine.
Tonight is soccer evaluations, and the single greatest email I received last week informed me that the evaluations would take place indoors this year, given the plethora of snow.  I was almost hysterically happy with this news.  Next week the season starts and let me tell you a little secret: outdoor soccer in this city is terrible.  Every year I sit on my little folding chair dressed for a blizzard, with a giant cup of tea and a sleeping bag wrapped around me, and it feels like, indeed, hell has frozen over and I am living in it.  But the kids are happy out there in the fresh air and light evenings, running around, and that’s what matters most.  Now, if only that snow would melt.