Category Archives: Testosterone-y

Are you feeling sad? It’s Blue Monday!

Posted on by

My very good friend reminded me this morning that today is Blue Monday, the saddest day of the year, and yet I’m not feeling sad.  That’s a win!  I am, however, feeling cold; our mild, springlike winter has suddenly ended.  The dog keeps looking at me balefully, probably trying to telepathically communicate to me his desire for a walk.  And I keep looking back at him, telepathically communicating something along the lines of “Are you out of your furry little mind?”  We seem to be at an impasse.  Perhaps if it warms up to minus twenty, we will go out for a walk, but if not, you will be stuck in the house with me for the foreseeable future, my canine companion. 

So how many of you watched football this weekend?  I cannot say I watched it, but fortunately I have a football fan of a husband, and so I am IN THE KNOW.  The first game brought much joy and excitement, the second game extreme happiness and satisfaction, the third and fourth games semi-disappointment and disgust.  Awkwardly, the team I like and my husband’s favourite team will be playing each other next week, which does not bode well for marital harmony around here.  Truly, I don’t care enough about football to really have a stake in this particular argument; I will submit in a medieval wifely way to my husband’s will and cheer for his team.  Hey, no one wants a divorce over football for heaven’s sake.

More interestingly, how many of you watched the Golden Globes this weekend?  I did, not that I have ever heard of most of the TV shows and movies that are being celebrated; in fact I don’t know most of the celebrities.  But I do enjoy Ricky Gervais and I also do enjoy me some eye candy, i.e., Johnny Depp.  I realized, alarmingly enough, that I have had a crush on Johnny Depp for twenty-five years.  That’s distressing.  Also distressing: Angelina Jolie’s arms.  I saw her sitting at the table, thought she looked elegant and beautiful, but when she stood up…eeek!  Her arms!  Her giant arm tattoo!  Normally I shy away from mentioning that someone is “too skinny” – commenting on one’s body type is rude, no matter the body type – but HER ARMS OMG.  Have some cheesecake, Angelina.  Also – and this is controversial and will probably open a big huge can of worms, but – I tend to dislike arm tattoos, unless the tattoo is an anchor and the tattooed person is an old sailor.  That’s kind of cool.  But Angelina’s big tat really detracted from the beauty and elegance of her outfit, I think.  Feel free to disagree with me!  I’m just not an arm tattoo kind of girl. 

By far the best parts of the Golden Globes for me were Seth Rogan’s comment about concealing a massive erection, Jimmy Fallon VERY ACCURATELY imitating Mick Jagger’s dance moves, disproving forever the myth that “moves like Jagger” is a good thing, and Mark Wahlberg’s extraordinarily sullen award presentation.  Why so glum, Marky Mark?  Is it a Blue Monday preview?

My dog just sat on my feet and looked up at me, tail wagging.  FORGET IT, BARKLEY.  I have been outside a few times today to do dropoffs and pickups, and I am still chilled from those brief encounters with the out-of-doors.  I was wearing jeans, turtleneck, knee high socks, thick wool sweater that doubles as a fall jacket, gigantic mid-thigh down parka with hood, Joan of Arctic Sorels, gloves AND wool mittens and I was still frozen.  When I was at the doctor’s last week, he commented on the colour of my hands and feet and suggested a) I may have a mild form of Raynaud’s disease, and b) that I am not built for this climate.  Tell me about it, doctor.  Tell me about it.

Santa’s coming! Santa! I know him!

Posted on by

True confessions: I have never taken my children to a mall to “meet Santa”.  I’m going to really put myself out there for a moment and say that it has always seemed a little skeevy to me, to set my babies on this dressed-up stranger’s lap, this stranger masquerading as Santa, only to have them shriek in terror for the photographer elf.  This website, devoted to creepy Santa photos and terrified children, kind of kills me. 

Plus, it’s not even the REAL Santa!  Every time I see a photo of children with Santa, I think only of Buddy the Elf and his excitement to see Santa, followed by: You stink.  You smell like beef and cheese.  You don’t smell like Santa.  You sit on a throne of lies!  I also think of my husband, who figured out at age three or four the myth that is Santa by visiting more than one shopping mall in a day and seeing more than one Santa.  The gig is up, fat guy.

It’s a strange ritual, isn’t it?  The thought of going to the mall right now makes me hyperventilate, but the thought of going to the mall and standing in line for an hour with small children just so they can freak out on Santa’s lap?  Ca-razy.

I realize I’m in the minority here.  I’m also probably in the minority for thinking it’s kind of funny that my kids keep singing, to the tune of Jingle Bells, “911, 911, Santa Claus is dead!  Rudolph got a dollar to shoot him in the head!”  Ah, where would we be without Rudolph-as-depicted-as-a-hitman songs?

Despite our anti-Santa sentiment around here – my kids are non-believers, would you guess? – the excitement about Christmas is escalating.  I went to the grocery store yesterday to purchase a few items for Christmas Eve and for some special festive brunches, and realized that the bus from the local seniors’ residence now always comes Mondays at nine.  In other words, at the exact same time I do my shopping.  This means, clearly, I need to find another morning in which to procure my weekly groceries, because I simply can’t take it anymore.  I cannot take the grumbling about the amount of cash registers that are open, I cannot take the accidental bumping of my legs by grocery cart absentmindedly leaned upon by an elderly lady, I cannot take the crabbing to cashiers about the scandalously high price of butter.  I was thinking this, impatiently, as I saw the crowd of mainly elderly women obtaining their carts and looking critically at the “Festive Solutions” display.

But then I saw an old man fumbling around in the cookie section, with his cart full of eggs and bread and ice cream, I saw him carefully choose a bag of “Dad’s” oatmeal cookies and set it in his cart.  I caught his eye and smiled.  I thought that he looked sad, and lonely.  I wondered if this was the first Christmas he was doing the grocery shopping.  I wondered if he was all alone this Christmas, if his wife was gone and he was just doing the best he could.  It reminded me – not for the first time – how very difficult this time of year can be, how joyless and bleak it can seem, and I felt unworthy of all the luck and happiness in my life. 

I went home and unloaded all my groceries, then headed to the school to pick up my boys for lunch.  They ran across the snowy playground to meet me, singing about dead Santa and murderous Rudolph and Robin laying an egg.  My luck and my happiness.

Holy shit! Where’s the Tylenol?

Posted on by

The boys have been practicing Christmas songs at school – for what purpose, I am unclear, since they never have a pageant or holiday-themed special night for the parents to watch them do non-denominational festive winter performances or anything.  Don’t get me wrong; I am not a “put the Christ back in Christmas” kind of girl, not by a long shot – and I’m also not going to get into my usual festive discussions about the reasons that Christmas is celebrated on December 25, stemming from pagan winter solstice rituals.  I like to celebrate the season as one of giving and light and love, and not get caught up in political/religious details.  If you want to put the Christ back in Christmas, that’s cool, but I am not going to get all up in arms if you call it a holiday tree, you know?  Let’s all just hold hands and sing around the shining star like the fucking Whos, okay?  No need to get all divisive.  Pa rum pum pum pum.

I’ve been on a bit of a rampage this morning.  It is one of those days where I find everything strangely irritating; the lack of green sugar sprinkles in the Co-Op baking section – the fucking Co-Op BAKING SECTION – just about pushed me over the edge.  I was one second away from ripping down their “Festive Solutions” display and going all Clark Griswold on the place.  “Hallelujah!  Holy shit!  Where’s the Tylenol?”

I realized after I got home with my non-green-sugar-sprinkle groceries that I had only consumed about 1/2 cup of coffee this morning.  I quickly remedied this and felt much better.  I’m a bit mixed: should I be concerned about my obvious coffee addiction, or should I be happy that my crankiness is so easily fixed by just drinking more coffee?  I’m leaning toward the latter.

Anyway, the boys have been practicing Christmas songs at school, and predictably, they are coming home singing various festive songs with the words changed around, featuring Batman and Robin and the Joker peeing on a wall.  Such lyric alterations are extraordinarily witty and clever, in their minds.  Eventually the conversation turned to Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

And here is where I shall digress a little.  There are few Christmas shows/songs/stories that piss me off as much as the Rudolph.  In fact, there are NO other Christmas shows/songs/stories that piss me off.  I love Christmas.  I love it in the way that the Grinch’s heart grows three sizes and he realizes

Maybe Christmas, thought the Grinch, doesn’t come from a store.
Maybe Christmas – perhaps – means a little bit more.
I love the generosity and goodwill that come from people during the Christmas season (except at the mall, which is why I do not go there past mid-November, to keep my wholesome view of humanity).  I love Christmas trees and lights and baking.  I love it all. 
With the exception of Rudolph.  Well, it’s not Rudolph I have a problem with.  It’s those bastard other reindeer, not to mention – when it comes to that terrible clay-mation show – the assholes that Santa and the elves show themselves to be.  People who get all pissy about “Happy Holidays” and “Holiday Trees” and whatnot should be pissy about poor Rudolph and his mistreatment.  Since when, in this day and age, is it socially acceptable to isolate and mock someone because of differences?  Since when is it socially acceptable to exclude someone because they look different?  And since when is it okay to only accept those differences when that individual does something heroic and saves the day?  THIS IS NOT OKAY.  
So when the boys came home singing about Rudolph, I said mildly to them “You know, I’ve never liked that song.  I always feel so sorry for Rudolph.  The other reindeer are so mean to him, just because he’s different.”
Jake looked up at me intently with a serious expression.  He was silent for a moment, then said “You know Mom?  It’s not the Christmas spirit, but you know what?  I kind of want to get a gun and shoot those other reindeer.”
I do not endorse violence, but I had to agree with him.

Maybe we actually ARE in Kansas, Toto.

Posted on by

Yesterday I was driving my kids to their yoga class when I came into a standstill traffic jam.  As the 140 km/hour wind gusted around our minivan, I wondered if, perhaps, the insane weather had anything to do with it.  The question was answered as I finally manoevered past the firetruck filled with men cleaning up the streetlight that had blown over onto the very busy street.  Are we in Kansas, Toto? 

I nervously drove home past downed trees and signs only to hear news updates that a) the entire downtown core had been shut down since windows had blown out of two high rise office buildings, and b) police were urging everyone to stay indoors.  OKAY. 

In other words, it was the perfect day to spend the afternoon putting up the Christmas tree.

The day before we had put up the various decorations – my husband had taken advantage of a mild day a few weeks ago to put up the outdoor lights – but the children could not wait another DAY before putting up the tree.  And here’s the thing about Christmas tree decorating with young children: while it is a wholesome, lovely, family activity, there are moments within the wholesome, lovely, family activity where I fear my head might explode.  Or something.  Because I answered “Not yet, lovey” approximately one thousand times in response to the question “Can we start decorating yet?” while I held a giant string of lights for my husband to very exactly wind around the tree.  Once the lights were just so, I let the kids loose on the decorations, to the detriment of a couple of them; nothing, however, that glue wouldn’t fix.  Things started to spin out of control as little wire hooks got lost, (fortunately) shatterproof balls bounced on the hardwood, and the dog flopped sadly in front of the tree, his spirit apparently broken by the upheaval and change in his life.  There’s a tree.  In the corner.  And the table moved.

The result, of course, is that we have a very Christmassy house, and two boys who will not stop talking about the tree.  Which is cute, of course, but a little tiring.  “Mom Mom Mom Mom Mom Mom what’s your favourite decoration Mom Mom Mom Mom Mom?  Let me show you what mine is.  Mom?  Mom?”

Mark was super excited about decorating.  I was slightly worried he would spin off the planet.  I was also worried if he stepped outside he would spin and blow off the planet.  See that little snowman and tree on the coffee table behind him?  My mother gave that to the boys last year.  It plays “We Need A Little Christmas”.  Is it possible my mother hates me?
Jake put every single one of his favourite decorations on three adjacent branches, including the one he made in kindergarten featuring him in a Santa hat.  Sadly, some of the decorations keep slipping off the overweighted branches, but I don’t have the heart to move them.  He wanted them all to be together, so they wouldn’t be lonely.
Every year I buy an ornament that represents something we did this year.  Since we went to Disneyland, I bought a Buzz Lightyear-and-Woody-in-a-stocking ornament.  “Everyone loves Woody!” Mark said happily.  Hehehe.  Woody.  Remember Mark’s obsession with beavers, and his stuffed animal named Beavery?  Jake has, apparently, caught beaver fever, as he received a large – very large – stuffed beaver for his birthday.  He named it Woody.  I love when the boys play so nicely and calmly together with their stuffies, especially when they talk about how much Woody loves Beavery.  I bet he does.  I just bet he does.
Don’t they look like they just calmly spent the afternoon sitting serenely by the Christmas tree, playing quiet card games?  As opposed to spastically running around the house, shrieking about Christmas?

PSA: Don’t be a dick.

Posted on by
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.

Jake-Z and Marky Mark

Posted on by

Over the past six weeks there has been a hip-hop residency program at our school, meaning that the kids have been learning hip-hop in gym class.  I was interested to see how this would go since my children have a great love of music and – especially in Mark’s case – dancing.  This great love of music does not translate into talent, however, and so I was greatly amused when they would practice their steps at home.  And by “steps” I mean they mostly crossed their arms and bobbed up and down slightly, with intense scowls on their faces, with the exception of their two signature moves: gorilla and soldier.  Gorilla! they would shout, arms and legs bent, back curved.  Soldier! they would say, standing at attention and saluting.  With that kind of preview you can well imagine that I was eager to see the windup performance yesterday afternoon.

It was, hands down, the single greatest school assembly I have ever witnessed.  I’m not sure what I enjoyed the most: the Grade Ones and Twos who made up with enthusiasm what they lacked in coordination and body control, the Grade Threes and Fours who were enthusiastic AND coordinated, or the Grade Fives and Sixes who had the most coordination and complicated routines, but who had a singular lack of hip-hop joy on their faces due to the self-consciousness of performing a dance routine in front of the school and their parents, ick.  I also much enjoyed my fellow parents who turned into “Woo Girls” at the sight of their children performing their funky moves.  Myself included.  Woooooooo! 

The young male leader of this hip-hop residency announced that there would be something special happening after the performances.  What that was, he said, was something that we parents would surely remember: a soul train dance line!  Now, it’s true that he was much, much younger than all of us, but a soul train dance line?  None of us were actually clubbing in the 70s, so I’m not sure how old he thought we were.  Nonetheless, who can really resist?  It was great.  My own children did their patented dance moves: Jake did a couple of jumping spins and then mostly walked with great funky aplomb, Mark did a couple of John Travolta-esque moves and also, inappropriately, a couple of butt-smacks (his own butt).  Some kids walked grimly and in a deeply embarrassed way, some skipped with their arms waving, and some really got their groove on.  Me, I joined in when the parents were invited, despite wearing the world’s ugliest – yet most comfortable – knock-off Uggs. 

All of which is to say that we’re ready and excitedly anticipating Friday’s Halloween Family Dance.  The boys have even gone so far as to say they hope I’ll join them on the dance floor.  Of course I will.  It will be only a few more years until they are the deeply embarrassed, grim children walking quickly down the soul train dance line.

Happy, Happy Birthday Baby

Posted on by

It’s my husband’s birthday today!  Ssssh.  He doesn’t like a big fuss made about his birthday, something I totally do not understand since I enjoy wearing a birthday tiara and a sandwich board with “BIRTHDAY GIRL” written on it.  However, he and I are going to Banff for the night tonight – squee – with no kids – double squee!  We haven’t even gone out for dinner, just the two of us, for months and months, and so I’m pretty excited.  Bring on the wine!  Bring on the appetizers!  Bring on the cosmopolitans!  I used to work with a guy who had a date night with his wife every single Saturday night.  That actually sounds kind of exhausting to me, but a night out without kids should probably occur more often than once every six months.

Speaking of Saturday night, remember The Simpsons?  (Yes, I know it’s still on TV, but I haven’t watched it in probably ten years, so this is a dated reference.)

Homer: Saturday night?  But that’s our special night!
Marge: What’s so special about Saturday night?
Homer: What’s so spe…oh, I don’t know.  A little so-called Dr. Quinn?  MEDICINE WOMAN?

For the record, I LOVED Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman.

But since we are going out tonight, I baked this yesterday:

Nom nom nom.
The boys made cards for their dad using their brand-new Smencils.  Are your kids into Smencils?  They are very strongly scented pencils made out of 100% recycled newspaper.  The boys worked very hard on these cards yesterday after school, and I inspected them when they were done.  Jake’s had drawings of Ben 10 aliens on it, along with coloured circles for him to smell.  Mark’s had elaborate animal drawings, the animals floating in a sea of bubble gum.  In very small print on the front were the words “Have a happy fart.”
Oh, farting.  It is just so funny.  I really was unprepared, prior to having little boys, for the number of hours I would have to spend a) listening to discussions about farting, b) being in rooms that have been farted in, and c) making up rules that no one, save myself, follows with regards to farting, such as no farting at the dinner table.  I am the only one who complies.  The other day while we were eating dinner, Jake put his chin in his palm and looked at me sweetly.  He smiled softly, and I half expected little hearts to be in the place where his irises are.  “What’s up, sweetie?” I said.  “I just farted.” he replied.  Jake is also famous, in our house, for suddenly yelling “Mom!  Mom!  Moooooooommmm!  I farted, and it did NOT smell good.”  This happens frequently.
His brother is no better.  Mark likes to stand beside me, fart noxiously, and then move away, giggling at my protests.  He also informed me that he farted, very loudly, in his yoga class.  I suppose that happens to the best of us.  After this confession, Jake said, with great pride in his brother’s achievements, “I know!  I heard you! You were so loud!”
Life with boys.  It stinks, literally but not figuratively.