Category Archives: Testosterone-y

Yee-haw

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The rain that has been coming down since Monday has stopped, and, in the manner of mothers everywhere, I have just sighed with relief and shooed my children outside.  The noise level has been unbelievable around here.  We played Go Fish and the sounds emanating from my children were ear-shattering.  Mark dislikes “winning” games, and so we played Go Fish as a game in which we were rescuing animals; anyone getting a pair rescued the animals displayed on the cards.  It was like a cooperative, super-politically-correct version of Go Fish.  My friend asked me if saying Go Fish was verbatim from an animal-cruelty perspective, and in fact Mark DID make everyone say “Go Rescue” instead.

Jake continued to say Go Fish throughout the game.

It is not a coincidence that I am drinking a beer right now.  Not just because of the, to quote the Grinch, “Noise! Noise! Noise!”, but also because it’s Stampede week!  For those of you who are not familiar, Stampede is not just a rodeo/midway/excuse to come up with ever-more disgusting food products.  Doughnut burgers are a new thing this year, and I wish, I WISH I was joking about this.  A maple dipped doughnut is the bun.  Meat in the middle.  It makes me fear for society.

Speaking of fearing for society, I wonder if carnies still try to cop a feel while adjusting safety restraints.  Or is sexual harassment via midway entertainment so twenty years ago?  It’s hard to say. 

But Stampede is more than just that.  Stampede is ten days of drunken debauchery for a large percentage of Calgarians and those who may be visiting Calgary during this time.  Divorce lawyers are busy as bees in the weeks following Stampede, and pregnancy rates go up.  My own first born was conceived during a Stampede week, and so was almost every other baby in my prenatal class.  (My second born was conceived during the Christmas season, and September is also a busy time in the delivery room.  Was Mommy kissing Santa Claus?  Why yes, she was.)

More than that, Stampede is a time where bad fashion rears its ugly head.  This was especially apparent to me back in the days when I worked in an office.  Men with whom I had a professional relationship and who would normally be clad in khakis and golf shirts would come to work clad in tight Wrangler jeans and shirts with wolves on them.  Or sunsets.  Or eagles.  And the women!  My friend Rita wrote a brilliant piece on Stampede fashion and I cannot even attempt to replicate her accurate descriptions, and so I will just direct you to read the piece.  Hootchie Mama indeed, Rita, you hit the nail on the head.

Sloth and the Splash Pad – Summer of Awesome

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We have been on summer vacation for one week and we have turned into a slothful people.  This is why I don’t register the kids in any organized activities; we are too busy being completely lazy every morning to get anywhere.  I’m in my sweaty yoga clothes, drinking coffee and accomplishing nothing, until finally showering at 10:00, which sounds pretty benign until I realize I’ve been up for over five hours.  It’s all we can do to get organized enough to leave the house by early afternoon.  Mark has created a game he calls “Left Hook” which involves a chutes and ladders board, the corresponding superhero game pieces, sharks, and death.  This game goes on for hours.  HOURS.  Each morning he sets up the board and the boys are occupied for a very long time.  Jake joins in as well but alternates between Left Hook and his own complicated game that involves aliens, clay, and death.
The weather here has been so sunny and warm that I secretly wonder if I moved without knowing it.  I don’t THINK I did.  When it’s warm like this I have the frantic urge to seize the day and spend every second doing warm-weather activities, like swimming.  Not that I am swimming.  But I’m enjoying watching the kids swim.  I am also defiantly displaying my scarred, scarred legs. 
Outdoor pools are something of a novelty to me, since it is rarely so warm here that one would crave “cooling off” in a pool.  Mostly when it is warm I have the urge to become as hot and sweaty as possible in the hopes that I will store up the heat for when the weather turns.  There are a few outdoor pools here, and we have been enjoying them, by the time I pull myself together and get the kids in their suits and sunscreen.
Yesterday we went to an old favourite, a little wading pool that has been recently turned into a splash pad.  If you’re in the area, you should check it out with the following caveat: the recent refurbishment means that grass sod has been newly laid and so, in the spirit of following the signage to keep off the grass, there is very little space to lay out picnic blankets, although I’m sure that will sort itself out as the summer goes on.
The kids had a great time, despite being disappointed that their friends couldn’t join us due illness.  I managed to snap some super cute pictures; however, I was disappointed to discover that unfortunately I a) didn’t notice the moms in bathing suits standing behind the kids, resulting in mom bums in the background of most of the shots, and b) I don’t know how to photoshop things. 
I used little black stars to mask the moms behind Jake.  I AM CREATIVE.

Mark got soaked and then coughed for an hour. 
Oh, post-pneumonia-infection cough!  When will you leave?

Calgary may not be the prettiest city around, but look at that blue sky!  And look at me, wearing a bathing suit and NOT EVEN CARING ABOUT MY VERY SCARRED LEGS.
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As some of you have noticed, I have a new logo!  I love it so much.  My beautiful friend Tracy, over at makemesocial.com made it for me.  She’s creative and fabulous and she sees me every morning at 5:00 am and she LOVES ME ANYWAY.  Those are my feet, by the way!  Thanks Tracy – you’re the best, baby.  xoxo

Bond. James Bond.

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Mark, seeing a commercial on a US television station, asked me what “Independence Day” means.  I was tired and did not feel up for a historical discussion, so I simply said that it was like Canada Day, but for the United States.  Later I felt that this lazy and somewhat inaccurate explanation would probably be met by a shudder by any American.
But happy Fourth of July to all my American friends!  There is always much discussion about the differences between the two countries, and truthfully I feel a small culture shock any time I visit the States.  No French writing on packaging, the food is different, fruits and vegetables are better, and people don’t say “sorry” when they bump into you in a crowd.  I used to travel to Houston quite often, back in my working girl days, as opposed to my days of being a lady of leisure, and every single time I would show my identification at the airport or the car rental place, someone would say “Oh, you’re from Canada?  I LOVE Celine Dion!”  My conclusion is twofold: that people in Houston really like Celine Dion, and that Americans are a very friendly people.
Friday was Canada Day and I celebrated by taking the kids to the local amusement park with a friend and her daughters.  We had fun, as we always do, and near the end of our visit we went to the games section.  The kids bring their allowance to play these games, and I’m always a bit mixed about it: on the one hand, that is what their allowance is FOR, to spend on special activities, but on the other hand, how many crappy, cheap stuffed animals do we want in the house?  They always play the games where you win a prize every time, and that prize is always a crappy, cheap stuffed animal. 
Last year Jake won a little blue dog, immediately named Woof Woof.  He loved it instantly, hugging it and saying “I finally have a pet of my very own!”  I was strongly in favour of this attachment, since prior to that he was obsessed with EGGPLANTS, of all things.  Every time we would go to the grocery store he would beg me to buy an eggplant, not to eat, no, but to be his pet.  His pet doomed to soften and rot and be thrown out.  So his happiness with Woof Woof meant happiness for me, in that I could take him to the grocery store with relatively little harassment.
Woof Woof was a fairly creative name, as far as my kids go.  Other stuffed animals in our house are named things such as Hippopotamussy, Moosie, Bear Bear, and Tigey.  So on Friday, when Jake lucked out and won a LARGE prize, a stuffed octopus, he immediately christened it Octopussy.
I have been stifling the urge to giggle and call him 007, but at least it goes well with Mark’s beaver, Beavery.
Jake and Octopussy

Octopussy and Woof Woof

He shoots, he scores!

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How was your weekend?  The boys had each made an adorable card for their dad – Mark’s with a picture of a tiger saying “I Roar You” and Jake’s in the shape of a shirt with a tie – and in addition to a couple of purchased gifts, my husband also received a jar of barbeque sauce that Jake had made in the kindergarten class, which lent a certain je ne sais quois to our hamburger/ bean burger dinner.  I also skipped my morning yoga class so that my husband could book an earlier tee time – normally he schedules his golf around my yoga, which is very convenient, I think – and I found myself wondering is this what Sunday mornings are like?  My, the children are loud and needy.

Perhaps the loudness and the neediness came from the kind of exhaustion that results from Super! Soccer! Saturday!  The boys each played two games, none of which overlapped, so we were at the soccer field from 8:20 until 1:00.  That sounds pretty benign until I tell you that the field was swept by the kind of winds that topple unattended lawn chairs and that the temperature hovered around 10 degrees without the wind.  At least it’s not raining we frozen spectators kept saying to each other.  Jake’s coaches were wearing toques and gloves; I myself had three sweaters on underneath my fall coat, along with lined rain boots.

They are going to blow away!

Only seven players from Mark’s team were in attendance, meaning that each player was on the field almost constantly, running and sweating and, ultimately, going to the food table to get freezies and slushies while I fantasized about hot tubs and Bailey’s and coffee. 

I keep waiting for summer to arrive, pinning my hopes on the appearance of summer-like temperatures, and I think I need to just come to accept the fact that it will never be summer.  If I lower my expectations enough, perhaps I will be happy and satisfied because at least it isn’t snowing.

I just looked out the front window to see my seven year old helping my husband mow the lawn.

Years ago the boys had little popper lawn mowers that they would noisily run around with while my husband mowed the lawn.  Now they are both allowed to push the mower for short distances, and it won’t be long before mowing the lawn will be their job entirely.  I was speaking with a friend today and we both talked about how our lives were revolutionalized the day that our kids were able to get dressed, use the bathroom, brush their teeth and wash their faces with no assistance.  The days of last-second diaper changes and flailing temper tantrums while dressing and forcing toothbrushes between clenched jaws were behind us, forever.  My kids are learning how to mow the lawn, for goodness’ sake, what’s next?

Happy Father’s Day, honey.  Thanks for slipping a couple past the goalie!  Wait – too soon after the Canucks’ loss? 

Speaking of commercials…

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How about that Superbowl?  Actually, the only commercials I saw were for local businesses and upcoming shows on CTV, since – for reasons that I truly do not understand – the network tapes over all the blockbuster commercials and instead runs their own.  As you can imagine, this is the source of much agitation in my house, and so this year after the kickoff my husband recorded the game while we ate dinner and then later watched it and fast forwarded through the commercials, thus sparing me from the annual diatribe against CTV and every person associated with it.  I essentially boycott CTV just because of the mental suffering they put me through every year.  I’m not even sure why this takes on the importance that it does, except that last year the commercials for CTV’s coverage of the 2010 Olympic Games! made me a little crazy.
Of course, watching the game delayed has its disadvantages too.  My husband looked over at me on my laptop.
Husband:  If you see any scores, don’t tell me.  I don’t want to know.  Make sure you don’t tell me.
Me: Okay. (seconds later) Hey, Slash is going to be on the half-time show.
Husband:  AAARRRGGHH!  Don’t tell me anything.
Me:  It’s the half-time show, not the score.
Husband:  AAARRRGHHHH!  Don’t tell me the score.
Good times.  Personally I didn’t care much about the actual game but I did think it would be nice if the Packers won a Superbowl without Brett “I’m-going-to-photograph-my-junk-and-then-send-it-to-you” “Do-U-Like-2-ParT?” Favre.  Guys, take note: if you are trying to charm a woman, do not send pictures of your penis to her.  No woman wants to see that.  We would rather see almost every other body part, including the soles of your feet.  Gross.  Not to mention this is Brett Favre.  Not to slag on my gender, but I’m guessing there are thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, of women who would sleep with Brett Favre just because he is Brett Favre.  No need to send pictures of your dick-in-a-box.  Okay?
The game was pretty good, although I thought about nachos through most of it, and was sad because I had nothing to make nachos with, which is a Superbowl Fail if there ever was one.  My husband was cheering for Green Bay and I worried about his blood pressure with every dropped pass.
Husband:  Steelers have the ball, there’s a minute left.  Wow, if Roethlisberger pulls this off, he is going to be a legend.  He’ll be remembered as a hero.
Me: Rather than as a rapist?
So I am happy that the Steelers didn’t win, despite my really meh attitude toward the game.  Were you cheering for anyone in particular?  Did you watch the game?

I never slept through Money Never Sleeps

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The boys had a day off of school today, and it went the way such days often go: with happiness distributed like a double bell curve, peaking in the mid-morning while pajamas are still on, bottoming out in the early afternoon, and then peaking again, after some activities instigated by myself, only to start the slippery slope back down again.  Mark has a love-hate relationship with days off: on the one hand, he enjoys the freedom to just play unrushed, but on the other hand he really misses the structure of school.  And I run a pretty structured house, it’s not all hippy-dippy around here; meals are eaten at the same time, bedtime and rising times are kept the same, clothes are still expected to be worn, as opposed to pajamas.  Mark started to spiral downwards right after lunch, becoming irritable and high-needs until I suggested he make Valentines for his class.  Glitter and sticker backings soon overtook the table and happiness reigned once more.
On Saturday night I watched Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps, which is remarkable for the sole reason that I watched it in its entirety and did not fall asleep.  I very rarely see the end – or middle – of movies because I generally fall asleep or, alternately, get bored and start reading, which means I have a very fuzzy view of most films released in the past ten years.  For example, the other night my husband was watching the movie Blow, which we had seen together a few years ago.  I watched a bit with him, unable to remember how it ended, only to discover that it has a very sad ending.  I watched the final scene with tears running down my face, while my husband reminded me that the man in question was a hardened, criminal drug lord, even if it was sad his daughter never visited him in prison.  It is surreal watching movies that you know, intellectually, that you have seen before but can only remember small snippets of.  The last movie I saw in a theatre was Pirates of the Caribbean Part Two, and I slept through nearly the whole thing, waking occasionally to see that weird guy with a squid head and a scene where Captain Jack was being chased around an island.  Although I may have dreamed that part.  Was Johnny Depp naked?  And feeding me grapes?  No?  Then I guess I dreamed it.
But Money Never Sleeps was an excellent movie; I would highly recommend it, especially if you are interested in financial markets.  If you aren’t, then I wouldn’t recommend it at all.  It was a very interesting and entertaining view of the 2008 market correction, and I found myself strangely attracted to Michael Douglas, which is nothing short of disturbing given that he is a senior citizen.  Evidently I’ve turned into my mother, who has always thought that Sam Elliott is the bee’s knees, and my response would be “Oh GOD, Mother, he is so OLD, how can you LIKE HIM?”  Well now.
My husband also loved Money Never Sleeps, which is not surprising given that the original Wall Street was a “motivating” movie for him.  Yes, my husband found Wall Street, greed is good, to be “motivating”.  I am not sure how I feel about that, but I guess it’s better than Rocky, or something of that genre.  Although a guy I once dated used to watch Rudy as a motivational movie.  He used to get so choked up in the part where the teammates bring their jerseys in “It’s for Rudy, Coach.”  I remember laughingly telling that story to a male co-worker, then noticed that HE was getting teary eyed as I talked about Rudy finally getting to play.  All of which is to say I just don’t understand.

Warning: This Post Written Under The Influence

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I am having one of those days where I seem to be on the go and busy all day, but investigation of the activities that have kept me on the go and busy all day is completely boring and depressing: I spent an hour grocery shopping and half that time putting the groceries away, I changed all the sheets and did four loads of laundry, it took me twenty minutes to clean up the dog’s fecal matter in the backyard, all the while I was marvelling at the sheer volume of said fecal matter.  I became extremely excited at the arrival of my new compression stockings, and I realized that I myself have become boring and depressing, due to my obsession with my freakishly bad varicose veins and impending surgery.  I’ve become like someone’s elderly aunt at a family dinner; the one who regales the company with tales of her varying, and revolting health complaints.  Will you have some more salad, Aunty?  No dear.  Remember my irritable bowel?  Well, raw vegetables really inflame it.  Well, would you like some dessert?  No dear.  Remember my acid reflux?  Sugars repeat on me all night long.  Of course, I don’t sleep anyway, due to my restless leg syndrome and hemorrhoids. 
Well, it’s Friday.  The upside of not drinking wine during the week anymore is that by the time Friday comes around, I’m delirious with anticipation.  So I’m drinking wine right now while writing, because it is 6:30 and I just couldn’t wait any longer.  Also the boys are performing science experiments with vinegar, dish soap, baking soda, and polyacrymolide crystals and, much as I love their scientific curiosity, by this time of the week such experiments feel very draining to what is left of my energy and sanity. 
Last night my husband, after a trying few weeks at work, announced to me that his new goal is to become a complete asshole.  How does one respond to that?  I informed him that he probably has already reached his goal; after all, if one’s GOAL is to become an asshole, that probably indicates that you already are one. 
Speaking of assholes, over the past two days I have witnessed no fewer than ten cars get stuck in the exact same spot in the exact same snowbank in the alley behind the school.  This week has seen a reprieve in the cold weather, and so the deep drifts have become soft and treacherous.  The first person I witnessed getting stuck was a friend of mine – NOT an asshole, I hasten to point out – and I sprinted over to help push him out.  He, and another dad who was assisting, vehemently protested against my help.  The neighbour who was spectating announced loudly that I was going to injure myself.  I’m not sure if I emanate an aura of extreme fragility or extreme incompetence, but in any case, I steered the car as the guys pushed.  Ah, chivalry.  I do appreciate it, although I have to remind my readers that I once fixed the gutters BY MYSELF in the pouring rain.  I am woman, hear me roar, and I am capable of pushing cars out of snowbanks.  I have also, on very rare occasions, mowed the lawn, although while growing up my father was concerned that if I operated a lawnmower I would surely sever my own foot off. 
I’m guessing this is enough tipsy randomness for one night.  I am off to pour myself another glass of wine, and possibly unclog some test tubes – in the writing of this post the experiments seem to have become ever more rowdy.  Happy Friday to you all, and stay tuned for next week’s posts where I will discuss a friend’s recent discoveries of her old copies of Sweet Valley High (remember the Dairi Burger?) and another friend and her school’s suspect fundraising endeavours.  Cheers!