Category Archives: Testosterone-y

Buddhas, Black Friday, and Bikinis

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I’m torn between not wanting time to go any faster than it already does, living mindfully in the moment, savouring every day, and also counting down the next three weeks until Christmas vacation. On the one hand – mindfulness! On the other – hoo boy, am I looking forward to the break.

Were you on the edge of your seat, wondering how the white chocolate fudge turned out? Well, wonder no more! IT DID NOT GO WELL.

I was so optimistic until the time came to cut it; it was not dissimilar to cutting into a thick pudding. Which is to say, it was messy and weird. Again, how? How did this happen? How do two things that become solid when frozen become a non-Newtonian fluid when mixed together? Why do I need a degree in chemistry to make fudge? At any rate, I was very disappointed. By this time, I had sunk approximately $15 worth of ingredients into that little pan, and I was loathe to throw it out. It’s like throwing $15 in the compost bin. I put the pan back in the freezer and took the dog for a walk.

Taking a walk is great for generating ideas, isn’t it? The little loop Barkley and I walk takes about thirty minutes, and it is good thinking time for me. It’s also a good way to practice mindfulness and notice my surroundings. For example, there is one house on our loop that has a Buddha statue on their front step; it’s not just any Buddha statue, either. There is a jagged edge where the head used to be. This headless Buddha has been there for many months, and the strangest thing is that the head sits on the drain spout directly beside its decapitated body. To my inexpert handywoman eye, it seems like it would be easily fixed with some Gorilla Glue, but no. I can’t help wondering why. It cannot be unnoticed by the residents of the house. Is it some kind of statement? Mere laziness? We may never know the answer.

In any case, as I was walking, I wondered why I was so attached to the idea of little squares of fudge. Practice non-attachment, Nicole. I came up with the idea of rolling the fudge-like-substance into little balls and then dusting with cocoa powder, like a truffle. I tried later that day and it was incredibly messy and oddly difficult, but it somewhat worked.

They did not hold shape particularly well, but my younger son assured me that they were delicious and that he would volunteer as tribute to eat the entire thing, if no one else wanted them. Always willing to sacrifice, that’s him.

I made a coffee date last Friday with a colleague of mine; we both had a brief window of time and she had an appointment in my quadrant of the city. For those of you who I have had actual coffee dates with, you already know that I never have any clue about cool and interesting coffee shops. I never know where anything is and I’m always at a loss to suggest a venue. But for this coffee date, I suggested the Starbucks at a nearby mall; my colleague’s appointment was just down the hill from it, and I live about five minutes away. Normally I do not set foot in the mall after mid-November, but I thought 10:30 on a Friday morning, how bad could it be?

It was Black Friday.

Later, when I was relating this story, a friend (HI ALANA) said to me How could you not know it was Black Friday? Didn’t you get all the emails? Well, yes. My inbox had been exploding over the past week, and yet I never made the connection between the mall and Black Friday. Neither did my colleague, which is how I ended up circling the road-rage-filled parking lot, trying to find a spot, and having to allow an extra twenty minutes to leave the parking lot, so that I wouldn’t be late for my class.

It’s ridiculous, really. Black Friday ISN’T A THING IN CANADA. Well, I guess it IS a thing now, no matter how much I deny it. The parking lot was similar to Christmas Eve or Boxing Day, with the exact kind of panicked, I must buy all the things attitude that one might see on those days. It was insane. The only upside is that I got to see all the pretty Christmas decorations that were not up when last I was in the mall, such as a gigantic sparkly moose.

And as much as I deny the existence of Black Friday, I am not made of stone. The endless barrage of emails from various retailers wore me down, and I actually clicked on the one from La Vie En Rose. I was in the market for a new bikini, anyway, and they had absolutely ridiculous prices. The one I fell in love with was obtained for a mere $22. Twenty-two dollars! Of course, my husband looked at the photo and pronounced it “ugly” and that the “embroidery looks old-ladyish.”

Well. I do not think it’s UGLY but he may have a point in terms of old-ladyish-ness. A few years ago I realized that triangle-and-string bikinis were really not suitable anymore, for a few reasons, most notably that they were no longer flattering – hello, gravity – and also they were not providing the, shall I say, coverage that I think is appropriate for a woman my age who is the mother of two teenage boys. Since I refuse to wear one-pieces for the same reasons I refuse to wear rompers or jumpsuits, more modest bikinis are my new jam. The key word here is COVERAGE. I don’t want to end up dressing like Stacy’s Mom.

Speaking of teen boys, this week I took them to the dentist for their cleaning and checkups. They are still going to the same pediatric dentist we’ve been patronizing for a decade. It occurred to me for the first time that perhaps it might be time to switch dentists; not because I have any issues with the actual dentist practice, in fact, it’s the opposite. I love their whole office. However, I thought maybe it was time to move on when I looked at my sons and their feet hanging off the small purple dental chairs, their heads popping up above the headrests. I asked the dentist at what point should we say good-bye to them, and he said that he sees kids up to age eighteen. I pictured their future six-foot-plus frames squished into the child-sized dental chairs.

The thing is, their office is so convenient. It is literally a three-minute drive from my house, and approximately that long from their school. They had an 8:00 appointment and both were back at the school by 8:25. I mean, you can’t buy that kind of convenience. Maybe I will keep them there until they are 18, their deep voices will be a change from the usual high-pitched screaming that is de rigeur in any given pediatric dental office.

What’s In A Name; Perspectives; Book Reviews

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The other night, our dinnertime conversation centered on names, and whether the names we give our children are self-fulfilling prophecies. I’ve always been fascinated by names and how they change with trends and generations. The book Freakonomics has a very interesting chapter on names and demographics, and of course I’m watching with interest as names start to come back into style that would have been considered ridiculous when I was a kid. The boys have become big Seinfeld fans – “Santa” gave them the complete series on DVD at Christmas – and there is one bit where Jerry reflects that calling a child “Jeeves” pretty much guarantees a career as a butler. The conversation turned interesting when one of the boys said that it was no wonder Scar from The Lion King was evil; just look at the other names the lions were given. Mufasa. Simba. Sarabi. Nala. All beautiful, majestic names, and then there’s Scar. The other boy said he hoped it was just a nickname given later in life, because if someone was born with a deformity, it seemed cruel to name them after that deformity. “I mean, if you were born with a gigantic head, it seems mean to name a baby Big Head.”

In any case, we all decided that poor Scar was a bit misunderstood and maybe even bullied a little, which is why he turned out the way he did. It’s interesting, always, to look at things from another perspective. I stumbled on this tweet stream the other day and people, it always pays to look at things from someone else’s point of view. There are always at least two sides to every story.

There are two sides to this story as well, but here is my side: my good scissors are missing. Someone who shall remain nameless but who is under fifty and is not me misplaced them; bless his heart, he was helping his father take down the outdoor Christmas decorations, a thankless task, and somehow the scissors have disappeared. Now, I have a very tidy and well-organized house, and believe me when I say THEY ARE NOT IN THE HOUSE. Possibly they were accidentally dropped in a snowbank somewhere, but I think it’s more likely they are in one of the many boxes housing the decorations that are now in the rafters in the garage.

It doesn’t matter what happened to them. What matters is that for the last few weeks I have been forced to use our secondary pair of scissors, a much cheaper and far inferior product.

The good scissors were a wedding gift from my then-boss (HI GARY, WHEREVER YOU ARE) and they were Henkels. When he gave them to me, he jokingly said “You can think of me every time you cut something” and I swear to you, I actually did. But now, upon being forced to use the inferior scissors, I found I was only thinking of my grave disappointment with each use.

Enough is enough and today I headed out in the freezing cold to purchase a new pair of Henkels from The Bay. My motto is to never buy anything at The Bay that isn’t on sale, but needs must sometimes you guys, needs must. It took a lot of internal conflict for me to buy them, with my half-Scottish side reprimanding myself for even THINKING of spending a ridiculous sum of money on scissors when a) the others might turn up next Christmas or when the snow melts, and b) they weren’t even on sale. But you know, I thought it was a small price to pay to have nice scissors again, and not think sadly of the son who misplaced the scissors – WHILE DOING SOMETHING HELPFUL, HE DID NOT MEAN TO DO THIS THING.

Anyway, they are now in my possession and look:

“Just perfect” – they are, really.

It’s all about perspective! And on that note, I’d like to share my perspective on a few books sent to me by Simon and Schuster. I was not compensated for these reviews, but I was sent advance reader copies of each.

Walk It Off

Whenever I get a headache – which is rare, I am not headache-prone – I think, in the voice of Arnold Schwartzegger from Kindergarten Cop, it’s not a tum-ah. But what if it is a tumour? Ruth Marshall – an actress noted for her role in Degrassi, among other things – dismissed her tingling legs and clumsiness, only to find out that she had a giant tumour on her spine. Walk It Off is her memoir (what is the difference between memoir and autobiography?) about her diagnosis and recovery, and although it sounds quite grim, it’s actually really hilarious and heart-warming. You can’t help but put yourself in her (flat) shoes and wonder what it would be like to be in recovery and rehab, with two children, learning to walk and use the bathroom. You also can’t help but get slightly alarmed when you wake up with pins and needles in your hand, ostensibly because you slept in a weird position, but WHAT IF. It’s a really great, quick read with the kind of “a door closes and another opens” ending that I absolutely love.

Dangerous Crossing

As soon as I finished this fabulous mystery I immediately lent it to my mother, who loves mysteries and historical fiction. Dangerous Crossing is the story of a British domestic servant who took advantage of an offer from the Australian government to sail Down Under; apparently domestic servants were in short supply, and the Aussies would pay the passage of young women to go into service. This was in 1939 and really did happen. Now, with any historical fiction, there will be some parts that are NOT strictly historical; behaviours and attitudes tend to be modernized so as to not offend the reader, and this book is no exception. Also, I found myself wondering how on earth a domestic servant would afford a cream silk evening gown, and why cream? It would be hard to clean on a ship. But ignoring that, this book is delicious and fun and I really did not see the ending coming, at all. I like those kinds of twists. This would be an amazing travel read or a book to take to the beach.

Things To Do When It’s Raining

This lovely gem of a book is all about secrets and how they can tear you apart, and the healing power of forgiveness and love. Things To Do When It’s Raining has a lovely message and interesting characters, and this paragraph, I think, says it all.

Asymmetry

I saved the best for last. Of all the books I read in 2017, this might be my favourite. Asymmetry is an incredibly written, beautiful story in three parts; the first two seem like they are completely unrelated, from the perspective of two completely unrelated people, but in the third part, we see how they overlap. It’s a debut novel and it’s amazing – a must read. From a May-December romance to an Iraqi-American detained at London Heathrow, the intertwined stories are fascinating. I loved this so much that I have already decided to re-read it on my next plane trip – it’s such dense, gorgeous writing that I feel that I will get even more out of it on a second read.

On that note, I have laundry to fold and banana bread to make (I still have SO MANY frozen bananas) and a class to teach so I’m signing off. xo

Menu for when it’s too hot to cook, and things I don’t understand.

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I’m not trying to make any political statements here, honestly, but there is something I really do not understand. In the past week, I have seen three separate writings about the horrors of cargo shorts and I have to ask my dear readers: why? Why are cargo shorts such reviled things? I’m asking honestly here, since I am not a person who likes shorts to begin with, and I fail to see much difference between regular shorts and cargo shorts. Shorts, in my humble opinion, are unflattering at the best of times but I recognize that occasionally practicality must prevail. Just like giant puffy coats in winter, sometimes shorts are a necessary evil to survival in the summer. Not, I hastily add, for me, but for others.

Well, I say this, but I actually have a pair of booty shorts that I will occasionally don when it is very hot and I don’t want to completely dehydrate while doing my cardio workout. I have not yet worn them off my own property yet, to be viewed by people not related or married to me, but I do wear them on occasion nonetheless. Again, reiterating, the need for practicality sometimes – SOMETIMES – surpasses the desire to be fashionable.

Back to cargo shorts. Why are they any different from regular shorts? Sure, they have huge pockets, but aren’t pockets a thing we enjoy in life? At least I enjoy being able to carry things with me, not unlike a turtle. My overstuffed purse is testament to this.

I guess I just don’t understand. I also don’t understand the hate for Nickleback, which probably says something about me. Hey, I understand not liking certain bands or musical genres – not everything floats everyone’s musical boats. I just don’t understand the vitriol towards them, or, seemingly relatedly, cargo shorts.

But I am open to (reasonable) debate on those topics.

I will tell you one thing that I don’t understand the seemingly universal love and infatuation with: the poop emoji. Last week when I was at the local amusement park with the kids, I noticed that the majority of the large prizes at the (rigged) games were stuffed poop emojis, replacing the Spongebobs and Pikachus of yesteryear. Why. WHY. Why is this a thing? Why do we want to have our children snuggle with cartoon versions of piles of defecation, or worse, wear those cartoon versions of piles of defecation ON THEIR HEADS.

A smiley face does not counteract the grossness.

A friend (HI JENNIFER) pointed out that there is – and I cannot believe that I am typing this – a “poop emoji cafe” that serves food in toilet shaped bowls, features toilets for chairs, and specializes in chocolate soft serve ice cream someone please stop the madness. I feel ill just thinking about it.

Unless a person is a medical professional specializing in intestinal issues, I do not want to discuss bowel movements. I will talk about facial hair, waxing, ladies’ holidays, and underwear, but this is a bridge too far. What happens in the toilet should stay in the toilet, so let’s pretend that the poop emoji was never invented and instead bring our focus onto the unicorns, diamond rings, coffee, wine, and heart emojis. MAYBE even the taco and/ or eggplant ones if we are feeling saucy and in the mood for sexting, middle-aged style.

Anyway. This is not what I meant to write about today. What I had been meaning to write about was a menu for when it’s too hot to cook. I swear to you that it has actually been – for a couple of days – too hot to cook in Calgary, and that is a thing that is uncommon and rare. My husband took the kids camping on the weekend and for my evening “off” I made a single-girl meal of pesto, guacamole, crackers, dried mangoes, and vodka. It was a thing of beauty. I have an indoor herb garden and the basil was ready to be harvested, and so I made a glorious pesto. I just wish there was more of it! However, I am not suggesting this as a meal plan for everyday.

Lately, when it’s been too hot to cook, I’ve been resorting to simple meals like Greek salad with pita and hummus – for those of you non-dairy types, you can find my recipe for almond feta here. Although, frankly, Greek salad with pita and hummus is on the regular rotation here – it’s a Friday night meal that the guys round out with some sauteed chicken breast.

Other great ideas for simple summer suppers: Lemony Lentil Salad, Sundried Tomato Pasta Salad, Avocado Pasta Salad, and pasta salad with homemade ranch dressing. I also have been making a Thai noodle salad using stir fry noodles, veggies, and a sauce made up of 3 tbsp each soy sauce and rice vinegar, 2 tbsp sesame oil, 1 tbsp each lime juice and brown sugar, with fresh grated ginger and minced garlic, with a spoonful of chili garlic sauce. Veggie wraps (the guys add chicken) are also popular, as are tacos and, of course, barbeque. I am a person who does not use a barbeque because I am terrified of blowing everything up/ burning my hair off, but my husband is quite the griller.

And there is no need to skimp on desserts just because you don’t want to use your oven! Here are some ideas: Avocado Key Lime Pie, Homemade Healthy Fudgsicles, Homemade Dole Whip, Chocolate Covered Strawberries (perfect for the season!), Chunky Monkey Bites, Strawberry Dreamsicles, and YES, I also cannot believe I’m saying this given the political/ emoji climate but HEALTHY CHOCOLATE SOFT-SERVE “NICE” CREAM.

So you see, we have come full circle.

Let’s do the time warp again.

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A long time ago, a gas station within walking distance to my house was demolished. That demolition represented many hours worth of entertainment for my children; we would walk over there and watch as the large machinery tore down the buildings and removed the pumps. Then we watched, along with the elderly men of the neighbourhood, as they dug up presumably-contaminated soil, adding in truckloads of fresh soil, and smoothing everything down. At the time we also had the entire collection of Mighty Machines on DVD, and the boys would watch them whenever I needed time to shower, or prepare dinner, or otherwise needed thirty minutes of downtime. We had one that featured “The Demolition Site,” and inspired by this and the actual demolition site in our neighbourhood, the boys would play that game for hours. They would pile all their toys into the middle of a room and then use their toy bulldozers to push various items around. This, along with the requisite clean-up, would take up whole afternoons.

It’s funny to think that when they were little it was all about slowly killing the day; thinking of things to do that would keep them occupied. The days were so long back then, and now they fly by and there’s never enough time.

All of which is to say that there are only a few days left of school, and in the case of my junior high student, each of those days is a half day only. In some ways I wish they would just compress them all and finish earlier, but no.

On the other hand, while the grade seven students are doing ridiculous, make-work projects just to kill the day – even these half days must seem long to the teaching staff – the grade six students are writing Provincial Achievement Tests this week. So my house has been a strange combination of inappropriate stress over these so-called “fun end-of-term projects” – Mom, I need 150 pieces of coloured paper to glue together for Humanities, and do we have any Styrofoam, bendable straws, and aluminum foil? – and appropriate stress over the tests that prove their competence over the last year of elementary school. I will be breathing a sigh of relief next week, I can tell you that much.

In between teaching, grocery shopping, and busily preparing end-of-year cookies and teacher gifts, I’ve been spending time in my garden. I noticed the very first rose blooming just a couple of days ago; now the entire fence is abloom. Is abloom a word? I hope so.

My columbines have been seeding everywhere, and I know that technically if a plant is growing where you did not plant it, that makes it a weed, but in my books it just makes it a floral miracle.

The gardening season in Calgary is short and intense, so I am trying my best to savour it all.

Have a beautiful weekend, everyone! xo

 

Sweatin’ to the Oldies

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I was driving home from yoga on Tuesday when I heard on the radio that Southern Alberta is under an extreme cold warning; Calgary is NOT included in this warning. I looked at the dashboard and the temperature read minus 26. What does a city have to do to get an extreme cold warning around here?

It’s already started to warm up, thankfully, and the streets are merely a mess of mushy snow and frozen-over ridges, which is much better than the sheer ice/ snow piles that they were. This morning I decided to wrap up warmly and take Barkley to the dog park since it was minus 15, which is my personal cut-off. I regretted the decision upon arrival but powered through, because this fuzzy little face was so happy.

Who’s a good doggy? Barkley is! Barkley’s a good doggy!

The grade seven gym class, having completed the Dance Unit, with their foray into the Cadillac Ranch and Cotton Eyed Joe line dances, are now in the Cardiovascular Health unit. Yesterday they participated in Tai Bo. Tai Bo! With Billy Blanks! The general consensus was that the video used was “creepy.” Creepy or not, I would have loved to be a fly on the wall to see 12 and 13 year old kids doing Tai Bo.

I do not know how the curriculum is created, but it seems to have a very large Nineties push. I wonder if step aerobics will be next. Oh, how I loved step aerobics. I would probably still love step aerobics, given the chance. I remember going through the group workout schedule in university and being able to attend such classes as Step and Pump, Interval Step, and Boxercise. Those were the days, when I would don my sports bra, shorts, and – inexplicably – ball cap for a workout between actual academic classes.

I just now remembered why I wore a ball cap to work out in. It was because of my extremely layered Rachel haircut; it was impossible to keep the hair out of my face otherwise.

Continuing with the video workouts, perhaps Sweatin’ to the Oldies will have a chance to make a comeback. I earnestly, and without irony, like Richard Simmons. Although for these kids, “The Oldies” could be defined as anything between 1995-2005, songs which often seem to me as “just released.” Maybe he has a “twerking” workout. A twerkout, as it were.

Discovery: the entire collection of Sweatin’ to the Oldies is available on Amazon for $282.53, which seems like a lot, but there is only one left in stock, so I guess Amazon knows what it’s doing.

Have a wonderful weekend, everyone! Stay warm. xo

http://giphy.com/gifs/richard-simmons-rCSeweOMD0v2o

 

Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl

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This morning I heard Copacabana on the way home from yoga, and it set the tone for my whole day. I have been doing the merengue and the cha-cha all day, humming about yellow feathers in my hair and a dress cut down to there. At least I know all the words to Copacabana, which makes it a little less crazy, unlike the time I had Fancy by Bobby Gentry stuck in my head. I only really knew the words Here’s your one chance, Fancy, don’t let me down so I basically had that on repeat for a few days. I would much rather sing about the hottest spot north of Havana.

My friend and I were walking our dogs and talking about the vast amount of food our sons consume each week. We joked that food preparation, in a house with pre-teen and teenage boys, is the equivalent of a part-time job. Since I have the irritating personality trait of needing to empirically quantify any such claim, I actually started noting down how much time I actually do spend grocery shopping, planning and preparing meals, baking, doing dishes and cleaning up the kitchen. The number of hours I spend doing those things per week was actually astonishing and I wish I hadn’t had the urge to do the math.

For one thing, I realize that this job is just going to get bigger and bigger for several years, and then, when the boys leave home, it is going to be gone, completely GONE, and I am going to be left in my empty kitchen, singing Landslide softly to myself while wondering what to do with all these cookies.

That, right there, is the reason I cannot wish away time, even if every single Tuesday I think to myself What? It’s only Tuesday? I don’t want to wish my life away. It’s already the end of January and life often feels like it’s a cartoon of pages flying off the calendar.

Anyway, with all the awful, terrifying, and disheartening things happening in the world, I am choosing to focus on my own backyard. There are lots of opportunities to make the world a better place, and as I said to my neighbour the other day, efforts that seem small in the grand scheme of things are actually not small at all to the people being helped. It’s a good reminder.

I am also focusing a bit on my literal backyard, because this happened:

 

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We have a huge backyard and when the kids were small they would spend hours out there, playing with Barkley and shooting water guns and running around. They are past that stage now, and I convinced my husband that a trampoline would be the cure for all that ails us.

tramapoline

It arrived in pieces on Friday and my husband and I spent four hours on Saturday putting it together. FOUR HOURS. It was well worth it though, since it has been fairly mild for the past couple of weeks. We’ve all enjoyed it so much already and I’m looking forward to summer, when our house can become the neighbourhood hangout. I’m sure my kitchen time will increase substantially with a group of teen boys in my backyard, but it will be well worth it.

Be well, friends. xo

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.

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I promise not to complain about the sheer futility of Daylight Saving Time, and the ending of Daylight Saving Time, and the ridiculousness that is the idea of Daylight Saving Time, and the fact that we are a mere two weeks away from the sun setting before 4:30 pm. I promise.

I have had the most bizarre song stuck in my head; it is Please Come To Boston. It’s somewhat obscure, and I do not know how it happened, but I have been singing You rambling boy why won’t you settle down, Boston ain’t your kind of town, there ain’t no gold and there ain’t nobody like mmmmeeeeeeeeeeee, ’cause I’m the number one fan of the man from Tennessee. Over and over. And with the very strong crescendo, which made my kids look at each other, alarmed and silent. A friend (HI ALLISON) who I saw at the yoga studio this afternoon helped me out for a few moments, by singing I am sixteen, going on seventeen, but alas, mere minutes later it was eclipsed by Please come to Boston, she said no, you come home to meeeeee. If this goes on much longer I may need to be medicated.

Saturday night I went to see Dr. Strange, which was the very last thing I wanted to do on Saturday night. Well, maybe not the very last; it was probably above “colonoscopy” but much, much below “binge-watching The Crown while drinking wine on the couch in my pajamas.” However, I am very happy to have seen it, because it was extremely entertaining, very funny, and the perfect length. Too many movies these days – she says, while shaking a grizzled, liver-spotted fist in the air – are at least thirty minutes too long. I highly recommend it, if you are a person who enjoys superhero movies. Even if you’re not, it’s still very fun.

I was feeling especially drained this weekend, after the eon that was last week, and seven and a half hours of teacher training on the weekend, which is why I wanted to just curl up at home on Saturday night. Friday, if you recall, I was chaperoning a field trip to the Olympic Oval. It wasn’t until we were actually at the Oval that I learned WHY we were there, and that was to watch the qualifying heats for the World Cup for Short Track Speed Skating. Did you know there was a World Cup for Short Track Speed Skating? Neither did I. But it was very fun, and I learned all sorts of interesting things, like Kazakhstan is quite a contender for Short Track, and also, the 500 metre event is absolute insanity. I kept waiting for someone to get killed, but it didn’t happen, happily.

The event was sponsored by an insurance company, and I am giving them a little bit of the side-eye. Since it was a qualifying event, the vast majority of spectators were all kids in Grades 5 and 6; hundreds of kids were there, with homemade flags and signs. The insurance company had thoughtfully provided each child with a gift bag, containing a water bottle, some very nicely done trading cards with photos of speed skaters on them, and TWO NOISEMAKERS; one that folded into an accordion and was used to make loud clapping sounds, and one that was a very loud kazoo. Imagine, if you will, an arena filled with hundreds of children aged 10-12, all armed with noisemakers. The noise was not to be described. Every time a Canadian set foot on the ice, the cheering and kazoo-ing got even louder, if that was even possible, bless those patriotic hearts.

The thing I did not know about speed skating is that there needs to be perfect silence prior to each heat, because any noise can trigger the starting gun and result in false starts. Think about that for a moment, if you will.

To be perfectly honest, the children were very good about this silence rule for the first little while, but kids will be kids and by the time the men’s 500 metre came up, there were a number of false starts and several warnings over the loudspeaker. I was pretty relieved by the time we packed it in, because things were starting to go off the rails a tiny bit. I was also relieved that Jake had somehow managed to break his kazoo-noisemaker.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.