I fixed the gutters! I fixed the gutters! By myself! This might not seem like a big deal, but believe me, it is. Just to clarify: I’m good at math. I know a lot about the NFL. I dislike shoe shopping. But when it comes to anything mechanical or requiring the smallest amount of handiness, I am as girly a girly girl as can be. I have been known to cry when I have been unable to open the hood of my car.

My husband is very handy. My husband is very mechanical. To me, one of the greatest benefits of being married is never having to deal with car-related issues ever again. This is right up there with love, companionship, and sex whenever I feel like it. One of the theories that I ascribed to prior to marriage, or even a serious relationship, was that all household jobs would be shared equally and objectively. Clearly, theory and reality are separate entities. For example, I am the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare in my family. My husband is the Department of Income and also of Fixing Things. Something like fixing the gutters is definitely a job that would lie in my husband’s jurisdiction.

I watched the pouring rain and realized that the gutters were not draining properly, as sheets of water were coming down the side of the house. I recalled the wet basement incident of 2005, got a ladder, and unclogged the gutters. In the pouring rain. By myself. And then I was amazed that what I did actually worked, that the drainpipes were actually draining and disaster averted. Hear me roar, people! Like a fish needs a bicycle, baby! Then I phoned my husband and reminded him to take the car in for an oil change, and the bottles to the depot.

I heard a statistic on the radio, that the volume of calls to divorce lawyers increases by 30 to 40 percent in the weeks following the Calgary Stampede. I guess the combination of copious amounts of alcohol and cowboy hats leads to marital discord. Maybe it could be a new slogan “The Calgary Stampede: Ten days of debauchery with bad fashion”.

The other, less quantified statistic is the surge in pregnancies during Stampede, and though I may talk high and mighty, I myself became pregnant during Stampede 2003, along with half of my prenatal class. The other half was probably thinking “You guys are losers”. We had been trying to get pregnant for a while, to no avail; long hours at my high stress job may have had something to do with it. But what happens when you add an afternoon “work” party with several Smirnoff Ice’s and a handsome and willing husband? Stampede magic, baby.

So it’s done for another year, and the city is getting back to its normal, non-cowboy-hatted self. I’m happy to report that in defiance of civic duty and tradition, I am still happily married and also not pregnant.

I had to turn on the heat today!

So much for summer. We’ve been doing all sorts of indoorsy things this week, including going through our toys to donate the outgrown ones and also throw out the broken, dog-chewed ones. Because now that we have Sham-Wow, we don’t really need all those excess toys.

The rain, thunderstorms, and high winds seem to have resulted in the boys actually losing their minds. They are crazy people. We went to the grocery store today to pick up a few items, and they were practically spinning around in giddy, Co-Op enhanced glee. The birthday cake display! The free samples of water! The sight of Guardian cereal! It was all cause for a hysterical case of the giggles. While I was in the check-out, I suggested they sit on a couple of chairs near the door. I looked up to see them taking turns putting their faces in the nearby garbage can and shrieking “I think my nose just died”. Then they would laugh. And laugh. A woman in the next check-out had a daughter of about six, sitting silently in her cart, drawing on a doodle pad.

When the boys were three and two, I was at the hair salon and another woman was there with her daughter, about Mark’s age, and she was getting a cut and colour, a two hour treatment. And her daughter sat quietly with her two dolls, her colouring book, her package of snacks. For two hours. Occasionally she would announce that she had finished her picture and was going to start another one. Or she would talk quietly to her dolls. I felt like I was viewing some strange native ritual in a foreign, exotic country. I could envision the scenario in which I bring the children along for a treatment and subsequently never get another appointment. I could just imagine them, burning themselves on the curling irons and shooting each other with the hair dryers, knocking over displays and spraying water on the floor. I could picture myself in this scenario, forehead furrowed, grey hairs popping up through the application of hair colour, constantly admonishing and grimacing. “Are the boys at your mom’s?” my stylist asks me at every appointment, at which question I nod thankfully.

I’m hoping for summer to reappear. Soon please.

You know that feeling when you want something for a long time, and you think about it all the time, and then one day, you obtain it and it is everything you ever hoped it could be and more? Well, my children experienced that this weekend. Yes, we finally purchased a package of Sham-Wows.

Ever since Mark saw his first Sham-Wow commercial, he wanted to possess one. He NEEDED to possess one. He wondered how we could possibly live our lives without one. Every day, it was “We could use Sham-Wow to wash the car! We could use Sham-Wow to wash Grandpa’s boat! We could use Sham-Wow to dry off Barkley!” And so on and so forth, until we actually saw the Sham-Wow display in Costco. (“I thought it wasn’t available in stores” I said to Rob, who hushed me and put it in our cart, evidently fulfilling Mark’s greatest dream.) We came home with the Sham-Wows at approximately 12:35 pm on Sunday, and several hours later, they were still busily washing everything in sight. Mark’s enthusiasm was contagious, because Jake was clearly bitten by the Sham-Wow bug. “Mom, do we have any spilled winecoffeecola?” Jake asked, parroting the guy in the commercial. Answer regretfully in the negative. No matter, there were many other surfaces to clean. The baseboards are now in their cleanest state ever. Jake was actually so enamoured with his that he pretended to give birth to it, shoving it up his shirt, saying “My stomach hurts” – I had informed him that is how a baby knows to come out, the mommy’s stomach hurts. Like really hurts. – and then pulling the Sham-Wow out of his shirt, announcing “Look at my baby!”. I would like to know if this sort of thing happens in any other household.

I have mentioned before that I have no idea why I purchase any toys at all for the kids, and after the Sham-Wow miracle, I am reinforced in this opinion. Hours of occupation, sparkling clean baseboards – what more could I ask for?

Okanagan wineries.

Jim Cuddy. I (and yes, this is bragging) actually met him! Hubba hubba. That story is the subject of a whole other post, but let us just say that he wins the Hottest Canadian Contest (other than my husband, of course, who is very sexy and handsome and also very confident, and so can handle my schoolgirl crush on Jim Cuddy).

I was jealous of my husband every single day when the boys were babies. Every single day when he would leave for work, I would envision his life of freedom: walking to the train station unencumbered by double stroller or diaper bag, a ride on the train with nothing to do but listen to his IPod, having a cup of coffee with no crying or clinging, a lunch eaten with an empty lap and one that did not consist of only a single slice of peanut butter toast. His life seemed, to my baby-filled world, the epitome of freedom. And although this being the modern age and I – privileged with the ability to choose – had chosen this very life, at times it felt like I had been sentenced to it. I was busy with the needs of a very young toddler and a colicky infant. I rarely, if ever, had a moment to myself and I was resentful and jealous that he did, his work-related stresses notwithstanding.

I am not jealous of him anymore.

In fact, I think I have much the better deal these days – the boys are easier, more fun, and I spend much of my time doing fun and interesting things with them. The exception was this past weekend.

My husband was attending a company golf tournament in a mountain resort, and the itineraries that he sent home were filled with fun events and lovely meals, and although I did not envy the golf portion – no – I was filled with jealousy that he could spend the weekend in the company of friends and co-workers with no responsibilities other than to enjoy himself. I on the other hand was caring for the children, enjoyable though they may be, and I felt extremely put-upon. I wanted to be the one going somewhere, doing something, and being completely secure that someone else would take care of things at home, without my input or concern. Of course, that’s not possible. The sad and honest truth is that even if such an opportunity for me to leave for the weekend arose, I would not likely seize it, and I would certainly not be able to be light hearted and carefree about it. The truth is that I cannot go back to the days of light hearted and carefree single-girl travel, and really I do not want to, but I can’t help but feel a selfish sort of sadness that those days are gone forever.

For the first time in about a year and a half, I have clean carpets. Hoo boy! Nothing says “1950’s housewife” like the excitement I felt about getting the carpets cleaned, with the exception of maybe obtaining some kind of household appliance. And let me tell you, the excitement was contagious. It was like the freaking circus just came to town for the boys. All day they waited, anticipating Mr. Carpet Cleaner’s arrival. His van was spotted outside at 3:27. “HE’S HEEERRRRREEEEE!!!!” screamed Jake. Mark flung the door open as the unsuspecting carpet cleaner started up our walk. “HEELLLLLOOOOOO!!!!” Judging by his somewhat alarmed expression, clearly Mr. Carpet Cleaner was not accustomed to such an enthusiastic welcome. That was just the beginning. “Is that your vacuum? Is that your vacuum hose? Is that how you plug it in?” The questions were nonstop and the glee was not containable. It kind of made me feel bad. Like how deprived are my children that the carpet cleaner brings them such joy?

Any time we have had people working in our house the kids have been completely engrossed by the progress of the job. A couple of years ago we had the interior doors replaced, and Mark practically stalked the guy doing the job. There was a constant, running commentary from him: “Look, he’s taking off his hat! He’s picking up a hammer! He’s drinking water from a water bottle!” It was a little awkward, not unlike yesterday’s mayhem. I always have a nagging concern that these guys are going to mistake the boys’ enthusiasm for MY enthusiasm, and mistake me for a cougarish, lonely housewife, as in certain adult films. Like maybe I’m going to show up in a short satin robe with those fluffy mule slippers. “Is that your screwdriver? It’s really BIG.”

Anyway. The carpet is clean, even the stain from Barkley throwing up potting soil has been removed. So I am excited! Because forget the lonely housewife, that stain was turning me into a crazed Lady Macbeth.