Last night I watched American Idol, as I tried to thaw out from the FREEZING COLD soccer practice. It must be noted that I’m not a huge fan of this show, but somehow end up watching it as my husband really likes it. I have enjoyed this season though – the singers are talented and the songs have been fairly interesting. Anyway, as I hummed along to What’s Going On, I realized that there are hundreds, maybe even thousands, of songs the lyrics to which I know by heart.

A few years ago, I read an article by a woman who had been trying to lose weight for years. She spent years dieting, calorie counting, and obsessed with food when one day she realized all the mental energy that she had spent thinking about weight loss and food could have been more productively used.

This begs the question: how much of my brain space are all of these song lyrics taking up? Could I be much more productive if I didn’t know the lyrics to every song on Sgt. Pepper, or if I couldn’t rap all of “Parents Just Don’t Understand”, a song committed to memory during my time at summer Bible camp in 1988? If someone casually says “Take a load off” I immediately have “The Weight” running through my brain. Is this information squeezing out more important information?

The fact that I’m writing this post probably suggests that my mind is a bit of a wasteland today. So maybe, yes, the song lyrics are taking up valuable brain space.

Keeping that in mind, who is going to win American Idol tonight?

This is how my (much younger) cousin celebrates the Victoria Day weekend, by going camping and taking along a few (but just a few, I’m sure) beers, because, as all Canadians know, the Victoria Day weekend is the unofficial start of summer! This morning I woke up to a light skiff of snow on the ground, and my thoughts were happy because it was one degree Celsius, which means that my plants actually did not have frost damage last night. That is how you can tell I am a true Calgarian: I was happy that it was (marginally) above freezing in late May.

But camping! On the long weekend! It seems like this is the thing to do and it’s something I have never understood. For one thing, camping is just not my thing. I love the outdoors, I love being outside IN THE DAY. I love gardening, hiking in the mountains, cross-country skiing, and just generally being outside soaking up the sun, albeit with a thick layer of high SPF sunscreen. However, at night, I like to be indoors, thank you very much. My husband and I went camping for three days on Vancouver Island shortly after we got married, and that, as they say, was that. I’m sure I will be suckered into more camping trips in my life, but I’m not exactly enthusiastic about it. Camping in May, though, seems a bit like utter lunacy, especially in this part of the world, where you can have warm and sunny days followed immediately by a snowfall, which is exactly what happened this weekend.

I seem to be in the minority with these thoughts.

My weekend was lovely though – the weather was beautiful for Saturday and Sunday and so I somewhat frantically worked in my garden, taking advantage of the sunshine and even wearing a t-shirt and Capri pants, which is clearly a sign that temperatures are rising, given my propensity to wear sweaters year round. But I will stop writing about this because I seem to have turned into an elderly woman who can only talk about the weather and her garden. Next thing you know I will be complaining about my varicose veins. Oh wait! I already DO complain about my varicose veins. Maybe I should just make myself a hot toddy and watch the sleety snow fall. The perfect way to end the Victoria Day weekend.

What is more traumatic than bathing suit shopping? Well, I guess a lot of things are much more traumatic. Let me re-word that: what shopping related travesty is worse than bathing suit shopping?

Apropos to my rant about loving your body, feeling comfortable in your skin, I decided that I was desperately in need of a new bathing suit. For one thing, the last bathing suit I purchased was back when the girls were a lot more well-rounded, if you know what I mean. It was really high time to find a new one. I also decided, somewhat rashly, that it was also time I bought a bikini. The last time I wore a bikini was in June of 1997 for a girls’ trip to Mexico. So, with “celebrate your body, girlfriend” in my mind, I high-tailed it to the nearest Swimco, telling myself I was not going to leave without a bikini.

I really dislike shopping. My whole life’s work (in shopping terms) has been to narrow down three stores in which I can purchase anything I might need to wear, because I know how the clothes fit. Swimco is not one of these stores. What is it with bathing suit sizes? You think you know what size you are, then when you shop for a bathing suit it is like you have landed on a different planet, where sizes are all randomly determined. None the less, I pushed on, having limited time to shop and hey, I WAS NOT LEAVING WITHOUT A BIKINI.

As I tried on several suits, I discovered something that is probably self-evident, but that I clearly had not thought of: bikinis can be really skanky looking. One wrong move and all hell would break loose, if you catch my drift. Thus the following conversation:

Me: Isn’t it a little…revealing?
Young salesgirl: Well, you are trying on a bikini.

Touché, young salesgirl, touché.

I explained my dilemma – I have two little kids, but as they are not nursing, I really don’t need my nipples showing, I kind of feel like I look like a whore – and the nice young salesgirl came up with the perfect solution, one that would give me much better coverage. It was especially perfect, considering my dramatically deflated breasts and all.

She brought me a bikini top from the junior girl’s section.

So this is what it has come to, my people. As I have said before, and I doubtless will say again, oh how the mighty have fallen.

My very dear friend just informed me that the “obscure” band I had mentioned is actually the Irish Rovers, and they are Canadian, and so SHAME ON ME!!!! I am appropriately shamed.

Ever since Beck’s post about music yesterday, I’ve had the following child-inappropriate songs stuck in my head:

1) Wasn’t that a party, by some obscure band in the late 70’s. You know the song: “Could have been the whiskey, might have been the gin, could have been the three or four six packs I don’t know, but just look at the mess I’m in”. I remember this song from my own childhood, and I remember asking my mom why the guy’s head was like a football. I don’t remember her answer, but I’m sure it was somewhat vague.

2) Gold Digger, by Kanye West. In terms of child-inappropriate songs, this one is the gold standard. It has it all: misogyny, overt sexual references, and extremely offensive language.

3) Why Don’t We (get drunk and screw) by Jimmy Buffet. I don’t really think I need to expound on this.

Why or how these songs got into my head, I don’t know. What I do know is that when I got into my car today the oldies’ radio station that I listen to was playing “I want to kiss you all over” and all I could think of was the scene in Happy Gilmore where Adam Sandler was singing that into his ex-girlfriend’s apartment intercom. TIME TO GROW UP, NICOLE.

It has been pouring rain all day, and it’s four degrees outside. The sky is dark, but I’m strangely happy…because that means that the soccer practice will be (OMG, hopefully) cancelled tonight!

I hope.

Every soccer night so far this year has been either a) freezing cold, b) incredibly windy, gusting up to 70 km/hour, or c) snowy or rainy, but not snowy or rainy enough to cancel.

I want a night off, and I think I’m going to get it! Yippee! A silver lining to a rainy day.

You know the kind of Saturday evening where you nobly encourage your husband to golf nine, after all he is supportive of all your yogic pursuits, but after you pick the kids up from their afternoon birthday party they are insane with post-party excitement, birthday cake, and they unfortunately have received as party favours giant FOAM SWORDS with which they have been beating each other and their little friend whom you also drove to the party, and then after supper it stops raining long enough to send them outside to burn off steam but the dog, unbeknownst to you, eats a bunch of potting soil then comes inside to barf all over the carpet, then when you are cleaning up the muddy barfy mess the boys try to help by carrying sopping wet rags all over the house, and suddenly it’s past bathtime and now the three year old is an exhausted mess and begins sobbing hysterically when you try to take him out of the bathtub and the five year old, oblivious, keeps talking and talking and TALKING about dinosaurs? You know that kind of Saturday evening? I had one this weekend!

Moving on.

I hope you had a lovely Mother’s Day. Mine was filled with all sorts of things I love: snuggles, yoga, dog walking, gardening with the kids. Although I have to say the apex of my Mother’s Day was the tea party at the preschool last Wednesday. Really, is there anything more precious than a classful of preschoolers in various stages of singing and not singing songs about sunshine and blue skies and mamas, then presenting you with a plateful of treats that they prepared? I don’t think so.