Category Archives: Uncategorized

Spring Break in Mexico! Busting Loose!

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Hi! Happy April! Can you even believe it?

We spent a week of Spring Break in an all-inclusive in Mexico, and now I am completely spoiled. The whole trip was perfection; we went with another family and all eight of us get along like a house on fire, so much fun was had by all. The weather was perfect, the resort was perfect, everything was perfect.

This made the entry back to real life kind of rough: I had immediately become accustomed to not cooking, and having someone come by with a fresh drink every time mine was empty. I mean, my god, it is 4:53 as I write this and not one mango margarita have I consumed. One week ago, I would have had several by this hour in the day.

But one cannot be on vacation all the time, or one would not appreciate all the glories of sunshine and ocean breezes, am I right? And so today was the first day the kids were back to school, husband was back to work, and regular routine resumed. Which is not to say the past four days after our return were leisurely and relaxed; mostly I did load after load of laundry, grocery shopped, finished deadlines, and wistfully remembered, as if from a dream, this view:

Sigh.

What is it with post-vacation laundry? Mine was a dire situation, and I am one of those people who MUST unpack almost immediately upon walking in the door. My husband had to restrain me from starting the laundry at 9 pm after travelling all day. The following three days were almost entirely filled with laundry, punctuated with other drudgery, work, and – bizarrely – an orthodontist appointment. Note to self: never again book an orthodontist appointment on the day after a vacation, because you will regret it with every ounce of your being.

Anyway. The laundry is now done – as much as the Sisyphean task is ever done – I have meals planned for the week, and everything is caught up. Now for the vacation photos!

We met these guys on a bicycle excursion. One is male, one is female, and we were the happy viewers of live iguana porn. In fact, the whole iguana mating procedure seemed really bizarre, and it must have been, because the guide looked very taken aback by the strangely vigorous thrusting. “I’ve never seen THAT before,” he said, completely earnestly.

This led to a hilarious joke that we carried on throughout our trip: my friend and I were sitting by the pool, having a drink, when a large man came over, unloaded the children’s towels off of one of our pool chairs, picked it up, and carried it away. We were too taken aback – and tipsy – to say anything. The next day we saw him do the same thing to someone else. For some reason I nicknamed him Gary, and he was the unknowing butt of iguana jokes for the remainder. Hey, if you’re going to take chairs while children are swimming, then you should be laughed at, in my mango-margarita-fueled opinion.

Moving on, we also saw this guy on our bicycle excursion, and I did NOT name him Gary. He probably had a name.

The mango margaritas that started it all.

My husband and I celebrated our anniversary, on the same day that our older son – and our friends’ older son – turned 13! Serendipity.

One thing I LOVED about this resort was all the scheduled activities that anyone could join in. One thing you may or may not know about me, if someone is asking for a volunteer for an activity, I am first in line. This is how I ended up doing zumba and/ or water aerobics almost every day, and also how I somehow got involved in Crazy Games where I had to race across the pool on a floaty, while being splashed in the face and held back by one of the Entertainment Team.

I wasn’t the only adult doing zumba, by the way. The rest have been cropped out to maintain privacy. It’s really fun, once you get over the weirdness of dancing in your bikini in front of everyone around the pool.

It was fairly spring-like when we got home, the snow was melted and Jake and I even did some garden clean-up on Saturday. Sunday morning, however, looked like this.

Oh well, I guess it’s still good to be home.

Tale As Old As Time

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Oooh, the new Beauty and the Beast movie is out! I can’t wait to see it! I say this in theory, in reality it will probably be months before I actually see it. Revised statement: I can’t wait for it to be on Netflix so I can watch it in the comfort of my own home with a glass of wine!

I really loved the original movie, although I was sixteen when it came out. I loved the bookworm, BRUNETTE heroine, I loved the music, I loved the whole story. Although, when you think about it, it is an incredibly bizarre story. Woman saves her father by agreeing to be a prisoner for life in a giant castle filled with kitchenware and various inanimate objects that are somehow alive, woman develops Stockholm Syndrome and falls in love with her captor, who appears to be some kind of buffalo, and her love is enough to transform him from buffalo to heartthrob. Oh, and he’s royalty. Buffalo royalty!

Not to mention there’s a fading rose that is basically the beastly-buffalo version of a female biological clock.

But despite the weirdness of the story – like most fairy tales, I guess, there isn’t really a fairy tale that is not crazy-town-bananapants – I love it. I find it frankly hilarious that there is some kind of uproar about poor, gay LaFou, and his unrequited crush on Gaston. THAT is the controversy, here? I mean, a woman falling in love with an English-speaking buffalo probably counts as bestiality.

All of which reminds me of the winner of the 1976 Governor General’s Literary Award, Bear, by Marian Engel. Known as the most controversial Canadian novel ever, it is a story about a librarian in Northern Ontario who is lonely and ends up in a sexual relationship…with a bear. An actual bear, not a big, hairy man.

“Shocking, erotic.” “The unthinkable.” Well.

On a completely different note, I have had two odd things break lately. The first was my trusty pair of tweezers. I guess that’s not a totally different note; without my tweezers I would be somewhat bear-like in appearance. Certainly in a furry sort of way, anyway. Did you know that tweezers can just stop working? Well, they can. I suppose this is what happens when you cannot even remember how old said tweezers were. I do not even remember purchasing the tweezers; perhaps they just materialized one day, I don’t know. All I know is that I do not remember purchasing tweezers EVER, in my lifetime. Suffice it to say that my tweezers have been with me for a long time, keeping control over my Martin Scorsese eyebrows for decades.

Well, a few weeks ago I went to tweeze my eyebrows and lo, I couldn’t. I kept wondering what was wrong with me. Did I suddenly lose what little hand-eye coordination one needs to tweeze one’s eyebrows? Was I actually drunk at 6:45 in the morning? I didn’t THINK so. Then it occurred to me to try to grab a hair from my head, and I couldn’t. That’s when I knew. RIP tweezers. You lived a long, productive, busy life.

Strangely enough, shortly prior to this I had discovered via Mimi Smartypants that a new technology exists and is for sale in your local drugstore: tweezers equipped with a small UV light for illuminating what you may have thought were invisible hairs. What an age we live in.

I was perusing the tweezer section at Shoppers’ and lo, there was the exact item. Revlon has a UV-light-equipped set of tweezers, and although it was more expensive than I thought a pair of tweezers should be, I purchased it. After all, my old tweezers lasted decades, so I’m guessing that this pair will last a while. I hope, at least.

The problem is that when you shine a UV light on your face to illuminate hairs, it is very disconcerting, to say the least. You will discover all sorts of hirsute horrors. I mentioned this to a friend of mine (HI TARYN) and she wisely suggested that no one in society is walking around shining a UV light on other people’s faces, so we are all probably safe. However, you cannot un-know a thing, such as having a beard’s worth of chin hairs.

The other thing that broke was my ice cream scoop. Again, I have no idea how old my ice cream scoop is, but I likely bought it somewhere around the time I moved out of my parents’ house. Again, this is some time ago. However, I wasn’t even scooping ice cream that was particularly hard; it was a (homemade, god, I love my ice cream maker) vanilla with (homemade) caramel swirl. It was pretty soft, really, and when the scoop ended up in two pieces Jake and I looked at each other with shock. I mean. How does that happen?

I guess I liken it to those stories you hear about people injuring their backs or shoulders or knees doing absolutely normal, non-strenuous activities. I bent over to pick up a shoe and my back went out, or I was walking down the street and suddenly I collapsed in pain. Maybe my poor ice cream scoop had been having issues for years and finally snapped.

If only my life were a Beauty and the Beast kind of situation, with animated kitchen ware. Oh, the stories my appliances and utensils could tell.

Penne for Pi Day

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Happy Pi Day everyone! This year the grade sevens were really learning a lot about pi, and calculating circle area, and discussing how pi is actually calculated and how for every circle – every one! – pi is equal to the circumference divided by the diameter, every time, and isn’t that amazing? It is amazing. My grade seven student was pretty into it so I must say the apple did not fall far from the tree in this case. I don’t mean to brag, but I was known in certain circles as the Conics Goddess when I was in Grade Twelve, because of my conics calculating skills, I casually mentioned to my husband, who responded by saying that was the nerdiest thing he had ever heard in his life. But it’s true! I swear!

Anyway, I’m not making a pie for Pi Day because it’s Tuesday, and who has the time? Also, we are having penne, which is a cylinder of sorts, so that’s how I’m going to celebrate. Penne for Pi Day! It could be a new trend.

I am in a fabulous mood today; the hideous weather finally broke and everything is gloriously melty. Even wiping up Barkley’s constant muddy paw prints cannot bring me down from this cloud. I went to move the garbage bin back to its usual spot today – my life is extremely glamourous – and I noticed tiny green shoots where the yarrow grows wild. Tiny green shoots! What could be more heart-warming than that?

I also got a good, heart-warming laugh out of these pants that my friend Julie (HI JULIE) had posted on Facebook this morning. Although I must add that THIS IS NOT A JOKE, PEOPLE. These pants are available at Nordstrom and are called, hilariously, “Topshop Clear Knee Mom Jeans.” Since when are we using Mom Jeans as advertising? Also, not one mom I know actually wears Mom Jeans, so I’m wondering if this is a new trend with the youth of today, although I can hardly imagine that it is. Guys, let’s wear the least flattering pants ever! Oh, know what would be better than cropped, high-waisted, stone-washed jeans? Cropped, high-waisted, stone-washed jeans with plastic panels in the knees. It’s like ripped jeans, but waterproof if we kneel down in a puddle somewhere.

What do I know, though? Maybe it is a trend with Young People These Days; I am certainly not one of them so I can’t say. I certainly had my own share of unflattering pants back in the day, when everything was high-waisted, belted, and tucked-in. Hugely baggy jeans that were tightly rolled or pinned at the ankles was the big trend when I was in junior high. In fact, everything about junior high was terribly unflattering. It’s almost like someone said Let’s make a style that will cause everyone to look back on it and cringe. Okay, those jeans, giant tucked-in t-shirts, and while we are at it, let’s get all the girls to spiral perm their hair and tease the bangs into free-standing walls. Yes, that should do it. No wait, wait. Let’s add a crimping iron to the mix.

I mean…

You guys, I just realized that those Clear Knee Mom Jeans are $133! That is USD, my friends. That is nearly one hundred and eighty dollars in Canadian funds. Plus shipping! Who is exactly the market, here?

Well, there’s no accounting for taste, as they say. Judge not, says she who had a giant sweatshirt with Garfield’s Zodiac on the front, and wore it often. Judge not.

Fifteen minutes of fame or writing or something.

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Last week was pretty hectic, so I was looking forward to a fairly open week in which I could get a lot of writing done and, in general, relax a bit. Unfortunately, I did not actually look at my calendar in that burst of optimistic feeling, and I am having an OMG it’s Wednesday already and OMG it’s March 8 already and OMG my life is flying by.

For one thing, I forgot that I had signed up to volunteer for a field trip to the Spaceport yesterday. The field trip itself was just fine; not the best field trip ever – that title still goes to the one to the Police Interpretive Centre – but certainly not the worst either. There were lots of fun and interesting activities for the kids and my Nerd might have been showing as I got pretty into the air compression station, when it was my turn to man the equipment.

There was also a very cool inflatable dome that the kids got to lie down in to look at the various stars and constellations, and it is pretty clear that the entire class is much more knowledgeable in this area than I am.

My favourite part by far was footage with Commander Hadfield and crew, snacking on bananas and M&M’s in space. You had me at Commander Hadfield.

One of the presentations included a very detailed demonstration – using a dummy with the creepiest face you’ve ever seen, seriously, this is nightmare stuff – about how astronauts use the toilet. Clearly the people who design the program have their fingers on the pulse of what interests students in this age group.

This morning, despite minus 15 degree temperatures and fresh snow, I decided that I needed to go to Costco. There was literally no other time this week that I could do it; as we all know, Costco is a time-suck of epic proportions. There is the driving, and the loading and unloading of the giant groceries, and the putting away of said groceries. However, I must note that luck was on my side today as I not only got an excellent parking spot, meaning that pushing the heavy cart through snow was only a moderate workout, rather than a “I may die here today” one. Also – and this has never happened before, so it is noteworthy – as I was in line, a NEW CHECKOUT OPENED UP AND THEY CHOSE ME TO BE THE FIRST IN LINE. I felt like a celebrity, getting into the hottest new club in town with nary an issue.

As I mentioned, I started watching Jane the Virgin a few weeks ago, but have not watched any since that time. Instead, I have been reading. I know that makes me sound like one of those douchey people who think television is much too pedestrian for their tastes, but here’s the thing: I put a ton of books on hold at the library, and they all seem to be coming in at once. I can’t keep up. I take back a book only to pick up three more, and now I feel like I’m in some kind of one-step-forward-two-steps-back world. Since I was in the queue for a lot of those books, I can’t renew them either, so I’m in a strange spot of frantically reading. It reminds me of my pre-social-media youth, which is a very good thing.

To Kill A Mockingbird has been one of my favourite books since the moment I read it at age 23. I’ve read it so many times I’ve lost count, and some of my very favourite lines ever written are in that book.

So imagine my surprise when I found out that the character of Dill was based on Harper Lee’s childhood friend, Truman Capote. I know what you’re thinking, and that is that everyone knows that. Everyone but me! This was completely new information for me, and although I’ve read a lot of his writing, I never connected the dots. It makes so much sense! Dill sounds exactly like what Capote would have been like as a child! I can’t get over it.

The only reason I even know this is because it was in one of the books I read, The Swans of Fifth Avenue, which is a dishy, delicious read. I highly recommend it and as you read it, be sure to google photos of the real people in the book. It is well worthwhile.

I also, after having it on hold since last June, and having it come up when I was on vacation in November, and then having to put it on hold again, finally read The Life Changing Magic of Not Giving a Fuck. I will say this – after all that, I did not really enjoy the book. I mean, I liked the premise. I like not giving a fuck about things that aren’t worth giving a fuck about. But I did not like the book itself. Maybe it was the way it was written, I just don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it but I am DEFINITELY in the minority here.

Well, I just challenged myself to write a post in the 15 minute window I had, and on that note, I must close and finish all the other (more pressing, but what can I say, I like blogging) things on my to-do list today. Have a great day, everyone, and I hope you are well. xo

Abbie’s Favourite Cookies

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On the radio last week, they were having a contest to win tickets to see Brian Wilson – of Beach Boys fame – in concert. I actually thought that Brian Wilson died a long time ago, which is the reason I am rarely, if ever, upset by celebrity deaths. I often think that the death has happened already. In any case, today I learned that Brian Wilson is the same age as my mother-in-law, which seems a bit old to be singing Surfin’ Safari and Fun Fun Fun, but who am I to judge? You do you, Brian Wilson.

The concert itself is titled Brian Wilson Presents Pet Sounds – The Final Performance. That feels a bit ominous and if I were him, I probably wouldn’t want FINAL in the title of my performance, but perhaps it helps with the ticket sales. Who knows? I remember a few years ago I saw KC and the Sunshine Band on television – maybe it was American Idol? I don’t really remember – performing Get Down Tonight and to be frank, it was pretty grim. There is something inherently depressing about watching disco stars attempt to perform in the exact same way as they did in the 1970s. Change can be good, aging disco stars. Embrace the change.

In other local performance news, Wayne Newton is touring. I repeat: Wayne Newton is not only alive, but touring! I was even more shocked to hear that than the Brian Wilson news. Sadly, it appears that touring is something that Mr. Las Vegas needs to do since he is – allegedly – in financial distress, which should be a cautionary tale for anyone whose expenditures exceed income. Of course, if at any time you feel that you just cannot live without a peacock aviary and exotic animal menagerie, perhaps you might need a new financial advisor.

I just this moment learned that Judge Wapner passed away, at the great age of 97. Again, who knew he was still kicking? Certainly not me. RIP, Judge Wapner.

One thing I love very much about being part of a yoga community is that I get to make friends with people of all ages. I have many sweet young friends, and it is lovely to be able to celebrate with them as they go through their engagements, weddings, and pregnancies. At the moment, I know of four little yogis due to be born between April and July, which is exciting and happy news. I highly recommend becoming friends with such sweet young mamas, so as to share in a lot of joy and excitement.

One very special yogi was born back in November; her mama (HI ABBIE) is a wonderful, sweet friend of mine who I miss a lot, since she moved away a few years ago. I used to make these cookies for her, since they were her favourite. In my head, I always call them Abbie’s Cookies. Last week another young yoga friend had a birthday, and so I baked these cookies for him; I kept the base the same but added in lots of healthy extras, because he’s a very health-conscious individual, even on his birthday.

My much-loved grandma once told me that when she experiments with a recipe, she would make it exactly as the recipe stated the first time, and then would change it subsequently to her own tastes. When I first started cooking and baking, I would be terrified to do this, convinced that one wrong step would ruin everything. Let me reassure you: rarely is this the case. I mean, yes, I have had some flops in my time. Observe, if you will, my attempt at free-styling white chocolate raspberry cookies:

But to be honest, mostly things work out. And so I loaded these cookies with lots of yummy healthy things, like chopped apricots, pumpkin seeds, coconut, hemp, and flax (and chocolate chips too, because I’m not a monster). When I would make them for Abbie I would add in peanut butter chips. You could swap out everything for dried cranberries and white chocolate, you could put in butterscotch chips and raisins. What I’m saying is that you do YOU. Have fun with these cookies. Throw in everything but the kitchen sink or take out everything but the chocolate. Just bake them with love and watch the love come back to you. xo

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*click here to learn everything you ever wanted to know about flax eggs

Women’s Health Week in the Boyhouse

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You guys, it is Wednesday already, and in one week, February will be over. Over! February feels like it just started, I have four months left before both of my children are junior high students, one month before I have a teenager, and six days until my very last book fair, all of which are good reminders that Time Stops For No One.

It has been a busy week already, even with Monday being a holiday; lots of lovely classes to teach, things to do, children’s dental appointments to sit through. For some reason I booked dentist appointments on the same day that the orthodontist office is closed, and woe, the cleaning will have to take place with wires still in place. The receptionist who called me to confirm sternly said that it would be okay this once, but next time would I please book the cleaning NOT on a Friday. Her tone made me feel like the consequences would be much more dire than they probably are.

It’s also, apparently, Women’s Health Week for me – I had my physical yesterday, and I appear to be fit as a fiddle, as they say in old-timey books about healthy individuals. I had my Pap test and I was not accidentally inseminated, which is my new bar for such things, thank you Jane the Virgin. I did, however, have to endure the usual Where’s Waldo game my doctor plays with my cervix. My cervix is apparently like a toddler in a clothing store; only one doctor has been able to locate it with precision and minimal discomfort. I feel like my cervix is starring in its own drama; like it’s a reclusive Greta Garbo, shying away from the public.

After my physical, I was given my usual requisition forms for blood work and a mammogram, and I went downstairs from the doctor’s office to book the latter. Now, I do not know what is going on with medical imaging in Calgary, but I have to tell you, I like it. For some reason every year that I’ve had a mammogram (this would be my fourth), it’s been in a different location, because the previous location “doesn’t do mammograms anymore.” Why? Why do they keep moving all the mammogram equipment around? I went to book it and was told that they didn’t do them anymore but fortunately, I was able to get an appointment at an even more convenient location. Score! Now, the first time I had a mammogram I had to wait several weeks for an appointment, and they ran late, and I had to sit shirtless, covered only by a paper robe, in a freezing room for thirty minutes before testing, the whole thing taking over two hours to complete. Yesterday, the woman at the clinic offered me an appointment that very afternoon. I was completely unprepared for that, so I declined, instead getting an appointment for nine-thirty the following morning. What is this magic? I don’t know if it’s a new imaging firm that has the contracts, but I LIKE IT.

This morning I trundled over to the imaging clinic, deodorant-less but with a book in my bag and several articles bookmarked on my phone. I was preparing for a hefty wait, when the receptionist told me “Your check-in is at 9:30, but your actual appointment isn’t until 9:35.” Talk about precision! I had barely made it into the waiting area, and taken my book out of my bag, before my name was called. I was literally in and out in fifteen minutes.

The technicians that do the mammograms must be specially trained for sensitivity and kindness; without exception every one of them has been lovely, especially when you consider the bizarre nature of their job, squishing and squeezing the girls to get them in “just the right position.” Getting a mammogram feels a lot like being part of the weirdest photo shoot ever, with the technician telling me to “place my hand here” and “turn my chin up and to the right” and gently fixing my hair just so.

My favourite thing about the new location is the style of medical gown they use. Remember last time, how I awkwardly had the gown on backwards, proving my ability to misunderstand basic instructions? There was no room for such issues today, as the robes were kimono-style, and one would have to be REALLY confused to not figure that out. In fact, I felt a little bit fancy in my gown, all ready for my squishy-breast photo shoot.

I have one simple request: to have sharks with fricking laser beams attached to their heads.

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This week has been a seemingly endless series of irritations, both of the minor kind and of the more sweeping variety, and I have been – possibly due to Female Cyclical Emotional Upheaval – unable to keep my usual Om Shanti outlook and am instead empathizing with Cersei Lannister. Yesterday, I felt that I, too, could happily burn the whole city down while pouring myself a glass of wine.

I won’t go into the sources of all my various irritations, just know that they ran the gamut from pinprick to outright rage-inducing, and yes, I am putting some of the responsibility on myself and my Lady Emotions, but honest to god, encounters like I’ve had this week make me despair for Common Sense and Logical Thought Processes. How does one not suffocate from having one’s head up one’s own ass all the time?

Anyway. Deep breathing and on to less rage-inducing subjects. It is Teacher’s Convention right now, and Family Day is Monday, so the kids are home from school. Yesterday I took Mark to get a haircut at the barber shop in our neighbourhood that we have been frequenting lately (and by “we,” I mean “the kids.”). I walked inside and went to sit down and lo, on the table next to me was a large pile of pornographic magazines. I have so many questions. For one thing, why is porn in barbershops still a thing? It’s pretty awkward when walking in with your twelve-year-old son, who is, happily, oblivious to it. Or so it seems. But really, how many people are going to the barbershop for porn and a haircut? It’s always made me wonder, who are these men (I assume men) who walk in, ask for a trim, and open Penthouse to the centrefold, tilting their heads to get the full view? For another thing, who buys porn anymore? Has the barber never heard of the internet?

Coincidentally enough, I was driving home from yoga and I had the News Talk Radio on, for reasons that I do not understand myself. The radio host mentioned that Playboy is going back to nudes now. Going back to nudes? I thought – and honestly, I am not a person who has ever bought or even really looked at a Playboy, so it could be my own naivete – that Playboy was all nudes. I know people used to say they “bought it for the articles” but I always thought that was just a weird excuse to look at Kaitlyn, age 21, who likes margaritas, movies, and walking on the beach. But I could be wrong, and I probably am, and in any case it was pretty early in the morning so I could have misheard the whole thing. I am not about to look it up, you can believe that. I don’t want anything like that on my search engine and I most certainly don’t want that kind of advertising popping up in my Facebook algorithm.

Last week I was at Costco, and when I was leaving, the older man who checks the carts – and flirts with me – said I had the healthiest cart he had ever seen, and that compliment has been a source of pride and happiness all week. All week. Clearly I have issues that go far beyond the excessive amount of fruit and vegetables I load up with. In a week of annoyances, the memory of that exchange has made me stand straight, with my head up high, even more so than when the drunk guy in front of Walmart said that I sure am a pretty lady.

Well, we all like a good compliment, don’t we? Even when the giver of the compliment is inebriated at 10:30 in the morning.

I was at the salon getting my hair cut and coloured – my hair seems to be growing more rapidly now, which is gratifying but also results in more startling roots – and I spent much of my time reading The Opposite of Loneliness by Marina Keegan. If you haven’t heard about it, the backstory is that Keegan was a rising star in the literary world, and had just graduated from Yale when she was killed in a car accident. When I say “just graduated,” I mean that she died FIVE DAYS after graduation. This book is a compilation of her stories and essays, and is tragic in that she was a beautiful, thought-provoking writer already, at age 22. It’s worth a read, although I found I liked her non-fiction essays much more than her fictional stories. Perhaps I am too old to appreciate the type of fiction that she was writing.

In her title piece, that went viral after her death, she says, quite poignantly in retrospect, “We’re so young. We’re so young. We’re twenty-two years old. We have so much time…What we have to remember is that we can still do anything. We can change our minds. We can start over.” Despite the fact that I am NOT so young – in fact, I am two decades older than the stated age – this spoke to me, as someone who has reinvented her life a number of times. We can do anything, you guys. We can.

And on that note, I am going to get my Friday started, and hopefully it will be less angst-filled than this week has been. It will definitely end with wine though, and I haven’t yet burned the city down OR commissioned sharks with laser beams attached to their heads, so things are looking up. Have a good weekend, my friends. xo