Category Archives: Yoga

I’ve never been in a drunken stupor, but…

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Here it is, Wednesday of time change week and not one complaint has passed my lips. Not one! My husband, in years past, has generally adopted the traditionally masculine attitude that my vehement feelings against the observation of Daylight Savings Time and the subsequent semi-annual fuck up amounts to Nicole Making A Big Deal Out Of Something Very Minor And Unimportant. Yesterday, however, he admitted he was feeling quite tired and out of sorts and maybe it was due to time change. At this admission, I feel vindicated.
 
My children have been just fine; I guess they’ve reached the age where an hour here or there is No Big Deal At All. However, I stand in solidarity with all you mothers out there who are dealing with hot crying messes every evening and wide awake little people at ungodly hours of the morning. I shall not rest until the country has caught up with Saskatchewan, which is miles and miles ahead of the rest of us for their refusal to adopt Daylight Savings Time and its abhorrent spring forward/ fall back rituals. Also, please feel free to give a verbal dressing down to the next person who says that DST is “for the farmers”. Bitch, please. Do you have any idea what time farmers get up in the morning? The actual clock has nothing to do with it, so shut up, goddammit. If I was that kind of person I’d allude to a conspiracy theory cooked up by people who want to keep mothers down by totally fucking up their children twice a year. But I’m not. Still: DOWN WITH TIME CHANGE.
 
Speaking of fucked up, how about that mayor of Toronto? Wowza, is that embarrassing. I mean, we’ve all done silly things under the influence of alcohol or excessive Girl Guide cookie consumption, but smoking crack? In a drunken stupor? Listen, we all know how I love my red wine, and my cosmopolitans, and my margaritas, but I don’t think I’ve ever been in a drunken stupor in my life. I don’t like hangovers and I don’t like falling over. The closest I’ve come to that, lately, is becoming extraordinarily drunk at the Banff Springs Hotel with my husband and two people we met at the bar while listening to a blues guitarist. The couple was from Boston, and so they and my husband immediately bonded over the Patriots. 
 
So no drunken stupors for me, but I’ve done plenty of silly things after consuming one too many glasses of wine/ cosmopolitans/ margaritas.
 
1) I completed this Cosmo quiz and realized that the answer is “yes”.
 
 
 
 
2) At Blissdom Canada, I lay down on the hotel hallway and put both legs behind my head to show Allison and Hannah that I totally could. I blame Allison for being such a doll and bringing the peach daquiri mix and rum.

 
3) I bought hot pink yoga pants online.
 
 

4) I once danced the macarena in a Mexican bar wearing Daisy Duke shorts, high heeled sandals, and a crop top.

5) One Friday night when my husband was golfing, I live-tweeted my viewing of Top Gun. “Permission to fire, sir!” “Never fire unless fired upon.” GREAT advice.

 
6) I have, on numerous occasions, accidentally flashed my cleavage.
 

7) I was not drunk while making this gingerbread house! But the result was so depressing I had to comfort myself with a bottle of wine.

 
8) I was also not drunk in this photo! But I was fairly high on painkillers following varicose vein surgery. I was also super excited to eat the pretty fruit kabobs my friends had sent over.
 
9) I illegally brought drinks in glass containers down to the pool in Maui – in the dark! – and forced my dear, sweet friend Joanne to do the same. Everyone give some love to Joanne – she was my accomplice in illegal activities. And yet I look so INNOCENT.
 
 
 
10) I got pregnant! Hey, it was Stampede week. And then six to eight months later, I walked around looking like this:
 

Full Moon, and Nicole Smash

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I think I’m becoming one of those obnoxious people who can tell when the full moon is upon us without looking at the calendar, or who can just tell that Mercury is in retrograde or what have you. So I will blame it on the full moon that yesterday I was in a bit of a rage all day. Looking back on it was like looking back on the days when I had small children. The rage was somewhat akin to when a small child spirals out of control because it’s bathtime and he just wants to take his favourite stuffed animal into the bathroom and then drops it into the tub accidentally and then it has to go into the dryer, stat, but then the child needs to be bathed and keeps drinking the bathwater, and then becomes hysterical when taken out of the bathtub, even though he didn’t want a bath in the first place, and then realizes that his favourite pajamas are in the wash and cannot be retrieved and then due to exhaustion falls over and hits his head on the floor and then is tucked into bed but the story you read was all wrong and the stuffed animal is still in the dryer and nothing will ever be right in the world again and then the child passes out after sobbing about the injustices of life.

I remember those days and in the heat of the moment, in the thick of things, there is nothing at all funny about the situation, but looking back, it’s kind of ridiculous. It’s hard to believe that a rational person could get caught up in the soaked-stuffed-animal-drama, but these things happen, don’t they? And so it is that I’m looking back on yesterday, thinking about all those little metaphorical paper cuts.

I should have known something was up – the full moon! – when I got home from yoga yesterday morning, plugged in the coffee maker, and then, for the first time in history, forgot to turn it on. I made my bed, collected my bathrobe and set out my various moisturizers, makeup, and deodorant the way I do every morning before my shower, and then I went to get a cup of coffee. People, when you get up at 4:30 in the morning, it is imperative that the coffee be made when you need it to be made. I actually picked up the empty coffee pot and was astonished that nothing came out because I forgot to turn it on. I remedied that, stepped into the shower – and this I blame on the lack of caffeine – started to wash my hair with conditioner. I kept wondering what was wrong with the shampoo. Why wasn’t the shampoo foaming? I added more and more conditioner, until I realized my mistake. It’s not the shampoo. It’s me. Suffice it to say I had very soft hair all day.

Between the hair and the coffee I felt a little thrown off for the whole morning, and so maybe, perhaps the customer service people I encountered during the day were not, in retrospect, quite so awful as I think, but maybe they were. One of my errands was to the homeopathic medicine shop.

Bear with me for a moment. I am not, I repeat, AM NOT, inviting a discussion about the flu shot here. I do not want to hear arguments for or against the flu shot, or any discussion about vaccines in general. I am merely stating a fact: I cannot get the flu shot; in lieu of this for the past four years I – and my family – get a homeopathic flu protocol that has protected us from getting the flu.

And again I will interrupt my own discourse for a moment for a public service announcement: the FLU is not the same thing as a STOMACH VIRUS even though people universally refer to STOMACH VIRUS as the STOMACH FLU or sometimes, incorrectly, as the FLU. A stomach virus is not the flu. And so when I say “the homeopathic flu protocol has protected us from getting the flu” and you say “but remember last year when you were barfing and sick and lost all that weight and then the boys got it?” NO. It is not the same thing. NOROVIRUS IS NOT THE FLU. No amount of homeopathic flu protocols or flu shots or whatever hoo-ha you may do to avoid the flu will help you avoid NOROVIRUS AND/OR OTHER STOMACH VIRUSES. Sorry for yelling, but really. Public service announcement over.

Where was I? Oh yes, I was obtaining a homeopathic flu protocol. In the past there have been two parts to this protocol, and one of those parts, apparently, has changed this year. I asked the lady at the counter, who you would think would be eager to supply information to someone who is IN the homeopathic shop and who is obviously (or obvi, as my kids say) on board with the whole homeopathic thing. The woman was, shall we say, less than forthcoming with information. I kept pressing her, “But what does this DO, specifically?” She had a bit of a frown on her face as she kept saying, sternly, “It STRENGTHENS your IMMUNITY.” Now, I am a sucker for anything that STRENGTHENS my IMMUNITY – you should see how many vitamins and supplements I take on a daily basis, hoo boy – but if I’m going to be paying $40 for a tincture, I would like a little more information about said tincture, especially since this tincture was never used before with the flu protocol. I JUST WANT TO KNOW HOW IT WORKS. I recognize that customer service people often have to deal with the lowest common denominator, but some of us CAN comprehend more difficult concepts. I feel this same way when those dreadful people come to the door trying to get natural gas customers to sign up for fixed rates, and then they get all dismissive when I say I’m not interested. I used to work in the structured products market, I’m not just some idiot of a kept woman, here, I know how hedging works thank-you-very-much. Go try your luck on the elderly.

After my extraordinarily frustrating experience at the homeopathic shop, I went to Future Shop to purchase a movie. Now, I rarely, if ever, purchase movies at actual stores, I do online shopping whenever possible. However, my husband’s birthday is coming up quickly and Jake wanted to buy his dad a superhero movie they could watch together. I didn’t have time to waste with shipping, etc., and so I headed to Future Shop, also known as The Worst Place For Customer Service Ever. First of all, I will admit to my own errors. I did not realize that the movie I wanted to buy – and yes, I do have my OWN reasons for wanting this movie in my house (Hugh Jackman) – was not yet in stores. I should have done more research. However! I walked into Future Shop, was greeted by a young man. I looked around the overwhelming store for a few minutes, wondering if the single aisle of “movies, TV shows, etc” was really all that giant store had. One aisle. Finally I approached the young man.

Me: Excuse me, I’m looking for a movie. I’m wondering if you could help me find it?

Douchey Employee: *points*

Me: Yes, I can’t find what I’m looking for. I’m not even sure if this is the right section.

DE: The movies are RIGHT THERE. That HUGE display? RIGHT THERE.

Me: *sharply* YES. I see. But I cannot find what I’m looking for. The Wolverine movie. Do you have it?

DE: The movies are right there.

Me: I DON’T SEE IT THERE.

DE: I GUESS I could look it up. *goes to computer, types in “Wolvierene* There’s no movie.

Me: *looking at the screen* I think you misspelled it.

DE: Well, how DO you spell it?

Me: W-O-L-V-E-R-I-N-E

DE: Oh. It’s not available in stores. You can pre-order it online.

Me: *sets store on fire*

Later, the day would redeem itself, but only when I picked up my calendar, counted the days, realized that it’s not just the full moon that’s affecting my mood, decided that since it was a full moon and there was no yoga the next day, I could indulge in a couple of glasses of wine, even if it WAS a Thursday. That turned things around.

Super Freekeh

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Today I was in the grocery store, and I noticed something in the grain/ cracker/ cookie/ ethnic food/ chocolate bar/ ice cream topping aisle. Does that seem like a strange combination of goods for one aisle in the grocery store? It does to me too. In any case, my friend and I were looking for quinoa, which is apparently an incredibly elusive ingredient for my old-people Co-Op, and I came across something called Freekeh. It’s super-freek-EH! I have had a loop of that song, plus Le Freak (or, Le FREEK) going through my head for the past couple of hours. I feel immense regret that I didn’t buy it, because although I do not know exactly how one prepares Freekeh, I feel I could have figured it out. What’s for dinner, Mom? Oh, we’re going to get a little FREEK-EH. The jokes could go on forever. Hilarity at the dinner table. Or, hilarity on my part. It’s probable that my children would be less than enthusiastic about my adventuresome culinary ideas.

It turns out that Freekeh is actually just a kind of toasted wheat, which is fairly anti-climatic.

Other semi-freekeh things:

1) Tonight is the first School Council/ Parent Association meeting of the year, and I have just taken my traditional offering of brownies out of the oven. CARAMEL brownies. I have never made such a thing before and possibly won’t ever again, but I have over a litre of caramel sauce in my fridge due to a small kitchen disaster yesterday, and I’m trying to find ways to use it up. This is a teaser for the full post which will be coming up next week over at the Yummy Mummy Club. Let’s just say that I now have more caramel than anyone really needs in their life, and that I keep finding small splotches of stickiness on the countertop, taps, cupboard handles, etc. I don’t even LIKE caramel.On another note, I have a cookbook giveaway going on – if you like baking, this is the book for you!

2) A few weeks ago, I put our decorative scarecrow family into the front garden, which is my traditional way of festively greeting autumn. Every single morning I pull open the living room drapes to let the sun shine in, and every single morning I gasp and have a little heart palpitation because someone is at the window.

If history is any indication, I will probably become used to my little ragged friend in the window once it’s time to take him down and put up the Christmas lights.

3) This is Rosie. She’s “my” scarecrow. The others are named Dummy Jimmy Too Tall, Idiot, and TV. I only named Rosie.

4) I bought a red sweater. I know. I bought it in a moment of passion and now it’s sitting in my drawer like a judgement.

5) After some discussion with my husband, I realized that I am not the romantic one in our relationship. This seems strange to me. And here I thought that not plucking one’s chin or upper lip in the presence of one’s husband was the ultimate in romanticism, but apparently that’s not enough. Well, he knew who I was when he married me, and that is someone who would much rather roll over and fall asleep immediately than engage in pillow talk for hours. Wham, bam, thank you sir.

6) Related: I think “boner” is the funniest word in the English language. If it was socially acceptable I would work it into every single conversation. Alas.

7) A yoga friend said to me the other morning that he wasn’t sure what I was doing on Sunday nights now that Breaking Bad is over. Nothing, Glenn. I am doing nothing. Mad Men doesn’t start up for months; I basically hate television now. Anyone want to recommend a show for me to become obsessed with? I hear House of Cards is good.

Summer’s Almost Gone, Almost Gone

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Here it is, the very last week of summer, and I’m trying to squeeze every moment out of it. I always feel kind of gloomy at the end of summer – I’m a summer-tastic kind of girl – but the gloominess is getting overridden by my excitement about September. My social life, which seems to be hinged on dog walking and hanging out at the playground during pickup and drop-off, is about to take off. I, like the kids, miss the friends I don’t see during the summer and so it will be nice to catch up with all of them.

My husband took this week off work and it’s been nice. We were up at my parents’ place at the lake for a couple of days, which is always fun. The boys refer to it as Camp Grandma, where there is always lots of ice cream and popsicles, and not much in the way of rules. It was also – and this is unusual for this part of the world – quite warm, and so they went swimming in the chilly lake.

“Smile!” “We ARE smiling.”

 



IT’S COLD.




Exploring the “shoreline”.

 

My husband also swam with them for a bit; I refrained, not wanting to get hypothermia. They went for an evening swim/ shoreline exploration while I sat on the deck chatting with my parents. Barkley came bounding across the grass with what I presumed was a flat stick of wood in his mouth. Something about the way he was holding it, and the little white protrusions sticking out of it made me look closer. Hmm, I thought, maybe it’s a root from one of the plants on the shore…aieeeeeeeeeeeeee! It was a dead fish, a fish that had met its demise some time ago. I screamed and screamed while the dog dropped it in alarm at my distress and my dad scooped it away with a shovel, taking it to an unknown destination (“DON’T PUT IT IN THE GARBAGE!” my mother screamed.) That was a bit of gross drama that I didn’t need in my life; however, it’s not the first time Barkley has found and/or done something revolting, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.
 
It hasn’t all been lake time and hating my dog this week – my husband and I took the kids on an exciting family trip to Costco. I had been hoping that my last Costco trip would have lasted me the whole summer, and it would have, but my husband really “wanted” to go. It’s fun, he proclaimed. Fun. To go to Costco. With the kids. I will tell you what was “fun” about it, and that is that I didn’t have to push the million-pound cart around, nor unload the groceries by myself. I did have to play a bit of Tetris to fit all of the food into the cupboards, fridge, and pantry, but on the upside I probably am stocked up to last for the next three or four months. Currently I would be ashamed to show anyone my pantry, as it looks like an episode of Hoarders. But it was such a good deal.
 
Speaking of “good deals”, did anyone read the Fraser Institute’s report on the cost of raising children in Canada? I am no stranger to the Fraser Institute – I have a master’s degree in economics – and so I read it with some interest. It’s funny, because living in an urban centre, with children in sports, and attempting to buy quality food and other clothing items notwithstanding, $4000 sounded pretty skimpy to me. Interestingly enough, childcare was not included. Aha! Apparently the Fraser Institute doesn’t include childcare as a cost of raising a child, nor the opportunity cost of lost income from having a stay at home parent. Well then, that explains that. Knowing the Fraser Institute, there is some kind of policy implication here that states that the poor can EASILY raise their children with no assistance of any kind. Well, thank you for that conclusion, Fraser Institute! This study addresses a couple of my pet peeves: misuse of statistics (“most” people don’t require childcare) and being obstinate about the cycle of poverty. Speaking of which, my friend Hannah wrote about the costs of back-to-school and how they can be more oppressive in the long and short term for the impoverished.
 
On a much less serious note, did you know there’s such a thing as naked yoga? Well, there is. I don’t think I can adequately convey in a blog post how revolting I find it. Not as revolting as my dog chewing on a dead fish, but pretty damn revolting. Then again, possibly I’m prudish because I found it shocking – actually shocking – when we went into town at the lake and there were girls walking around in only their bathing suits. It’s like I’m 80 years old. In my day we wore coverups when we left the beach. At least an oversized t-shirt. It’s funny how many people have the perception that yoga is this very sexy thing to do. Most of the yogis I know go to bed super early and eat lots of mung beans and quinoa and whatnot. We also generally have strained, rather than sexily blissful, facial expressions during most of our yoga postures:
Good god, do not perform this naked. Ew. Gross.

 
 



Nor this, unless you want to slip and fall and break your face.

Full Moon, and the Werewolves (of London) are coming

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For those of you who keep track of moon phases, which may or may not be many people, there was a full moon on Wednesday.  For me, a full moon means no yoga – it’s tradition to not practice on full or new moon days – which translates to extra sleep.  For some, however, it means that the Wolfman is transforming and we’re all going to die.  This is the only possible explanation for the craziness in my neighbourhood of late.  First – and this is very disturbing – my neighbour informed me, and then I later saw on the news, there has been a serial arsonist in my neighbourhood, conjectured to be a resident who has, apparently, been on a rampage, setting cars and garages on fire.  WELL THEN.  Where am I living?  This isn’t East LA.  Given my lifelong fear of fire, this is not sitting well with me.  Soon I’m going to be sitting up late at night, at the window, with one eye peeking out behind the drapes and one hand on my (theoretical) shotgun.  Get off my lawn, motherfuckers. 

Tuesday afternoon I went to my once-a-week restorative yoga class.  This is, for those of you who aren’t familiar, a gentle-stretch-and-relaxation class that I find helps with my regular, somewhat rigorous, six-day-a-week yoga practice.  This class generally consists of me and a whole lot of much older women, and I almost always relax to the point that I fall asleep, only to jerk awake with my feet up the wall, hoping I wasn’t snoring or drooling.  Anyway, I finished my class and in my blissful, zen-like state, decided to just “pop in” to the post office to “quickly pick up” some stamps.  BIG MISTAKE.  It was madness in the post office, madness.  There were people sending off packages everywhere, who needed many different shipping methods and insurance and whatnot, and I certainly do not begrudge anyone that.  It is the season for sending packages, and it is only the end of November.  But.  I would have been fine to wait ten minutes in line while the only two employees in the store figured things out.  I am a stay at home mom and I still had forty minutes until I had to pick up the kids; it’s not like my schedule is packed here, people.  I just spent 75 minutes in a semi-nap state.  I have time on my hands and I assume that senior citizens do too, which is why I was a little disturbed when an old lady physically pushed me aside, budged in front of me when the man at the counter called for the next customer, saying that she only needed to buy stamps.  Hi.  Me too?  I was a little startled, and then I started laughing with the sixty-ish man behind me, who was my witness in this ridiculous little power play.  I mean, what am I going to do, shove the old lady out of the way, saying that NO FUCK YOU OLD LADY I NEED SOME STAMPS.  STAND DOWN.  Of course not!  I turned to the man and told him to please not push me aside, I would be super fast with my stamps.  He tipped his old man hat to me, and we shared a laugh.  Good times and new friends in the post office.  

I’m going to go out on a limb here and go against the common classification of the elderly: in my experience – which is vast, since I live in a neighbourhood made up with a significant majority of seniors – the characterization of elderly men as being “grumpy old men” and elderly women as being “sweet old ladies” is incorrect.  I have never been hit in the backs of my legs by a grocery cart pushed by an old man while standing in line for groceries.  On the other hand, I have had impromptu duets with old men in the liquor store.  Old men hold the door open for me, say nice things about my boys, and are generally easy-going and friendly.  Old women are very frequently pushy, crabby, and mean.  The post office incident is just one more nail in the coffin of the “sweet old lady” stereotype in my mind.  I don’t even want to talk about the old lady who was ringing the “ring for service” bell like she was a toddler who just realized that pressing the little button on the pretty silver bell makes a jingly noise, but angry.

Yesterday I went to the liquor store, having discovered that I am down to my last bottle of wine.  We can’t have that.  I like to buy my wine at the Superstore liquor store because they always have deals if you buy in large quantities, as I am wont to do.  I was carrying my case of Shiraz to the cash register when I noticed a whole rack devoted to no-name wine.  And by no-name, I mean those yellow labels that Superstore is famous for.  The labels read “red wine” and “white wine” with nothing else.  I was actually a bit taken aback by this, and asked the cashier if anyone actually purchased no-name Superstore brand wine.  He answered yes, and that the wine was “actually really good”.  I looked at this young man, with his giant stretched earlobes that contained cork-looking circles in the manner of a Masai warrior, and was silenced.  I could no more imagine Superstore brand wine as being “really good” as I could imagine those giant stretched earlobes to be an attractive and fun idea.  I could imagine hobos enjoying that wine, perhaps, or maybe the spoiled bastard who has been setting people’s cars on fire for fun.  I can totally understand how Sipowitz and Kelly and Martinez go batshit on their perps, because – om shanti and zen-states notwithstanding – I would too.  “You’re going to Riker’s, you little bastard.  You’re going to be in with all the whores and the junkies.”

After my wine purchases, I was meeting a woman at Starbucks to talk about our school council and fundraising ideas.  I was paying for my seriously overpriced peppermint tea when a man came up to me and asked if I was Jennifer.  No, I’m Nicole.  He told me he is on a blind date and was looking for Jennifer.  OH BUT IF I HAD SAID YES.  There are a lot of Jennifers out there, sir.  What if my name was Jennifer?  The hilarity that would have ensued would have been comparable to a Three’s Company episode.  In any event, Jennifer did show up and it was very clear that she was not into him at all.  Part of this could have been the fact that he was very eager and enthusiastic, to the point of making everyone uncomfortable.  I tried to eavesdrop as best I could but I was discussing fundraising ideas and trying my best not to seem like a full-moon lunatic.

No, honey, I will not murder you when you cease to be a fast driver.

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Happy Thanksgiving, all my Canadian friends.  Although I’ve always thought that Thanksgiving is among the lamer of the holidays, given that I have never been interested in pie, turkey, or any of the usual turkey-trimmings-pie-fanfare.  And yet, it’s always a good idea to be thankful for what one has.  Right now I’m mostly thankful that I’m not in the car anymore.

We drove out to my in-laws’ house for the holiday, and came back today.  It’s a long drive, and I spent most of it staring out the window, listening to Jedi commentary and Star Wars trivia, queries about how much longer the drive would be, childrens’ voices singing along to vastly inappropriate popular music – “I’ve had a shit day!  You’ve had a shit day!” – and a startling amount of swearing at other drivers on the road, notably those who were driving RV’s, pulling trailers, elderly, and/or driving slow on undivided stretches of highway and speeding up whilst in the passing lanes, making it difficult to pass.  “If I ever get old and start driving like these assholes,” my husband said as he passed an elderly man driving an RV, “Just put a fucking bullet in my brain.”  Sorry babe.  I am never going to put a bullet in your brain.  Possibly you need someone else to carry out that living will of yours, mmm-kay?

I am also thankful for the three Macintosh apples I JUST ate in rapid succession.  One of the best things about visiting the in-laws in October is the fresh produce.  A friend of mine tried to convince me that yes, I could eat a varied diet as a locavore, but I say one hundred miles is not enough.  Fuck the 100-mile diet I say!  And those apples made the drive worthwhile, as well as the twenty pounds of Concord grapes my mother-in-law sent me home with. 

Another thing to be thankful for: it will be another year until we do our family pictures, so I won’t have to put up with the usual family-picture angst from the children about how the clothes I have chosen for them make them look like dorks.  Honestly.  It’s not like I was dressing them up in bow ties or that we were all wearing matching clothes.  My bar is pretty low: I want them in jeans with intact knees, and clean shirts that are not emblazoned with Angry Birds, Lego Star Wars, or similar.  And yet the drama that follows is worthy of an after-school special about a mean mommy who deep down really does love her children.  I have yet to upload the photos, but have a good mind to get our Christmas cards printed with ones that have a good photo of me and husband, while children block out their own faces by pretending to use the force and/or are making faces like Scooby Doo when faced with a large sandwich.  I’m sure I will have lots to choose from.  Merry Christmas!  We don’t know what happened to the children.

Here’s something neat to be thankful for – a yoga friend of mine, who also happens to be a mad talented at making videos, made this video from filming a typical morning practice at the studio.  It’s pretty amazing, I think, and if you’ve ever wondered what Mysore-style Ashtanga is like, well, here it is!  Take a look, you won’t be disappointed.  Fun fact: I am wearing the world’s brightest pink pants. 

Since getting home three hours ago, I’ve baked banana loaf, unpacked everything (well, my husband helped – is he trying to get lucky?  If so, it’s totally working.  Usually I unpack everything alone.), made and ate dinner along with my three apples, cleaned up, and have written this post!  Not bad!  I’m thankful for Wifi, my own foresight in stocking the fridge with long-lifed items before I left, and for my husband, who I will definitely not shoot in the head, if only to show my gratitude for his help in unpacking the luggage.

Happy Thanksgiving, fellow Canadians, and for my dear American readers – happy Columbus Day!  Is that a holiday? 

Padme and Anakin and the Five Languages of Love

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Getting right into the year 2005, I watched Revenge of the Sith on the weekend.  Here’s a little piece of advice: do not watch the violent end of a movie minutes before leaving the house to attend a led primary practice.  You will feel all shaky and NAMASTE, BITCH.  Related: it’s very, very awkward when, at the end of a led practice, you turn to your neighbour to say “Namaste” and that neighbour is looking the other direction.  So, you turn to your other neighbour, who is also looking the other way, but you feel that the first neighbour is now looking at you so you turn your head quickly, only to see that they have already bowed their head to their mat.  Awkward. 
Anyway, Revenge of the Sith!  I loved it more than all the other Star Wars movies combined, which isn’t saying much, really, since I have seen The Phantom Menace and Attack of the Clones a number of times and yet I cannot remember what happens because I either fall asleep or become completely bored and zone out every single time.  But I really, really liked Revenge of the Sith; it was interesting and fast-paced and compelling.  I have only a few problems with it, and although this makes me feel a bit like those nerds that created “Jar Jar Binks Must Die” webpages immediately following the first midnight viewing of The Phantom Menace, I will nonetheless detail them here.

First, near the end of the movie, the conversation between Anakin and Obi-Wan goes as follows:

Obi-Wan: Anakin, the Sith are evil!

Anakin: From my point of view, the Jedi are evil!

FROM MY POINT OF VIEW?  What kind of writing is that?  George Lucas may have well have had them having a twitter conversation:

@ObiWan IMO Jedi = Jerks #haters #SithRule #CheatDeath

Although, it would have been tremendously cool if Obi-Wan had said “Have you tried Hare Krishna?” after saying “Then you are lost.”

My second issue is about Padme’s death.  All this time, I had thought that Padme died a grisly death in childbirth, which, quite frankly, would have been pretty realistic.  But yet, she died of a broken heart!  She lost the will to live!  Padme, you just had two babies – LIVE FOR THEM.  You’re not the only woman who got knocked up by a guy who turned out to be a dick.  I mean, we all make mistakes.  Padme’s was having unprotected sex with a Jedi.  Get over it and mother your children.  Jesus.

Maybe Padme and Anakin should have discussed the Five Languages of Love.  My friend and I were talking about these love languages yesterday, which are Words of Affirmation, Quality Time, Gifts, Acts of Service, and Physical Touch.  We are now, as I told a young friend of mine who is in the stage of life when all her friends are getting married, in the stage where marital issues are starting to rear their ugly heads.  My friend was telling me about a book detailing five different love languages, and how sometimes it seems like your partner is being a jerk, but maybe he’s showing his love in other ways.  For example, maybe sometimes you want your shmoopie to give you some PDA, but he never does.  Instead, he shows his love by always unloading the dishwasher (note: this does not happen in my house.  If my husband unloaded the dishwasher, I would be so excited I would rip off my clothes and have sex with him right on the countertop).  But anyway, our conversation centred around understanding how someone says I Love You.  It was interesting, and it made me think that maybe Anakin was showing his love through Acts of Service (turning to the Dark Side so Padme wouldn’t die, ostensibly), but Padme really wanted some Quality Time.  I don’t know.  Things could have been resolved so differently.

Our discussion around the love languages got me thinking – what love language do I speak?  How do I show my love?  My husband would probably say that I need to work on my Quality Time.  For example, the other night I was immersed in a book and he was talking to me.  Instead of looking up from my book and listening, I had a “mmm, really?” kind of response.  He totally busted me for not listening.  Oops!  But I will tell you about something really nice that HE did that is totally sweet and romantic.  I was talking about how I wanted to go visit my grandma, but I didn’t want to take the whole family.  The next thing I knew, he had booked me a flight and a rental car, and had figured out child care.  If it was up to me, a year later I would still be saying “I want to go visit Grandma…”  Hooray for decisiveness!

In other words, people, I am going on a solo trip!  To Saskatchewan!  I haven’t traveled by myself since 2003, I’m the teensiest bit nervous.  So, I should say, is everyone around me.  I have to drive two hours after flying to Regina, and, given my ability to get hopelessly lost in the city I’ve lived my whole life in, there is some concern that I will end up in Nunavut or, alternatively, South Dakota.  My husband has been busy googling maps and reminding me to take the Garmin, my mother keeps asking nervously if I know how to get to the highway, and my dad is probably hand drawing me maps of the various streets around the airport as we speak.  It’ll be FINE.  How lost can I get?  (Don’t answer that).

So anyway, I’m so in love with my husband, I get to go see my grandma, and I am going to be away from the kids for longer than I’ve ever been, which is causing me a little bit of angst.  I’m pretty excited though – it helps that my kids are going to the lake with my parents, which they have told me is WAY more fun than when I come.  What?  Clearly, their love language is NOT Words of Affirmation.