Friday, 26 February 2010

An Alternative to the Olympics: NicOlympics 2010

Friday, 26 February 2010
You know that word association game people play sometimes? Borne from psychology circles where one person says a word and then the other person is supposed to say whatever word pops into their mind upon hearing the first word? You know what I’m talking about... if you and I were playing it, it would be like this:

Me: “Orange.”
You: “...JUICE!”
Me: “Lennon...”
You: “...McCARTNEY!”
Me: “Bananas...”
Me: “Nicola...”
You: _________

Now, dear readers, there are those amongst you who know me very well, so I could take a reasonable stab at what some of you might insert in the blank I have so kindly supplied for you above, but I would bet my right gazonga that the last thing you would say would be “...ATHLETE!” I hope this perfectly illustrates the reason why you haven’t yet found yourself reading a blog post from me about the Olympics.

Don’t get me wrong, I like the pomp and circumstance of it all, and being the old soul that I am, I am diggin’ on the spirit of the tradition of the Olympic games, and being part-Canadian I am uber-proud that the eyes of the world are all on Vancouver right now... but if I’m completely honest, I’m not really fussed. I mean, I like watching the snowboarders (mostly because the boy ones are all cool little hotties) and I like watching the ice skating, sometimes. The latter for two reasons: first out of envious curiosity which quickly dissipates into bitterness along the ‘Why-Can’t-My-Ass-Be-So-Small-And- Perky-Like-Hers’ lines, and second because I think it’s funny when they fall down. YOU LAUGH, TOO... don’t try and deny it.

I did watch quite a bit of the Opening Ceremonies, though. It made me totally homesick, and I found myself very emotional (aka crying like a big fat baba) when it got to Shane Koyczan’s recitation of his FRICKIN’ AWESOME poem ‘We Are More’ (click the link to read the full transcript) ... oh, yes, we say ‘zed’ instead of ‘zee’: RIGHT ON, MY BROTHA.

So instead of giving you loads of fluff about curling or cross-country skiing or hockey (heaven forbid!) I thought I’d give you a run down of the things in my life that I believe are podium-worthy, should the governing bodies of the IOC decide to expand their definition of ‘sport’ to include the everyman.

Without further ado, I give you the NicOlympics – What I’d Win a Medal For:

Gold medal: Facebook. I’m always on it. I know, totally dorky, right? But it’s my lifeline, I tells ya. Being all the way over here, when most of my homies are across the water? It’s hard. So being friends with them on Facebook where I can see pictures of them, their kids, their drunken escapades, pets, holidays, etc. etc. means the world to me. It has brought back people in my life that I regretted having long ago lost touch with, and it gives me a medium with which to share news, photos and videos, etc. with people who miss me. And by ‘people’ I mostly mean my Mum. And by ‘miss’ I mean ‘relieved I’m not local and constantly borrowing money.’

Silver medal: Cooking. Totally not joking. And if this event got extra points for making mammoth gargantuan everything-out-of-the-cupboards messes in the kitchen at the same time, I’d blow the competition out of the water. My love of cooking started around about a decade ago, when I realised that in addition to the lure and appeal of my boobs in a Wonderbra, the way to Jason’s heart was (as the saying goes) was directly through his stomach. So I started making all manner of yummy things to entice my way into his affections. It totally worked. He is fond of telling the story of how he started to realise I was ‘The One’ not long after we started dating and I made a lovely Not Chicken Pot Pie while he was out at a football match, and that I cut the letters ‘NUFC 5-0!’** out of pastry to put on the top. His favourites that I make now include a delicious Thai green curry, roasted Mediterranean vegetables with Cypriot haloumi cheese, scrambled eggs with double cream and green chillies... I could be here all day. Maybe one day I will post some recipes – is that really dorky, though?

Bronze medal: Making A Bottle of Formula With Only One Hand While Holding Baby In Other While Talking On Phone At Same Time. Doesn’t sound like a big deal to a lot of you, maybe. But this is a special, special talent. One handed, too. Try it. I bet you make a mess! Not me, naw.

Honourable mention: Last Minute House Tidying. Being married to an obsessive tidyer-upper has its perks: I hardly ever do the dishes or make the bed, because Jason likes to do them just so. He is the loveliest type of husband and we have a great system – I make mess, and he cleans it up. It has worked for almost a decade. When he is at home on his own through the day, he cleans up as he goes along. Me? I turn the entire house upside-down while I’m going about the business of looking after our kids, and then about 20 minutes before he gets in from work I restore the natural order of everything, whipping around the place in a tubby alternative Mary Poppins Spoonful of Sugar style. It is a sight to behold.

Last place: Musical Tolerance. If this was a real event, I wouldn’t even qualify. I would be last place, nobody would want me on their team. Despite having a really wide ranging musical collection, I’m so closed-minded when it comes to listening to new or different stuff it’s really rather embarrassing. Take Jason, for example: lifelong card-carrying metalhead, and proud of it. But always, ALWAYS lets me listen to what I want to listen to in the house, or the car. Has even admitted (but don’t tell any of his friends) that he was wrong about The Smiths and Morrissey and The Cure and The Pixies, and likes quite a lot of the music I suggest he listens to. Me? I turn into a scowling, foul-mouthed, bad-tempered harpy if he even so much as lingers on a music video that I don’t like for more than a few seconds. I make him listen to all his music on headphones. Isn’t that rotten of me? It’s a total failing, I know. I should be a better wife, yes, yes, I hear you. But I just can’t. Jason’s ALWAYS going on at me about it. He says, “But I always let you listen to your music in the car. Why can’t you pay me the same respect?” The answer is simple, my reply never alters, never wavers. “But Jase, the difference is... your music is BAD.”

Other Events in Which I Would Receive an Honourable Mention:

  • Squeezing the Freaky Recurrent Blackhead in Jason’s Back Tattoo

  • Nagging (Wives Only Event) ... or as I like to call it 'Calling Attention to Requests Still Outstanding'

  • Driving on Either Side of the Atlantic With Ease and Aplomb

  • Searching Estate Agents Websites for Houses I’ll Never Be Able To Afford

  • Procrastinating Important Writing Projects By Blogging Instead

  • Doritos
 There you have it. Oh, before I forget: GO TEAM CANADA!
**NUFC = Newcastle United; we won 5-0 that day. Toon Army!

PS - the inspiration for this post came from my wise and wonderful friend Melissa -- go check out her blog!

2 people had something to say about this...:

fame_throwa said...

Totally loved your definition of Nagging up there. Hilarious.

I'd give you a tough run for last place in the Musical Tolerance competition. I can't believe the positively rude comments that come out of my mouth when submitted to Mr. Chatty's music. Turns me in to Mr. Hyde completely. Mr. Chatty isn't like Jason though; he hates my music just as much as I hate his. When we're both in the house, we stick to Jazz or Classical. I have to keep the rocking out for my commutes to work. Boo. :(

Nicola P. said...

Isn't it weird? If you would have asked my 20 year old self if she would ever be married to a Pantera fan she would have promptly collapsed into a heap of giggles. The things we do for love, eh? X