Monthly Archives: April 2015

Never Surrender

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One day last week I heard Never Surrender twice, on two separate radio stations. Twice in one day! I felt like it was a sign, a sign that I shouldn’t let a little uncertainty bring me down, and that no one can take away my right to fight.

Because I am fighting the power, the power that seems to be conspiring to turn parking lots into chaos and cesspools of disarray. I pulled into Costco for a quick, but somehow expensive, trip. Right in front of me was a cart left all on its own.

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The cart corral is literally twenty steps away, OMG.

My extreme dislike of this phenomenon of “just leaving your cart wherever you feel like it” is well documented, but I decided to employ Alice’s (HI ALICE) Shopping Cart Karma mentality, and took the cart for my own use in the store. Upon returning to my car, this was the scene:

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THEY’RE MULTIPLYING!

So that felt a bit deflating, but I guess it’s like the story of the kid throwing the starfish back into the ocean; maybe one person can’t save every starfish/ cart, but one person made a difference to that particular starfish/ cart. Or something.

I know, there are many, many other causes to get worked up about, but apparently random carts left in the parking lot is MY cause.

In other, semi-interesting news, I am only a few weeks away from not being the chair of the School Council/ Parent Association! I know! I can’t believe it either! Four years, and I am definitely feeling DONE. When the mere thought of creating JUST ONE MORE AGENDA is completely deflating, it’s time to pass the torch. My husband thinks it will only be a matter of time before I start chairing something else, but I don’t think so. I need to stay strong. And never surrender.

Speaking of songs that get stuck in my head for days on end, I’ve had First Kiss by Kid Rock going through my head since Saturday. It is now Tuesday. That is a lot of Kid Rock. The shameful thing is that I really do love that song, in all its cheesy glory; it reminds me of my teen years in the best possible way. I turn the stereo up and roll the windows dowwwwwwnnnnn…

Not even Billy Joel can squeeze First Kiss out of my brain. I was in the lineup at Walmart, with my glamourous basket full of eight items or less, including three different kinds of seasonal allergy medication, mascara, and cleanser for the kitchen sink. (Digression: the variety of things that people buy at Walmart is astounding, and the examination of their baskets and carts could be an entire social experiment. Or perhaps a still-life piece of art depicting the many limbs of modern life.) The Longest Time by Billy Joel came over the speakers, and I found myself at first humming, then singing under my breath. I know! It’s terrible, but I cannot seem to stop myself. Then, I realized that I was not alone in my song: both the cashier, and a man behind me in line, riding one of those Walmart scooters, were also “whoa-ooh-ooh-ooh”-ing along. It felt like a bringing-together moment, in the Walmart lineup, not unlike the time I found myself in a duet with an elderly man in the liquor store, singing Baby, It’s Cold Outside.

Taking back stranded shopping carts and singing with strangers; it seems to be my master plan for peace and happiness. That, or a sign that I’m losing my mind, I’m not really sure which.

Advice to my teen self: rock the lipstick.

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There’s no spoilers or anything in this post, but is anyone else surprised Grey’s Anatomy is still on TV? I haven’t watched that show since they killed off super-hot Mark Sloan, because I was on the fence about the show’s kind-of lameness for months before that, and killing off McSteamy was the last straw for me. His romance with Meredith’s cutie-pie step-sister was the only thing that was keeping me going, and after that? NO THANK YOU. It’s kind of like how I refused to watch American Idol after Chris Daughtry lost and that old Elvis impersonator won. Even the addition of super-hot Harry Connick Junior wasn’t enough to keep me interested in that show.

Speaking of which, my kids are totally into watching the Shark Tank with their father. Their father is, naturally, extremely gratified by this development and talks to his little acolytes about sales, net worth, and ownership percentage. The boys love this show, and they love being little Alex P. Keatons with their dad. They have favourite “Sharks,” least favourite “Sharks,” and they often talk about “Mr. Wonderful.” For me, watching the Shark Tank is akin to getting my teeth scaled at the dentist; painful and boring and way too much of a time commitment. I think the thing about it that bothers me the most is that these so-called entrepreneurs will come out with an idea for a new kind of golf tee, and then it turns out that they left their day job to pursue the manufacturing and marketing of this golf tee, and they triple-mortgaged their house and borrowed all their aging parents’ retirement savings for said manufacturing and marketing of the golf tee, and it’s a shitty golf tee. Then, when none of the “Sharks” decide to invest in this shitty golf tee, the “entrepreneur” is all indignant and talks about how they are just going to keep on keeping on, and the “Sharks” will regret this excellent opportunity to get in on the ground floor. It is just like American Idol; on occasion there is someone talented, but mostly it’s just a bunch of mediocre hacks.

And while I’m talking TV, I’m just going to come out and say it: these final episodes of Mad Men are a total snore. No, I get it, we need to wrap up the story line, I get it. We need to show just how lame and terrible Don’s giant lie-of-a-life is and how everyone hates him and is leaving him because his whole life is a sham, but zzzzzz. So dull. I am enjoying the 1970s costuming though. The orange-and-brown motifs remind me of my childhood.

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Oh, Halloweens of my youth, when it was socially acceptable to masquerade as a gypsy or a homeless person.

 

In all my discussion about birthday festivities, I forgot to mention a very important thing that happened last weekend: the boys got their purple belts in karate!

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Is it me or does it seem like the kids are growing up really fast? This morning I crossed the street with the help of the crossing-guards; Mark and my friend’s daughter were on duty. I got a little teary eyed – they’re such big kids now! They started kindergarten together and now they are responsible for getting kids across the busy street safely; the next thing you know they’ll be DRIVING through that crosswalk (you know, safely). Not to get all Landslide-y on a Friday, but children get older, I’m getting older too.

Speaking of getting older, I’ve noticed one thing in my three days of being forty: dark lipstick no longer suits me. Maybe it hasn’t for a while and I’m just sensitive to it now, but I slicked on a rich colour and then was startled at my old-lady clown appearance. I thought I’d have another thirty years before I really rocked the “dark lipstick bleeding into papery white lines around my mouth” look, but no. I guess it’s just tasteful colours for me from now on. Maybe my skin has changed, or maybe it’s my altered hair colour, but I kind of looked like a bloody-mouthed crypt keeper. This is a major departure for me. For many years, bright red lipstick was my thing. Check out this photo of me at age 16.

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A couple of things: I LOVED that outfit. It was a skirt and swingy top from Le Chateau, black with little daisies sewn onto it. It was my very favourite outfit in 1992. Please note the long, permed hair and the – you know it – bright red lipstick. Also, if I wasn’t prematurely grey due to genetics obtained from my father, I’d say this is the reason Dad was so grey. Sixteen year old girls, they are a race apart, no? Anyway, I dredged up this photo for a compilation on Yummy Mummy Club – advice you need to give your teen self. It’s worth a read, especially for the photos of some of the writers in their teens. The hair! The makeup! The outfits!

So here’s a question for you: what advice would you give to your teen self? I’d say travel more, and be more adventurous, because one day you might find yourself staring in the mirror, wondering what to do with all those dark lipsticks in your purse. xoxo

Lordy, lordy

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I turned forty yesterday, and if the past few days are an indication of the decade to come, then I think my forties are going to be amazing.

We had a party on the weekend, and the only downside is that I’m probably getting wrinklier by the minute, given that my face was like this for most of it:

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You will note that I am wearing a sash. I had a matching tiara as well; the same friend who brought those two items also brought a bottle of Baby Duck and at around 1:45 am, I partied like I was 16 years old:

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Wow, that stuff is bad. And yes, you read that right – 1:45 am. I STAYED UP PAST TWO IN THE MORNING OMG.

So, it was a memorable birthday, made even more memorable by my husband’s friends serenading me in the manner of Maverick and Goose in Top Gun, which has long been a dream of mine. FINALLY THE DREAM CAME TRUE. From the moment I heard you never close your eyes anymore when I kiss your lips to the final ba dum, ba dum, ba dum dum DUM, I was on cloud nine. Much, much more to be said about this on the throwback blog next week.

By the way, if you’re not reading Throwing It Back, you should. So far I’ve recapped Deenie by Judy Blume, Allison has talked Mr. Dressup and Girl Guide Camp, and, most recently, Hannah recalls with fondness “Wok With Yan,” which may have somehow inspired my love of apron culture. I have it on good authority that we’ll see something about Gilbert Blythe tomorrow.

Gilbert! He seemed to be the first crush of every Canadian girl growing up in the Eighties, and I was no exception. In fact, he made it on my Sexiest Men Of Years Past list, a.k.a., the guys I used to crush on. RIP Jonathan Crombie. We will always be Carrots to you.

In other news, it is really and truly spring in Calgary. I know! I haven’t wanted to say anything because I haven’t wanted to jinx it, but we have had a mild, dry winter and it’s been a warm, dry spring. There are downsides – grass fires ahoy! – but the past few days I have been working in the garden and my perennials are all growing – with the exception of the hostas, which never make an appearance before May. Although, perhaps I shouldn’t say that because my clematis is already up – and that never happens until May – and it is also, strangely, showing new growth on the old vines. THE APOCALYPSE IS NIGH. Well, I’ll take it, especially after last year’s Planet Hoth-like winter.

 Speaking of the beauty of Mother Nature and also Planet Hoth, it’s Earth Day today and besides feeling slightly smug because my kids ALWAYS have litterless lunches and snacks, I participated in the Google Doodle quiz about what kind of animal I am. I cannot resist such quizzes; whether it be what Downton Abbey character I am or what genre of music represents me best, what is my age based on the men I find attractive (28, what is up with that) or what US city should I live in based on my astrological sign, I will always take the quiz. And so I participated in Google’s quiz and found out the following:

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If anyone needs any heavy lifting, my giant tusks and I are here for you. xo

Do you feel lucky, punk?

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Yesterday I got an email saying that I was the possible recipient of $6.5 million dollars, due to the passing of someone who MAY be related to me. All the money was in a Tongan bank just waiting to be transferred. Then, this morning I got TWO emails from “China Shenhua” saying that “company picked your email as a lucky person for $1,000,000 and a new car.” All I could think of was Bob Barker’s voice: A NEW CAR.

By the way, have you seen Jesse Paul on a 2008 episode of The Price Is Right? I love The Price Is Right (PLINKO!) and I absolutely adore the super-excited audience members. Jesse Paul, however, takes the cake. Watch the clip and tell me if you don’t think he’s the single greatest contestant to be on the show. I still get to spin the wheel, right, Bob?

Anyway, I’m feeling pretty lucky, with my super-exciting inbox of winning today. Plus, you guys, it’s almost my birthday! I love birthdays. I love that I’m turning forty. It feels like this exciting new era, and also that I’ve joined a super-special club of the over-forties.

So I’m having a few people over on the weekend, and last week I went to Costco to stock up on snacky things and other necessities. Since we had the painters at the house, I went to Costco after lunch and OH MY GOD YOU GUYS what was I thinking? I guess I was thinking nothing at all, since I never go to Costco in the afternoon. In fact, the only time I’ve been there not first thing in the morning was the one time I zoomed over there when the kids were in karate and I had 45 minutes to get there and back. On that occasion, I didn’t even take a cart, I just loaded up four items in my arms and popped in and out. I did not realize what afternoon Costco was like.

I expected it to be busier, but it wasn’t significantly so. The issue wasn’t with the number of people, it was with the samples.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am not hating on people getting samples. It’s cool. I’m sure they have lots of tasty treats, and for free, and fill your boots, but for the love of god, people, please move your carts. Those giant Costco carts are bad enough, but when there are six or seven of them lined up to get a free spoonful of Greek yogurt, it is impossible for the non-sampling population to get by and get on with their lives. I was literally trapped in the aisles, trying to edge past the lines of people sampling the wares. It was like a weird nightmare; I’d get to the end of the aisle and would not be able to get out. I’d turn my cart around, but by the time I did that more people were lined up on the other side for more samples. I even got a side-eye and under-the-breath muttering from some man who was under the impression that I was trying to budge in front of him, rather than get around him to get to the frozen berry section. Buddy, I’m not interested in your portion of ham on a cracker. You can have my share.

I’ve been on a kick lately where I am trying not to stock up on things; I’m trying to just use up what I have in the house, and only buy things I need. My canned goods cupboard was getting out of control. So, I’ve put myself on a buying moratorium; I make a list and I stick strictly to the list. Too many times I’ve thought maybe we need soap, bought a 12-pack of Dove, and come home to three unopened Costco-sized packages. In any case, while I was wheeling around the sampling population of Costco, I saw the giant Dove shampoo and conditioner bottles that I buy for the boys and my husband. I briefly wondered if I should buy some, but then I said to myself Nicole, it is not on the list, do not buy it, you do not need it. I stood in a giant lineup to check out and then I drove home, making several trips up and down the stairs to put things away. THIS is why Costco shopping is so exhausting – it’s the stair climbing that finishes me off.

Later that night, after his shower, Jake said to me, “By the way, Mom, the shampoo is empty.” I went downstairs to fetch another bottle and LO. There was no shampoo. There was no conditioner.

At this point, I fairly exploded. “I WAS JUST AT COSTCO!” I said. “YOU NEED TO TELL ME WHEN YOUR SHAMPOO IS ALMOST EMPTY!” I said this angrily to everyone in the house, including my husband, who said that the shampoo had a pump – he never picks it up – he didn’t know it was empty. People, I had to leave the room. I was disproportionately upset about this shampoo debacle. We did have other shampoo in the house. We just didn’t have that kind, and that was a tipping point for me. I was at Costco and I had to veer around herds of carts and people acted like I was going to take the popcorn sample right out of their mouths, and goddammit, we were out of shampoo. Kind of. I had to actually do some deep breathing, this was how upset I was. I kept trying to rationalize to myself that it wasn’t a big deal, but dammit, it was a big deal.

The very next day I got my period, which kind of cleared things up for me. It was, as Oprah says, an AHA moment. AHA! Do not shop at Costco right before ladies’ holidays, especially not in the afternoon.

Taking care of business, blue job style.

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It all started last week when my husband was talking about the appointment he’d made to get the oil changed on my van. This, along with basically all car-related things, is a blue job. I don’t deal with car-related jobs, I just don’t. My husband is happy to do them and I’m happy to let him. I hadn’t taken a vehicle in to get an oil change since I got married, which really says something. I mean, it’s not the reason I got married or anything, but it’s handy.

But for this appointment, there were several conflicts. My husband had a number of things to do, the boys had karate and sparring, and it was just a big mess, so I offered to take the van in. It’s my van, after all, and it’s not like I’m actually changing the oil myself. We had an appointment, and the car dealership had assured my husband that the whole thing would take between an hour and ninety minutes to complete. I had ulterior motives to offering to take the van in; mainly, I wanted a free manicure.

When we bought the van in 2013, the fellow who was showing me all the features on the car (yes, including the lighted mirrors) informed me that when the car needed servicing, there was a nail bar for my girly convenience. Now, some might be outraged at the idea that the dealership was condescendingly catering towards their female clientele, but I say bring on the gel polish. This dealership has a kids’ play area complete with X-Box, a cappuccino machine, a flat-screen TV, free Wi-Fi, and a NAIL BAR. Sign me up and shut the front door.

I was a bit nervous about driving there, since it was in a part of the city I am unfamiliar with, but my husband walked me through it on the map, and off I went. As I was pulling up to the dealership I could hear my text messages going off, but because I am A VERY RESPONSIBLE DRIVER I did not check them. I just assumed it was my husband, probably worried that I was lost and had accidentally left town. This has actually happened before, so it’s a valid concern.

I pulled in, and chatted with the service manager. “Am I in the right place?” I asked, sweetly. “My husband usually brings the car in.” (USUALLY. Ha!) The service manager looked a little concerned, and asked if he was picking me up shortly. “Oh no,” I responded. “I’m just going to wait.” The service manager gravely said that it could be four hours until it was done, which took me by surprise, but since I was stranded at the dealership thirty minutes away from my house, I took it in stride. “You can get your nails done over there, while you wait.” he said, so I scurried off.

The texts were from my husband, and I called him to let him know that I would be here a while, at which point he kind of hit the roof  in a “What? Four hours? What the fuck? They said an hour! Why don’t you leave. Fuck this! I’m going to call and complain.” kind of way. I didn’t think leaving was particularly practical; we were going to have to get the oil changed sometime soon anyway, and I just drove for thirty minutes, and I wanted a manicure. So I settled in for the wait. I had brought some work with me and my phone, so it wouldn’t be too bad, I didn’t think.

I got my manicure – gel polish and all, this stuff is amazing. Then I settled in to a chair with some free mineral water and my phone, and did some reading. It was kind of boring, but not so bad. I wrote a pitch, I read some blogs, I played several games of Trivia Crack. I noticed the service manager looking at me a bit nervously, but didn’t think much of it.

I started to get hungry, but the only restaurant close by was Hooters, and so I drank more mineral water. I didn’t really want to go for a walk; the neighbourhood is kind of the hood, and so I wasn’t comfortable with wandering. Plus, with my sense of direction I could have ended up anywhere. I read a National Geographic about a Mexican food festival. The service manager kept looking at me.

Around three o’clock – two and a half hours after my arrival – the service manager came up to me and with a very serious face told me that the car was in the shop, now, and hopefully it wouldn’t be too much longer. “Oh good!” I responded. “Any idea how much longer?” He shook his head and said he’d check and get back to me. I went back to my Trivia Crack.

At four o’clock, the manager came over to tell me that the car was finished – the computers were down, so he was giving me a handwritten receipt and would email the full receipt later. He said he knew how important it was that I get out of there, and apologized profusely. At this point it was three and a half hours, not four, so I considered myself fairly lucky. “It’s okay,” I said to the obviously-stressed-and-apologetic manager, “At least I got my nails done!” I smiled but he didn’t. Instead, he handed me a card, saying it was his personal business card, and the next time I needed servicing, I could call him and he would make sure everything went smoothly. He gave me a free emergency kit for the car, complete with flares. He apologized again, and I went on my merry way, feeling proud that a) I had driven to the dealership without incident, b) I had taken the car in for an oil change like a strong, invincible woman, and c) I knew how to get home without finding myself heading to Saskatchewan or the United States.

It turns out that when I was there, my husband had called to complain, just like he said he would. However, he complained in a much more, shall we say, angry way than I anticipated, using terms like “pissed off,” “never coming back,” and intimating that whoever handled the appointments was terrible at their job. So while I was happily getting my nails done and reading Tom and Lorenzo’s take on last week’s Mad Men, the manager was eyeing me like I was a ticking time bomb. Don’t mess with that woman; you don’t want to deal with her husband!

You guys, I was playing Good Cop/ Bad Cop and I didn’t even know it.

Nonetheless, I am willing to take the car in the next time it needs an oil change. My nails look GREAT.

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Old at heart.

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I had a hair appointment this week – thank god, something had to be done about the orange straw and grey roots – and as I was getting my colour rinsed out, an older gentleman came into the salon. He explained that he was Marjorie’s son, Marjorie being an elderly lady who gets a weekly hairdo every Friday morning. He had never been in the salon before, but he drives Marjorie every week. What a good son! Except that he had made arrangements for her to go out of town to visit her granddaughter this Friday, which meant that all was ashes. How could he take her out of town with undone hair?

And so this gentleman was coming into the salon personally to see if there was any chance Marjorie could be squeezed in on Thursday. The salon I frequent is a busy one – I book my colours months in advance – but they accommodated his request. After he left, my hair therapist smiled and said, “Oh, those old ladies. They hate to have their schedules messed with. It ruins their whole week!” I nodded sympathetically, all the while thinking, I can relate.

You see, I am not elderly, and yet I too find myself getting worked up when my schedule is thrown out of whack. I can only imagine me in forty or fifty years. Changing a weekly hair appointment would be akin to burning down the nursing home or running out of hot water and lemon in the dining room. We don’t have much time left, I am not leaving this earth with messy hair.

Digression: what kind of food will they have in the Home in forty or fifty years? Will it be things that are trendy and popular now, like kale and quinoa, or will we all just start eating mashed potatoes and veal cutlets? I cannot imagine that I will ever tuck into a plate of veal cutlets, but what kind of vegetarian options will they have for the elderly, circa 2060? Also, will we all naturally just slide into Sears’ “pull on” slacks and blouses, or housedresses? Or will we be clinging to the styles we like now? Will we be a generation of skinny jean wearing, kale chip eating old people? Will I still wear coconut-scented lotion or will I just start wearing Lily of the Valley talcum powder? I’d like to think I’ll go straight to Chanel Number 5 but really, who can tell?

In any case, I don’t do well with schedule interruptions or changes. Case in point: the painters. We’ve been talking about painting the kitchen and bathrooms. We’ve had a colour consult with the painter who painted our basement and exterior. The only thing we didn’t have was a firm date. Sometime in early April, was what had been settled on, when we got an email from the painter saying that he might have to change that around. Well, we had nothing firm anyway, so I blithely went on with my life.

At least, until Tuesday night, when my husband informed me that the painters were coming the very next day at 9:00.

In retrospect, this was the best possible scenario. I had a meeting, but not until 11, the kids were staying for lunch for Tech Club, and I didn’t have time to work myself up into a frenzy about omg people working in the house! I was able to be home to let them in, the day was sunny and warm and so I could lock the dog outside, everything was fine. The colours turned out beautifully – photos to come – and as of Thursday morning everything was finished.

And yet. I am the crabbiest person to have people working in the house. Maybe it’s my Type A personality, which makes me feel like an elephant is sitting on my chest when I see drywall dust on the kitchen counters and tiny scraps of paint chips on the floor, and the furniture all askew. Maybe this is a sign that I need to look into my control-freak behaviour when I physically have to leave the room so that I don’t implode and wither to the floor when everything in the house is chaos and I cannot even get to my water bottle or use the bathroom without explaining myself.

Well, it’s all over now, and as I said, it’s beautiful. My husband claims not to be a Type A person, but he is quite a perfectionist, especially when it comes to handy work. He is very handy – if you’re not handy yourself, you are best to marry someone handy, is my motto – and has done a great deal of work in our house with his own two hands. He’s the ultimate “measure 20 times, cut once” guy, everything has to be exactly leveled and exactly centred and there is no eyeballing involved. MEASUREMENTS COUNT, PEOPLE. It works out great, because he is very exact. The only problem is that if someone ELSE does the work, then he can find fault in about thirty seconds flat. He’s the one who spots the tiny piece of roller fluff that got painted onto the wall, or the slightly-less-than-perfect paint line. And the biggest problem about this is that I am the one who is at home, so it is my job to inform the person working on our house that their work is suspect. I don’t like that job. There was a not-great job done in a not-too-prominent part of the bathroom which resulted in some coloured paint being on our cream trim, but my husband threw up his hands, decided he was going to just repaint the trim and door himself, because he could do a better job. This kind of defeats the purpose of getting painters in, but maybe it’s for the best.

Princess problems, am I right? I guess it’s time for me to work on my mental flexibility. Either that, or just continue with my deep ujjayi breathing.

Seriously, what is with the moustaches?

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Mad Men, you guys, Mad Men. Did you watch it last night? Don’t worry, there will be no spoilers here, except to observe that 1970 was evidently the beginning of the Great Moustache Era. So many moustaches! And I confess, from my 2015 viewpoint, I immediately assumed that the first glimpse of Roger Sterling was some kind of circus-like dream sequence, entirely due to his ridiculous moustache and puffy shirt. Then I realized no, that was merely the style.

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He reminds me of a ringmaster in a circus, although those ladies look kind of fabulous.

COME ON. And yet as we all know, styles often look ridiculous, looking back. I’ve worn my fair share of stupid-looking styles, most notably the vertically-teased bangs of the Eighties, the puffy pirate shirts of the Nineties, and the flowy clown pants paired with fitted blazers of Y2K. We’ve all worn styles that we’ve regretted, so I’m not sure why I find thick moustaches and ruffled tuxedo shirts to be quite so hideous, but I do.

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Everything about this look is regrettable.

 

Even as I write this, I look like I’m about to audition for a Flashdance reboot, so I feel hypocritical criticizing menswear circa 1970, and yet.

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All I’m missing is a sweatband and leg warmers.

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Hoo boy, those are some roots. I need a colour job, stat!

The other thing that last night’s Mad Men made me think about (I promise, no spoilers) is how promiscuous the Seventies were. I remember excitedly watching Saturday Night Fever for the first time – and I was an adult – and I was completely shocked by the amount of rampant sex in it: back seat of a car sex, bathroom sex, anywhere sex. Then I read Fear of Flying and was completely grossed out by the promiscuity and corresponding venereal diseases – and I was in my early twenties at the time. YOU GUYS, USE A CONDOM, EW. But that was the Seventies, I guess. As Mona Sterling said in last season’s Mad Men:

Margaret, darling, these people are lost, and on drugs, and have venereal diseases.

Ladies and gentlemen: the Sexual Revolution, summarized nicely.

How was your long weekend? The kids decorated eggs twice – once at my parents’ place, and once at home. There was also a LOT of chocolate. The chocolate combined with two weeks of vacation and vacation-related imbibing has had a negative impact on the fit of my clothes. My skinny jeans are feeling a bit too skinny, if you know what I mean. But that is what vacation is for, and so today I grocery shopped and came home with a plethora of spinach for green smoothies; I’m also congratulating myself on not buying any more Mini-Eggs – it’s a lot harder to sneak the kids’ chocolate when that chocolate is in the form of individually-wrapped chocolate chicks and bunnies.

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Aren’t they pretty?