Monthly Archives: June 2019

Nicole’s Favourite Things: The June/ “Why Is This Week So Weird” Edition

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What is it about the last week of school? The month of June – well, and April and May – flew by, but now this last week is taking an age to get through. It doesn’t help that I feel like I’m in a constant time warp, what with today being a PD day, and tomorrow being a “pick up report cards and generally do nothing for three hours” day, and the past two weeks being half days. Who am I? Where am I? What are we doing again? These are the questions I am constantly asking myself. I have to remind myself several times a day what day it is and what is happening.

A huge highlight having half days of school is that there are no lunches to pack. My kids are semi-famous in their group of friends for having The Best Lunches; clearly they are old enough and competent enough in the kitchen to make their own lunches, but I still do it as a semi-love letter to them. On weekends and holidays they are, for the most part, completely responsible for cobbling together their own lunches, but on school days they get a lunch prepared by me, the secret ingredient being Love.

About a year ago I was at a neighbourhood barbeque and one of the dads told me his son was constantly complaining about the quality of his lunches, saying that the ones my boys eat are far superior. This dad asked me to dial things back a bit, can’t I just slap a piece of bologna between two slices of bread? Has he met me? Of course I can’t. I still have zest for lunch making as a) the boys came home for lunch for all those elementary years and so I never really had to make any, b) I only pack three lunches a week, as Fridays are half days and Tuesdays are Chicken Caesar Salad day at the cafeteria. Here’s my secret: on pita pizza night, I make extra pizzas to have cold in their lunches, one day a week I put deli turkey with ranch dressing and lettuce in tortillas, then wrap, secure with toothpicks, and slice up, and on Mondays, they get whatever leftover roasted meat happened on Sunday, plus a couple of leftover waffles. Every lunch has veggies, fruit, and something I’ve baked in it as well. I AM THE LUNCH QUEEN.

So no lunches for the last two weeks; Monday I was mixing up cookie dough when my younger son came home, alone. Usually they come home together but he cagily said that his brother was just “a few minutes behind him.” When his brother came home he mentioned that he had parked an abandoned Walmart shopping cart behind our house.

Me: What.

Son: I just parked it out back. Don’t worry, it’s not behind the garage or anything.

Me: I don’t want an abandoned CART behind our HOUSE. Why did you PUT it there?

Son: Okay, I’ll go move it.

So many questions. So much to process. In the end the story went like this: the boys and their gang found three – THREE – abandoned shopping carts in one of the back alleys that they use to cut off thirty seconds from their commute. What’s a group of teenage boys to do when they find three – THREE – abandoned shopping carts? Climb in and race, of course.

When this was relayed to me, I had to turn to the sink full of dishes, close my eyes, and employ my ujjayi breath for a few moments. My initial reaction was to completely flip out but I didn’t because a) they actually related this to me, b) there are no real inclines or declines from that alley to our house, and so chances are no one was careening out of control, and c) teenage boys, honest to god, have no brains.

I did, however, ask them to please, in future, if they encounter abandoned shopping carts, to just leave them alone. I’m sure this is not the last of it, however. When my husband got home, he wondered what kind of idiot would leave an upside down shopping cart in the green space behind our house, to which my son responded “I am that idiot!” We cultivate self-awareness in this house, let me tell you. My husband then grabbed his truck keys and the two of them returned the cart to the Walmart parking lot, a somewhat happy ending to a story that I never, ever thought would be part of my life.

So IDIOCY is not my favourite thing but I do have a number of things I love about this month, time warp and all.

Nicole’s Favourite Things: The June/ “Why Is This Week So Weird” Edition

Hunter Boots

I have wanted Hunter boots for YEARS but couldn’t justify them in my mind; I had a perfectly good pair of rain boots that, up to about seven weeks ago, served my purposes. After years of service they finally cracked; Browns had a 30% off sale on tall black Hunters, and there was ONE left in my size. What’s a girl to do? I bought them and immediately the weather turned dry and sunny. You’re welcome, Calgary! But the last few weeks have seen a huge amount of rain – summer solstice was the darkest, rainiest, longest day of the year – and so I’ve been enjoying my fashionable, dry feet.

Flowers

My Siberian irises have made the best showing ever this year, and they are popping up in places far from their original domain.

All my outdoor plants are making strides, but just look at this:

One of my dear students gave me that bouquet, and I am just in love with it. Bonus: it’s not triggering anyone’s allergies in the house!

Barkley

I know, he is just constantly one of my favourite things, but will you look at this:

I mean, come on.

My husband has been doing a lot of business travelling lately, and it’s all sadness when the suitcase comes out:

Poor puppers!

All That Food Is Paying Off

I’ve been the shortest in the house for a little while now, but today my fifteen-year-old took the title of Tallest in the House. The boys have both grown 1 1/2 – 2 inches since April 2, which really explains my grocery bills. Now I’m just looking forward to their brains catching up with all that growth.

Well, June is hectic, this week is even more so, and with that fun piece of news I will close. Happy end of school, friends! xo

Gaslighting, literally

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Around Christmastime last year, I parked my car and peered into my rearview mirror in order to check my makeup before going to teach a yoga class. I do this habitually to make sure I don’t have lipstick on my teeth or raccoon-ish mascara circles under my eyes. It was, as I said, late December and so the sun was low in the sky even though it was nearly noon. The bright sunlight shone on my face and it was then that I noticed three black hairs, of significant length and coarseness, sprouting from various parts of my face. Distressing as this was on its own, it was exacerbated by the fact that I was about to teach a class full of people and I had no tweezer on my person, and also, I regularly check and tweeze various parts of my face. Chin hairs and those on the upper lip are no rarity on a woman of my age, and so I hunt them on the regular. Or so I thought.

I was faced with the conclusion that, due to insufficient lighting in the bathroom, regular mirrors no longer serve me, so I ordered a Daylight 10x Magnifying Mirror during the Boxing Day sales on Amazon. I waited with excited anticipation for the delivery of the item that would, surely, transform my life.

Jesus take the wheel.

The first time I peered into that mirror, I felt despair and despondency. If you ever feel the need to be humbled – perhaps you have way too MUCH self-esteem – then definitely consider this purchase. It is not, as my aunt wisely told me, for the faint of heart. But I eventually discovered the secret to use it without plunging into a spiral of shame and sadness: look at your face dispassionately and in sections – eyebrows, upper lip, chin – and always remember that while others may view you in the full light of day, they are not doing so in a way that is magnifying your every flaw by a power of ten. Or, at least, we hope they are not.

The months ticked by and my self-esteem recovered. I continued to use my mirror several times a week, and was not dissatisfied by the effects. What I didn’t realize, what should have been obvious but wasn’t, to me, is that as time goes by batteries begin to lose their charge. And as that happens, the “daylight” setting begins to fade away, until what I thought was “daylight” was, in reality, “dusk.”

In other words, I was gaslighted. I literally gaslighted myself.

Not knowing what horrors awaited me, I placidly changed out the batteries, and then gasped when I looked in the mirror. I should have KNOWN that chin hairs do not magically disappear with regular plucking. We all know that, if anything, those long black hairs become more tenacious with time, like goutweed or mint. I should have KNOWN that total transformation doesn’t just happen with the purchase and use of a magnifying mirror. I should have KNOWN that Bridget Jones was right, being a woman is like being a farmer with all the harvesting and crop spraying, and we all know how farmers cannot just let things go without major consequence.

I think the takeaway lesson here is that none are so blind as those who will not see, and also that changing the batteries more than twice annually is a smart idea for those of us wishing to utilize modern technology to its fullest benefit.

Lemon, it’s Wednesday

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There is no need to remind me that today is actually Thursday; however, this is how I have felt over the past couple of weeks:

On Monday I cheerfully mentioned to my older son that if he was having issues with his F chord, he could ask his guitar teacher at his lesson the next day. His guitar lessons are on Thursdays. By Wednesday, over the last two weeks, I’ve been ready to collapse on the couch with a bottle of wine and a funnel only to realize that no, it isn’t Friday, and not only did I have to Just Keep Swimming, I also had to take my younger son to drum lessons.

Remember the young girl who teaches voice lessons, who changes her look dramatically week to week? A few weeks ago I anxiously awaited her to come out and talk with one of the parents, and I was rewarded by her new look: a shaved head, army boots, and what appeared to be a karate gi. Maybe her head is always shaved and she wears different wigs every week? That would explain a lot of things. Last night she had on one of those golf-style hats that are favoured by old men on her shaved head, a gigantic Club Monaco sweatshirt over top a turtleneck, hugely wide-legged high waisted cropped jeans, and white faux fur open-toed mules.

I don’t mind at all waiting for the kids at their different music lessons; I bring a book and use the time to read, or contemplate how one person can have so many different styles from week to week when my own style has been virtually unchanged for many years. Either way, I amuse myself. There is one dad there who has two young children that have lessons not concurrently; he’s there at least an hour and he never, ever has so much as a book or a phone. He merely stares into the distance, mostly ignoring the child who is not currently taking a lesson, and who is constantly whining about how bored he is. Now, I get the concept of allowing your child to sit and be bored for a few moments, there is no need to be constantly amused by screens or the like, but would it not be possible for the sake of everyone around him to at least bring a book for the child? How much LONGER do we have to waaaaaaait, the child usually says about two minutes after his brother has started lessons. A book! Markers and colouring pages! What a novel concept. Then last night, a woman who I assumed was their mother brought the children to lessons. I didn’t even realize they were there until I noticed the child, who was completely engrossed in a Roald Dahl book, rather than complaining loudly for thirty minutes. It was a nice reprieve. I am not drawing specific parallels to the rest of the world, but way to go Mom.

Small digression about books: I was reading Feel Free by Zadie Smith, and my husband commented on it. Why was I reading that? What is it about? I replied that it was a book of essays, and it was okay, not great, but sort of interesting. I started to mention I had read her first book many years ago, back before kids when I was in a book club. She’s a WRITER? he asked incredulously. Other than the time I read The Dead Husband Project, my husband has shown no interest at all in any book I have read, and so I was pretty surprised by his line of questioning. It turns out he was thinking JADA, not ZADIE, which was quite amusing to me. There are no anecdotes about the Fresh Prince in Feel Free, although there are many long essays about paintings I am not familiar with and books I have not and probably never will read.

These last few weeks of school are a strange combination of busy and not busy. The boys have only half days of school every day for two weeks, with the exception of last Tuesday, which was Field Trip Day and found them at the zoo and the science centre. The half days are ostensibly designed to allow for studying for finals. The grade nines are all taking their provincial achievement tests, and the grade eights have a couple of finals as well, but the majority of the time appears to be consumed by movie watching and, in general, nothing at all. Everyone seems to be mailing it in right now. Today as the grade nines write their math PAT, the grade eights are having a barbeque.

Strange as it might seem to have a barbeque for the entire eighth grade at ten in the morning, that’s nothing compared to the request to “bring your own meat.” Just think of the logistics of this: one hundred and fifty thirteen-year-olds all bringing in a single hamburger, or hot dog, or chicken breast, with no refrigeration facilities. Last year I thought this couldn’t be the case, the school couldn’t possibly be endorsing such a potentially food-poisoning-infused activity, but the morning of the barbeque my son begged to take something, anything to school. Everyone’s taking something, Mom! He ended up taking a single sausage, which was the only barbeque-able piece of meat in the house, which subsequently got eaten by someone else. This year I gave my younger son a whole pack of hot dogs, buns, and a couple of nearly-empty condiments; at least this way he and his friends are provided for, hopefully without salmonella.

Today is the teacher luncheon at the school, and as I have been pretty much a lame duck in terms of volunteering for these junior high years, I offered to bring dessert. Specifically, mini cupcakes. More specifically, the fussiest, most time-consuming labour-intensive dessert that I could possibly make for a large crowd. Why do I do these things to myself? I could have made a pan of brownies and called it a day but no. The cupcakes turned out great, but I will just say this: yesterday was a pretty frantically busy day without making five dozen tiny cupcakes frosted with roses and stars, so adding that on top of things was perhaps not that bright. I’m pleased with the final result, though, and even more pleased that tomorrow is Friday and my friend is coming over in the afternoon for a much-needed wine break.

I excitedly texted a photo to my husband, who expressed extreme doubt that I actually made these myself, given my very poor track record for decorating baked goods. But I did! I did make them! You could too; all you need is the right decorating tips and a YouTube video. I told this to my husband, owner of a whole workshop filled with every tool you can imagine, and he nodded with great understanding. The right tools are EVERYTHING, he agreed. Indeed.

A bowl of cherries

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“You know when you get a little bit drunk and then put a whole bunch of books on hold at the library?” I asked my friend Jen while we were enjoying coffee and sunshine Saturday afternoon. “That’s what happened last night.”

I felt I owed Jen (HI JEN) an explanation as to why I couldn’t just put the book she had recommended to me on hold; the night before I had an extra glass or two of wine and ended up wildly putting books on hold on my library app, without any regard to the availability of said books. It was somewhat surprising to me, then, that I had a large volume of books for which I was either number one in the queue, or the books themselves were already in transit, on their way to my local branch. Even more surprising was the number of Erma Bombeck titles that were heading my way, as we sipped our coffees. I guess that says something about my headspace.

Hilariously, my friend Alana (HI ALANA) described the process of picking up a whole pile of books at the library after such a night as the Walk of Shame and yes, I will be keeping my head down as I pick up my copy of If Life Is A Bowl of Cherries, What Am I Doing In The Pits?

I was feeling pretty blue on Friday, what with the ongoing hip issue and the pouring rain and 3 degree weather. I was sure my newly-planted herb garden would be ruined with the cold, but it seems to be just fine. Little note: did you know that Thai basil tastes exactly like black licorice? I had no idea, but last night (Tuesday night is stir-fry night!) I made a Thai red coconut curry, and sprinkled a little of it on top of my dish. Here’s another note: I hate black licorice. The kids don’t like it either but eagerly tried a leaf each. “It tastes EXACTLY like those black jellybeans at Grandma’s!” they said in horror, eating more.

If you’re feeling a bit blue and it’s raining and very cold, may I suggest NOT going to Service Canada? I went there to renew the kids’ passports, and let me tell you: it was something else. First, huge shout-out to David, who honestly had the most zest for his job and pride in his work that I have ever seen in my life, in any occupation. I do not say that facetiously, this guy was really quite amazing; he even called me on my cell later in the morning to profusely apologize, because he had erred in the date given as the last-possible-day that the passports would arrive. He was one day off. I had a question for him, while we were going through the very tedious process, and when he answered I asked if he was sure. Sure? SURE? Ma’am, I have to tell you, I process many applications and I have been error free for well over a year. Okay. Thanks David!

But the issue was this: there was a grievous problem with my printer ink, but only on ONE of the applications. There was much discussion around this; would my application be rejected? Forty-five minutes and serious discussion with the supervisor, the supervisor’s supervisor, and a random colleague who “used to work at the passport office itself,” the answer was it will probably be okay. “I mean, we just can’t say for sure. We just don’t know WHAT Ottawa will do.” David said to me very earnestly, which I feel is not just a comment about the passport office, but on the government as a whole. I had to be pretty zen about the thing, including when they suggested that I could drive downtown to the Harry Hays building, which would be quite the undertaking with all the downtown construction and road closures, then I would have to find and pay $25 for parking, walk several blocks with my then-very-painful hip, and wait in a lengthy lineup, but I WOULD find out FOR SURE if the printer ink was a deal-breaker. Well, I opted not to do that because I had to work, and also by this point I felt like I was about to lose my mind.

I guess I will find out, according to David, by July 15 if the application was rejected and I have to go through all of this again.

So I was feeling pretty out of sorts, which probably explains all the Erma Bombeck hold titles. The boys felt badly for me, and suggested we watch Top Gun on Saturday, which was immediately cheering. It reminded me of one of my favourite things I have ever written, Life Lessons From Top Gun, which I humbly suggest you read if you, too, want to be like David: cold as ice, no mistakes.

I must say, things are looking up this week. For one thing, the lilacs are fully in bloom. I was feeling a bit sorry for myself as I completely missed the Mayday being in bloom, as I was housebound at the time. But the lilacs are gorgeous and making up for it.

This weekend ushered in a new era; one in which I am now the shortest person in the house. My younger son surpassed me, which was a bit sooner than I anticipated. I know we all like to think with fondness about our children’s young childhood, but I will say that I really love having teenagers. They are so interesting, even if their passport photos are much, much less cute than they were five years ago. MUCH LESS. They actually look like teenage angst meets white-boy thugs. Like, if you saw someone who looked like they do in those photos, you would probably cross the street, or at least avoid eye contact. But they are so fun and interesting, and in more exciting news, tomorrow is the Grade Nine Farewell. I wonder if girls still sneak liquor from their parents’ cabinets in to the dances via their hopefully washed-out hairspray bottles. Ah, the aroma of Salon Selectives and spiced rum. I’ll keep you posted. xo

Little Quirks

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On Monday I was at Costco, and I noticed something very interesting: other than one rogue cart inexplicably shoved onto the median rather than neatly wheeled back to the corral not twenty feet away, the parking lot was devoid of carts. My faith in humanity was briefly restored, until I saw the weary-looking, long-suffering employees with the cart train, clearly having just gathered them all from where Humanity’s Laziest People left them. And lo, after spending less than an hour in the store, I passed dozens of carts strewn through the lot as I made my way back to my car. It seems he task of clearing the Costco parking lot of carts is even more Sisyphean than laundry.

The very fact that I was at Costco speaks to my recovery. My hip is getting much better, so much so that I can walk the dog without wanting to lie down and cry. In fact, I’ve been cleared for non-running physical activity, which has lifted my spirits immensely. I missed writing “Favourite Things” last month and toyed with the idea of writing a “Favourite Things: On The Road To Recovery Edition,” but happily I realized that this would be even more boring than the time I wrote about cleaning with white vinegar. Consider yourself spared, dear reader, unless, of course, you are dying to hear about the following: dry needling, yoga balls, spin and elliptical trainers, protein powder, and enough Advil to make Pfizer shareholders happy for the next decade.

My dear friend Taryn (HI TARYN) had posted a picture of a Type A person victoriously holding a box of flowers over their head, with the caption “Flower Smelling Champion” and I can feel myself going in that direction, but with recovery. I’m a little surprised I haven’t started a whole Instagram feed with the hashtag #crushingtherecovery.

I’m working on being less crazy, I swear, although it’s the crazy parts of ourselves that really make things interesting in life. Well, “interesting.” In addition to deciding, after reading When The Body Says No, that I would start on June 1 with a recovery-appropriate exercise plan, and then writing down all those things with detailed notes about how my hip is feeling, I realized that I have many, many strange quirks. Obsessively strange quirks. Or maybe they are not strange at all, maybe they are perfectly normal and unworthy of further comment. I’m just going to assume that they ARE strange and obsessive, otherwise this post will be, alas, meaningless; unlike all my other posts that are heavy with significance and import.

Nails

I was a nail-biter until I was about 23 years old, and when I say “nail-biter,” I mean I would bite them until they hurt and bled. When I did finally quit that habit, I went in the entirely other direction: I now keep my nails polished and filed at all times. You might not think this is a noteworthy thing, but the detail I have not yet divulged is that all my nails must be the same length. If one nail breaks, then I file all the other nails down to the exact same length.

Gratuitous Friday night wine shot!

Public Toilets

Most public toilets these days are automatic-flush, which is a wonderful thing for those of us who have a horror of, well, public toilets. I am unable to touch the flush lever on a public toilet with my hand; I always, always flush with my foot. Fortunately I’m pretty flexible. I have witnessed enough substandard hand washing in my lifetime to never touch a bathroom door knob with my hand; I always use the bottom of my shirt. I try not to think about what could be lurking in the bottom of my shirt.

Mailboxes and the Library Chute

Whenever I mail something, I always, without fail, check to see if it went in properly. Drop in a letter, close the chute, open it back up and check. Repeat that exact thing for the library chute. Never has a card or book NOT fallen to their destiny on the first try, but I cannot trust the past to accurately predict the future.

You know that scene in When Harry Met Sally, when Sally mails a pile of cards all individually, checking the mailbox after each one? Yet more proof that Sally Allbright is my cinematic spirit animal.

The Pre-Flight Spiel

When flight attendants go through their safety demonstration, I always – and the boys have been trained to do this as well – stop whatever I’m doing, take the laminated pictorial instructions out of the seat back, and listen. Sure, I already know that in the unlikely event that the cabin loses pressure, I need to don the little yellow thing over my mouth and nose before helping anyone, and that my flotation device is underneath my seat, and that you can inflate the little vest by pulling on the little tags or, if that doesn’t work, blowing into it. But I listen anyway because it really seems rude not to. These people are doing their jobs! It takes less than two minutes for them to go through the entire demonstration! There is PLENTY of time in any flight to read our books or watch some ridiculous YouTube video or play a meaningless game on our phones or stare at the back of the seat like Puddy. If we cannot take two minutes out of our day to pay attention to someone doing their job to keep us safe during the miracle that is air travel, well, all is lost. We may as well all leave our goddamn carts helter-skelter pell-mell in every parking lot we ever attend, we may as well all just drop garbage on the ground because it’s easier than placing it in a proper receptacle, we may as well pee where we stand and shove old ladies out of the way to get to the front of the line at Walmart. We are LIVING in a SOCIETY. This is not just some the rules are there are no rules kind of world.

God, I have to take a few breaths here. Anyway. Listen to your flight attendant, that’s all I’m saying. Well, that and don’t touch anything in public washrooms, check the mailbox, and always have a nail file in your bag.