Monthly Archives: November 2023

Nicole’s Favourite Things: The Gnomevember Edition

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I don’t usually leave my Favourite Things until the last day of the month, but here we are! November is an underrated month, in my mind. It’s the month of Tiny Secret Festive Season and Christmas shopping, it’s preparing holiday cards and baking gingery things. It’s Mint Chocolate season, which is my favourite of all the flavours, and it’s the month to start playing holiday music with abandon. There are so many happy things, that without further ado I bring you:

Nicole’s Favourite Things: The Gnomevember Edition

Gnomevember

One could argue that any month in the Boyhouse is Gnomevember, really, but if every month is a specific celebration of gnomes then perhaps no month is a specific celebration of gnomes, if you know what I mean. So when Michelle (HI MICHELLE) started talking about Gnomevember, I was clearly going to be all in. One of my favourite things this month is that Michelle’s dollhouse has now been overtaken by gnomes, and it is the most charming thing I have ever seen.

A few weeks ago I was getting the mail and there was a little package in there labelled Tiny Secret Festive Season, from my dear friend Allison (HI ALLISON). She had sent me this little guy, who lights up, which is a desperately needed thing as the sunset is now at 3:59 pm. 3:59 pm!!! What will happen by Winter Solstice? I’ll be lighting this guy a lot, that’s what.

He was in a plastic bag, with a note “Help, help, I can’t breathe,” which was the most delightful little surprise. Obviously I saved him.

The very next day my sweet friend Sammi (HI SAMMI) came by for a visit, and with her came this guy:

If I wasn’t overwhelmed enough with the kindness and love of my dear friends, this arrived in the mail from the beautiful and talented Suzanne (HI SUZANNE).

And, of course, my old Christmas gnomes have set themselves up on the kitchen windowsill.

Am I actually living in a full-sized version of Michelle’s dollhouse? MAYBE! Dreams do come true, people, and my home is happily gnome-tastic.

Brace Yourselves

I had received a number of questions about my bracelets, and so I wanted to show you my Christmas one. I wear it from November 1 to January 1, and it just brings me so much joy.

The bangle itself is engraved The Best Is Yet To Come which is a really lovely sentiment. A few of the charms are also engraved: the gingerbread man says Life Is Sweet, the mistletoe says Meet Me Under The Mistletoe, and the snowflake scene says, appropriately enough, Merry Christmas. Each charm was a gift from either my husband, the boys, or my parents.

A few years ago, I had trouble with the clasp spontaneously opening up, and sometimes I’d find that a charm had slipped off it, usually, and kind of depressingly, into my dish glove. But December of 2021 I was out shopping; there was a ton of snow, I was wearing my warmest coat and gloves, I was in and out of the car with my mask on, and everything felt just uncomfortable. I don’t wear a mask anymore, but I clearly remember the awkwardness of it, especially in winter with all the clothing layers and going in and out of the minus 20 weather. Anyway, I got home from groceries and errands, and noticed that my bracelet had unclasped and my cute little snowman charm, a gift from the boys, was missing.

It was December 2021, people. I think we all remember what that time was like. Everything felt challenging and depressing, it was the second pandemic Christmas, we were heading into yet another lockdown, my kids’ schooling was weird and constantly interrupted, and my missing snowman was the last straw. I sat on the floor and sobbed. I sobbed like a small child forced to sit on Santa’s lap against her will. I sobbed like a small child forced to interact with a clown at a birthday party, and then later losing the balloon that said clown had foisted upon her to reduce the sobbing.

I retraced my steps, including those to the snow-covered London Drugs parking lot, to no avail. And you might think there is a happy, snowman-charm-related ending to this story, but you will notice that there is no snowman on the bracelet. This is not about the snowman. My favourite thing is that my younger son, aged 16, went to the Pandora store in the mall on December 23 of that year to see if he could replace it. The thought of him, with his friend who was just our houseguest two weeks ago, being at the Pandora store looking for a snowman charm for his mom brings me more happiness than even that charm could. He was unable to replace it as the snowman charm had been, as they say in Pandora-speak, retired. Over the past two years the guys have looked for a snowman multiple times, only to be told either no longer exists, or that they could buy the snowman from the movie Frozen, which, I am sorry to say, is a subpar snowman and one which I do not wish to have.

Anyway, I love this bracelet for the two months of the year that I wear it, it brings me so much joy and happiness, and I will just hold the snowman memory in my heart.

Drink And Be Merry

With the exception of 2020, we have seen my husband’s cousin and her husband (HI DARCY AND DEREK) around Christmas every year, and they share my great love for Christmas Vacation. Last year they gave me these fabulous stemless wine glasses:

Years ago, knowing also my great love for Buddy the Elf, they gave the boys each a mug with hot chocolate mix and marshmallows; I have coopted these for my morning coffee:

Play That Christmas Music, White Girl

Almost universally, I love Christmas music. I love the classical and instrumental, I love churchy hymns, I love modern pop songs, midcentury ones, and everything in between. The only song I really strongly dislike is Wonderful Christmastime, which puts me on edge like you would not believe. My son would also like to tell you, dear reader, that in the Boyhouse we also loathe songs that feature out-of-tune children, such as Two Front Teeth, but I am pretending that such songs don’t even exist.

One song that I love so much that I have an entire playlist devoted to the original and all of its covers is Last Christmas. I play it on the piano. I sing it to myself in the shower. I can never, ever get enough of it.

Other favourites include Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas, Santa Baby, Baby, It’s Cold Outside (I KNOW BUT I LOVE IT), and Driving Home For Christmas. I always, always cry when I hear White Wine In The Sun, so may I recommend it to anyone who would enjoy a nice cathartic holiday cry? Ditto with River.

On the more modern side, I absolutely LOVE N’Sync’s Merry Christmas Happy Holidays. Although, now that I have said “modern,” I should probably check when it was released…okay, well, it looks like it came out in 1998. Huh. I also love Underneath the Tree by Kelly Clarkson, and that was released in 2013, so I’m within a decade. THAT IS MODERN ENOUGH.

Here Baby, There Mama, Everywhere Daddy Daddy

I have an important hair update for you! This past weekend marked exactly one year since I started taking Nutrafol for hair loss, and I can tell you it has made a huge difference. My hair no longer falls out in big clumps. I am no longer cleaning handfuls of hair out of my hairbrush or unclogging the drain. I wish I could say this was a sponsored post because that shit is EXPENSIVE, but alas, I am paying for it myself. The expense is worth circumventing my eventual nervous breakdown due to balding, and so I will keep it up.

I do have one teeny tiny grievance about this Favourite Thing, and that is my roots. The first week after I colour my hair, I am in love with myself and my reflection. The second week, as my white roots come in and I have a halo around my face, I toy with the idea of just letting it go, colour-wise. I think about my many friends who have embraced the grey and who look absolutely fabulous, and I think, hey, that could be me! The third week, I begin a descent into despair, becoming increasingly unhappy with not only the colour, but also the texture of my roots. Before four weeks have passed, I have a headful of hair colour and a timer set.

The problem, as I see it, is that my perimenopausal menstrual cycle is now, and has been for a while, three and a half weeks at best, and somehow this has synced up with my hair colour cycle. My extreme dissatisfaction with my hair and general appearance perfectly correlates with the days leading up to my period, and although I would like to break this cycle, I cannot. I am trapped in a problem of my own making. I am a snake eating my own tail.

That said, as with all the privilege in my life, I feel I cannot complain. Can a person take an incredibly expensive supplement for hair growth, and then complain about the hair growth? No. That is ridiculous. So I embrace my boxed hair colour. In any case, if you are curious, Nutrafol really has worked for me, and I had a grandmother who actually wore a wig, so let me tell you, genetics are not on my side, people.

Outfit of the Month

Some families have matching pajama sets on Christmas Eve, but in the Boyhouse, we have WWE Christmas sweaters for Decorating Day.

If you haven’t been around for the past two Christmases, I will fill you in: the guys bought WWE sweaters post-Christmas 2020 for 80% off, and I resisted strongly getting one of my own, for reasons which I feel are obvious. However, as the year went on, I started to feel a little left out about it, and so my husband looked into buying me a sweater. By that time, there was only one woman’s sweater at 80% off; the rest were at regular price, and regular price was far too high for me to want to spend. The one discounted sweater was cute enough, but it was only available in a size that was six sizes larger than the one I normally wear. My choices were a comically large but inexpensive sweater, or one that fit properly but was ridiculously costly. I suppose I could have gotten a men’s sweater, but I believe in lifting up other women, even if the women in question are lifting each other up only to body slam them in the ring.

You can clearly see my Scottish heritage, in my extremely oversized sweater. Anyway, the point is that Decorating Day is a Big Deal, and so we all wear them for the festive occasion.

It’s been a really great November – STILL NO SNOW, YOU GUYS – and now it’s time to bring on December! Do you have anything you’ve loved this month? Tell me everything. xo

Cognitive Dissonance, Coney Island, Cows

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I have been having such a strange cognitive dissonance for this entire month. My brain knows it is November. The short amount of daylight indicates it is November. And yet my body seems to think that it is the end of September; perhaps, at best, the beginning of October.

I blame the weather. There is no snow, it is very mild, and there are still leaves on some of the trees. After a lifetime in Calgary, in which November is firmly a Winter Month, I’m finding it strange to still be in fall. I have to keep reminding myself of the date, and that December is THIS WEEK.

I did kick it into high gear last week, finishing my cards and making a few festive treats:

And of course, this happened:

I love our style of tree decorating, which is crazy and maximalist. Putting up the tree is a Whole Family Affair around here, and it’s always so fun to see all the ornaments that we have amassed over the years. It was especially fun this year, with finding places for decorations in the new house.

We add at least one new ornament to our tree each year and it usually says something about our lives. When the boys were little my parents would also give them ornaments that complemented their then-current obsessions, which means our tree features everything from tractors to Star Wars characters. It’s a fun trip down memory lane, is what I’m saying, and although it wouldn’t win any decor awards, I love it so much. When it comes to Christmas decorations, more is more, in my humble, festive opinion.

I was delighted to discover a Christmas store in Maui – sadly, I have no idea if it is still there, as it was on the main street in Lahaina. Anyway, I purchased an ornament for the whole family and one specifically for Rex.

Speaking of Big Silly, he was temporarily sporting a new look this week.

Poor puppy! I’ll spare you the details but he had a bit of an infection on the top of his paw, and although he was clearly in no pain and has his usual level of Big Energy, wearing a giant cone was an adjustment. He could not fit into his crate with his cone on, he constantly bumped into everything, and we are all realizing how often he affectionately smushes his face into our legs, as we now had a cone enthusiastically nudging our bodies dozens of times a day. Usually his frantically wagging tail is what accidentally knocks things over, now we have been constantly on guard for both ends.

It’s like living with the big guy at the party wearing a lampshade on his head, all the time. We took him for his one-week follow-up, and he bounded out of the car and enthusiastically jammed his cone against the window of the hair salon next to the vet, to the immense merriment of everyone inside. Then, he pulled enthusiastically to get in the actual vet, and if you’ve never had to corral an excited 97 pound dog in a small waiting room space who has noticed friends, there are dogs here, ahhhhh, never mind that those dogs are sick and scared and not at all interested in being greeted by him, well, you don’t know excitement. “Rex has arrived!” the cheerful receptionist said, speaking volumes. He jumped onto the scale, over and over, remembering how he got treats to be weighed, and we should all be so enthusiastic when faced with such an opportunity.

In an only somewhat futile attempt to keep his paws clean, I have been avoiding the dog park and the adjacent Golden Mile this week, instead walking him along Lakeshore Road and up through the urban landscape that is beside one of the main thoroughfares in the city.

Am I even living in a city? I don’t know anymore. There are cows down the street from the library, people. Do not get me wrong, I love that there are orchards and vineyards and livestock in the city limits, I do love it. It’s so pretty and peaceful, even if Rex does think that the myriad fields with cows and horses are full of friends to play with and bark at, which makes it quite a bit less peaceful.

Weekly Reading

Sure I’ll Join Your Cult. I had heard about this book on a podcast and it sounded quite funny. Well. Sometimes a person is a great oral storyteller but it does not translate to the written page. This is ostensibly a comedy memoir about the author’s mental health struggles, but it was so damn depressing I barely could read it.

The Dead Romantics. This book is a creative mix of love story, ghost story, and family story: a girl who grows up in a funeral home and who can see ghosts goes home for her father’s funeral, where she falls in love with…a ghost. It’s not my taste at all, and honestly, I thought it was too long, and it dragged for me, but I give it points for originality. 

Thankfully Rex’s paw healed by the time we put the tree up, and so the cone has been removed. Not that he seemed to mind it; whenever we’d say “You need to be a flower now!” he would sit at our feet and wait for us to put his cone on. However, a cone and a Christmas tree seemed like a recipe for Festive Disaster, thankfully averted. I did briefly get him into his Santa outfit, before he pawed the hat off his head and tried to eat it. I hope your week felt equally festive and included delicious, non-hat things to eat. xo

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

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A woman was stocking the organic bananas in Superstore, and so I waited patiently as she unloaded. She gestured to me to go ahead, choose your bananas and then looked a bit shocked as I piled thirty or so into my cart. “Do you run a group home or something?” she said, puzzled. “Is that why you have so many bananas?”

I’m not sure why her mind immediately went to “group home” but it was more interesting than the joke the cashier made about keeping my pet monkey happy. This was, coincidentally, the same cashier whose nonagenarian father was in the hospital, and so I asked about him. It was his appendix, apparently, not his gall bladder, which surprised me as I never think of the ninety-something set having appendix issues; neither did my cashier, who casually informed me that her appendix was removed without her consent, back when she had her hysterectomy thirty years ago.

Not everyone loves bananas or conversations about uterine health and questionable medical ethics with their grocery cashier, but I do.

There have been a number of blog posts lately in which the author discusses things that she wished she liked, but does not, (HI SUZANNE, HI ELISABETH, HI STEPHANY) and it occurred to me that nothing falls into that category for me. There are many things in the world I dislike, or don’t want, or outwardly loathe, but I don’t wish that to be different. I consider these things to be part of my The World Is A Tapestry mindset, and also, secretly, that life is a zero-sum game and if I loathe pie, for example, it frees up the worldwide supply of pie for others to enjoy.

Before I get too involved, let’s recall my number one pet peeve, which is right up there with not returning shopping carts: the stating of a negative subjective opinion as objective fact. In other words, the statement that something is bad when that is objectively untrue; rather, that something is disliked, or not wanted, or outwardly loathed by an individual person, and for the purposes of this discussion, that individual person is me. Just because bangs do not suit my face or hair type does not mean that they are bad; they may be unsuitable for me, but I have many friends for whom they not only work, they look fabulous. I’m looking at you, Allison (HI ALLISON).

Often I find myself interested in things that others have but that I do not want in my own life; I will never get a tattoo, for example, nor will I have a cat in my home. Many people find facials and massages to be indulgent and relaxing, but the mere thought of either of those things make me instantly tense and anxious. I have a strong aversion to onions and the thought of biting into a soft, cooked apple revolts me almost as much as the mere mention of celery. I dislike true crime books and podcasts, speculative and dystopian fiction, and if anyone so much as gives me one Thoreau quote, my blood pressure spikes. I have never seen a single episode of Star Trek, Cheers, or any daytime soap opera. I haven’t smoked pot or cigarettes for over thirty years and I have no interest in either thing, no matter how trendy marijuana products are now.

Speaking of trends, the word on the street is that skinny jeans are dead. Dead! No one is wearing them anymore, by which I mean the youth of the world. The trend right now is to wear enormous, wide-leg, baggy jeans with tiny crop tops and people, I have seen this trend before. I have worn this trend before. I was a young woman in the 90s and I spent a great deal of time in that decade wearing such jeans, with a wide belt on my teeny-tiny waist, paired with a very small crop top. I will tell you this right now: I am 5’7″, with fairly long legs, and at the time of which I am speaking, I had a cute little hourglass figure. Even so, I look back on those photos and a yeeeeee sound emits from my mouth. It did not look good. This is a trend I will never revisit, because it didn’t look good then and it sure as hell will not look good now, the least reason for which is that I do not feel that I am in a place in my life to wear a wide belt and a crop top.

But Nicole, you might be saying to yourself, there are other modern cuts of jeans that do not include the enormous legs. You might be referencing straight leg jeans, and let me tell you, I tried to hop on that bandwagon, and never has a pair of jeans made me feel so frumpy. I purchased not one but two different styles of straight legs, and the only way I can wear them without feeling like my own grandmother, if my own grandmother actually wore jeans, which she did NOT, is to cuff them up above the ankle and then pair them with ankle booties. I feel like I did in 1991, when I was wearing floral babydoll dresses with army boots while many of my peers embraced the grunge look with abandon. I am as likely to wear straight leg jeans uncuffed as I am to wear outsized plaid flannel shirts with corduroys, which is to say, not likely.

They look cute with ankle boots, I swear. I’m not just embracing my inner Milhouse.

Here’s the thing about skinny jeans: I like the way I look in them. I like the way I feel in them. I recently spent a lot of money on Mott and Bow jeans, and they were worth every penny for their comfort and stretch without bagging.

They look painted on, but they are so comfortable.
So comfy I can sit in lotus! Find me another pair of jeans that can manage that.

Also, I love a tall boot and there is nothing so good on my body as a skinny jean with tall boots.

The only other jean type that I think suits my body type is a flare, but I really only think they look good with a nice stacked heel; I rarely wear heels anymore, and so I embrace the skinny jean. You might think I’m making too much of footwear, but we all know that footwear can make or break an outfit. Let’s just consider the powersuit of the 80s, paired with white running shoes for commuting. I rest my case.

I embrace the skinny jean, and here’s the thing about them being off-trend: I do not give a fuck. This is a supreme privilege of aging: I do not have to give any more fucks about any clothing trend. I am almost fifty and the amazing thing about being almost fifty is I could not care less about being on-trend. I can be out of style and no one cares, least of all me. I want to wear what I want to wear, and I don’t care if it makes me look dated or out of style. This obsession with keeping on trend with what young people are wearing seems to be a new idea. I do not think women of earlier generations thought that they should be wearing the same thing as their daughters, or granddaughters. Did my mother look at twenty-year-old me and think wow, I have to get a baby tee and wear it underneath a floral sundress? No! She did not! Our mothers were wearing their slacks and crisp blouses and blazers and they looked absolutely wonderful. I am thrilled to leave youthful fashion to the youth. I mean, am I going to look at my niece and think you know what would look great on me, ruffles and ruching a la granny chic. No! Because when you’re almost fifty, granny chic just makes you look like a granny, and honestly, I can wait a few years before I tackle that era.

Here’s the other thing about the idea that we should all throw out our skinny jeans and replace them with straight-or-wide-leg-or-whatever-is-on-point jeans: WHAT THE FUCK. With everything we know about fast fashion and the incredible landfill waste that is old clothing, why would anyone just toss out all their perfectly serviceable clothes just to get new ones? And of course I’m not talking about getting rid of clothes that no longer serve you because they are the wrong size or fit or, in my case, you have worn them for so many years that they are falling apart. You should always feel beautiful in your clothes. What I am talking about is this consumeristic view that just because something is not in vogue, we need to replace it.

And so I will step onto my denim-covered-soap box with a raised fist, saying WEAR WHATEVER JEANS YOU WANT. Or wear no jeans at all! Wear what makes you happy! As a middle aged woman I say fuck the trends, dress for yourself, live your clothing truth.

Weekly Reading

These Precious Days. This is a reread for me; when I first read it, I thought it was the best book of essays I had ever read. On the reread, it is STILL the best book of essays I have ever read! Every essay has a common thread, and that is that life is so precious. Friendship, marriage, family, and shopping are all written about, and I loved every single essay. I also found it fascinating when she wrote about her writing process. She writes each chapter until it’s perfect, then moves on to the next one. It sure works for her. 

Prom Mom. Have you ever wondered what happens to people who achieve notoriety at a young age? Have you ever wondered about girls who don’t realize they are pregnant until they go into labour? Then this novel is for you! The year is 1997 and a 16 year old girl has a baby on prom night, alone in a bathroom. When she is discovered, passed out from blood loss, the baby is dead. (I have logistical questions about this, specifically regarding the cord cutting, but let’s just move along for the sake of the story). Her date never checked on her, in fact he kind of ditched her at prom. They reconnect 22 years later, and he is on top of the world: wealthy and successful, with a beautiful, wealthy and successful life. Lots of twists and drama in this book, and the latter part takes place in the pandemic (it was written in 2021, and wow, it shows). The pandemic part really encapsulates how we were all feeling at that time, thinking about vaccinations and how everything would be just fine once we all got them. Ha! Anyway, it’s an pretty twisted and fast-paced read.

Late Bloomers. This was a very heartwarming read, although I spent a large chunk of the book strongly disliking 3/4 of the main characters. I don’t think I ever totally warmed to two of them, but it was a very sweet book about a family in which the parents split up after 36 years of marriage. All of the family members have their own secrets that they are hiding; even picture perfect situations and people have their issues, often hidden. It is a nice quick read with some very funny parts.

*****

Circling back to jeans, those of you who have been with me a very long time, meaning over a decade, might remember my 2012 diatribe about skinny jeans and how reluctant I was to give up my low-rise, boot cuts. What can I say, once I was in, I was all in on the skinny jean. And perhaps in 2034 I will be railing against another style of pants which I will later adopt, perhaps some kind of slacks? Who can say what the future will bring, all I can say is that I have a fun and festive week ahead of me, and I hope you do too. xo

November Bits and Bobs

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My son was telling me about a throwback party he attended at the university bar; the throwback era, he said was mostly between 2012 and 2014. I was momentarily stunned into silence, and then had him list off a few of the songs that they had played: a lot of Pitbull and the Black-Eyed Peas, the notable era exception being the 2005 hit Hips Don’t Lie by Shakira. Shakira Shakira! All the songs he mentioned are on my Nicole’s Workout Spotify playlist, and they are all songs that I consider to be “modern.”

This reminded me of an 80s Retro party I myself went to at the bar at my university, and the year was probably 1995, so I guess the years go by and yet nothing changes. Still. At the time, I remember dancing to My Sharona and thinking how fun it was to dance to such retro music, and here is my son, grooving to Mr Worldwide. Sunrise, sunset.

We have a houseguest this week! My younger son’s best friend is visiting from Calgary, and he scheduled his visit to coordinate with the ending of my son’s seasonal golf course job as well as my older son’s reading week, so the house is full and so, if you will forgive the sentimentality, is my heart. My older son’s roommate just happens to be a good friend of both boys, so he has been over here as well and I am in my element, feeding everyone in a “Eat, Eat!” kind of way.

Speaking of my younger son, once again he has decided to grow a moustache for the month of November. Typically he only shaves every four or five days, meaning that he usually has a stubbly scruff most of the time, but now he is clean-shaven except for his old-timey Clark Gable-style moustache. As always I am a strong proponent of body autonomy, even in the facial hair department, but also, Clark Gable-style moustache. Remember that Jimmy Buffett song Pencil Thin Moustache? It’s not unlike that.

Rest in peace, Jimmy Buffett. He sure brought a lot of joy to this world, and particularly to me. He also brought us the song Why Don’t We Get Drunk And Screw which I secretly wanted to play at my wedding, but did not. Imagine how funny that would have been, though. I just got a water bed, it’s filled up for me and you. What a glorious time piece of a song. The 70s is my favourite era, music-wise: soft rock, yacht rock, cock rock, Motown, and, my top genre, disco. It would be very, very difficult for me to find a song I do not bop around to happily that was created in the 70s. Even the ones with terrible lyrics and misogyny I will happily sing and kitchen disco to, notably When You’re In Love With A Beautiful Woman and If You Want To Be Happy. I joked about having the latter played at our wedding and my husband was horrified at the very thought. It would be a fun ironic song if it wasn’t blatantly mean-spirited. Still, I will groove to it.

I was grooving down the pathway the other day and I stopped to talk to a gentleman I frequently talk to, who just so happens to look exactly like Kenny G. He and I are probably going to one day spin off this planet with our excessive morning positivity; he’s a kindred spirit, Kenny G is, is what I’m saying. He gestured to the path in front of me saying “Are you enjoying our Golden Mile?” and I was so charmed by this turn of phrase.

The path has been carpeted with leaves, and somehow Rex managed to walk an entire 90 minutes with a leaf on his head. I guess he was feeling Fall Festive.

Less festive is the fact that the dog park has been very, very muddy of late. I stopped to speak with yet another gentleman on the path, while our black and white dogs sniffed each other. The gentleman laughed at Rex’s paws, which were completely covered with mud. “Rex! Your boots!” he said, and I replied with a “This is the problem: no white shoes after Labour Day!” The man looked at me in the most puzzled way, with a completely furrowed brow, and then smiled and nodded as he said his goodbyes. Later, I asked my husband if men do not know about the Labour Day White Shoe rule and he replied with what are you talking about, so I guess that answers that, at least in the Boyhouse.

Weekly Reading

Pineapple Street. Have you ever picked up a book based solely on hearing other people mention the title, without looking at the synopsis or anything about it at all, and then, on starting it, realize that it’s completely different from what you might imagine? This was exactly my experience with Pineapple Street. In my mind it was something exotic, maybe something tropical, maybe women in a different country and their lives? Well. I did not realize Pineapple Street is in Brooklyn Heights and that this book would be about an ultrarich, old money family. I guess that is exotic in its own way, there’s no rich like NYC rich, am I right? But I have to say, while it’s a readable and easy book to digest, the writing is pretty lazy. All the characters are completely one dimensional and then most of them do a 180 near the end of the book with no nuance whatsoever. The theme is millenial heirs of old money, and it’s like the author thought “okay, three kids, we will make one of them represent the millenials who want to give away all their fortune because they disagree with inheriting large sums of money, one of them will just enjoy the money and work in the family business, and the last one, let’s make her someone who gave up her career to have kids and wants more, more, more money. Great, we covered it all.” Like I said, this is readable and for those of us who like to read about fashion and tablescapes, it’s kind of fun, but it’s not profound or nuanced or going to set the world on fire. I later learned that the author is actually a publishing executive so, you know, that answers that.

Please Don’t Sit On My Bed In Your Outside Clothes. This hilarious, smart, and thoughtful book of essays was written in 2020, so it definitely has a Quarantine Flavour to it. This woman has had a very, very different life experience from me, which makes this all the more eye-opening and thought-provoking. She has a way of starting with a hilariously shallow topic, that suddenly delves deeper, having me think of things in a totally different way, i.e., the concept of self-care. The essay that I think will stay with me the longest is the one about performative allyship, which is something that I have been thinking about since the summer of 2020. Actually, I’ve probably been thinking about the concept of people using social media to “raise awareness” without doing anything meaningful since the days of women posting their bra colours on Facebook to “raise awareness” about breast cancer. Friends, we are all aware. But what are we going to do about it? One takeaway from this is, in terms of allyship, that it can be actively harmful to repost violent viral videos. Marginalized people do not need to be inundated with that in the name of “raising awareness.” Anyway, this was a very enlightening – and did I mention, very funny? – read.

Some of you will remember a while back that I was interviewed as a guest post on my good friend Elisabeth’s blog (HI ELISABETH); sadly, that blog was deleted and my interview, including the story about topless sunbathing, was lost forever. Well, the happy news is that Elisabeth RE-interviewed me and it’s up there today, so please go check it out. Another piece of happy news is that my friend and writing support Laura Bray has a substack and this month she is offering 20% off paid subscriptions, in honour of her birthday month (HAPPY BIRTHDAY LAURA!). Do go check her out as she is a gifted writer and an all-round lovely person.

On that note, have a beautiful week, friends! xo

Five For Friday: The Small Grievances and Their Associated Upsides Edition

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  • At the end of October I always head to Bath and Body Works to purchase festive hand soaps for Tiny Secret Festive Season, and this year was no exception. I prefer regular liquid soap to the foaming variety for reasons that are mostly hard to articulate, with one exception: foaming soap never seems to pump nicely, instead I seem to always have to apply what I consider to be excessive force just to wash my hands. The result of this is that the soap often shoots out wildly, in the best case scenario into my sink, in the worst case scenario onto my sweater. As I shopped for my soaps this year, I noticed that all the soaps were of the foaming variety; when I asked the salesperson about it, she directed me to one small shelf near the back, where the selection was very small and the bottles themselves very bland, and not festive at all. According to her, foaming soaps outsell regular by twenty to one, and so the company has now focused the majority of their festive soap effort on foaming. Rather than buy a sad, pine-scented hand soap – I love pine trees, but I don’t want pine-scented hands – I gave in and bought the foaming soaps. The scents are glorious – Coconut Snowball! Twisted Peppermint! Winter Candy Apple! – and I’ve mostly mastered the pump-without-spraying-my-sweater, but not entirely. I’m learning and growing as a person.
  • Despite all this festive hand-washing, last week my husband and I succumbed to the cold-like viral sickness that has been going around. I was, pardon my indelicacy, desperate for my Neti rinse, but I could not find my squirt bottle nor the giant Costco 200-pack of Neti salts to go with it. I looked everywhere, but sadly concluded that those items must have been part of my Insane Moving Purge in the spring. I wasn’t comfortable sharing indoor air with anyone, so instead of going to the drugstore I ordered a new bottle and salts from Amazon, which I thought was a one-day delivery, but it ended up being three. As soon as it arrived I ripped the package open and showered the sinuses I love with love, if you know what I’m saying, and it was such a relief. I washed out the bottle and then went to put it under my bathroom sink, where I found my old bottle, partially hidden behind my hair products. I was very annoyed, thinking this whole time I could have been Neti-ing. However, I had noticed on the package that the company recommends replacing the bottle every three months and at that point, I’d probably had my old bottle for at least eight years, so it was probably for the best. Although, doesn’t it seem like an environmental disaster to throw out a perfectly good bottle every three months? That seems like an excessive reaction, and a ridiculous waste. I’ll probably keep this one for another eight years, I have not died from not replacing my Neti yet.
  • This might be a uniquely Canadian problem right now, but has anyone else noticed the sugar shortage? About five weeks ago there was no brown sugar at Superstore, and then there was no white sugar, and this lasted up until this week. I mentioned this to my mother-in-law who had NOT noticed, but then she called me in a panic to say that the workers at the Rogers’ factory were on strike. Ah! No sugar tonight! This explains why I could buy a giant bag of imported brown sugar in the international aisle but not in the baking aisle. I think the strike is now resolved but sugar is, of course, slow to get back to its regular supply level. I was at Costco and they had the giant ten kilo bags; an older couple was there with two carts, one of which was completely full with sugar, and they were working on filling the other one. Should I be hoarding sugar too? I thought. Maybe? Is this like 2020? The woman noticed me looking at her, lost in my own thoughts, and I startled myself back to reality. “You must have a lot of baking to do!” I said in the most pleasantly normal voice I could, trying not to sound accusatory like I know what you’re doing, you hoarder. “We have a lot of JAM to make!” she said, and I wondered if she had some kind of jam home business, or if it was all a cover to profiteer on the sugar black market, like we were in Europe in World War II. Either way I grabbed a bag, which I technically didn’t need, but let us remember Lessons From The Pandemic: if you see it, maybe buy it. Within reason, of course, let’s not forget how I ended up with six boxes of expired cream of tartars in 2023, and I don’t even use cream of tartar.
  • I have been talking about the nightmare that is time change for twenty years, so I won’t bore and depress us all with its history, how it makes no difference with energy usage which is WHY it is touted to be still in existence, and how everyone is just fucked up for a week twice a year, including, importantly, the pets of the world. JUST PICK A TIME AND STICK WITH IT, I DON’T EVEN CARE. What I did not realize is how early it gets dark here; it is completely dark at 4:30 pm. I even thought I was maybe hallucinating a little, due to time change and my brain fog from my lingering sickness, but no, a check of my weather app tells me that the sun sets at 4:21 pm. What will happen in December? Well, there’s nothing for it but to embrace my inner Dane and get Hygge with it. I have my light-up gnome and electric candles, so I can participate in the Danish Hygge ritual of candles without the fear of scary actual candles burning my house down.
  • I have been so looking forward to a women’s weekend retreat that was to take place next weekend. I haven’t been away by myself since my YMC days, and I was so excited as my friend Sara (HI SARA) was teaching the yoga sessions, and in addition to that there was going to be snowshoeing, lovely meals, and a comedy night. I was hoping to meet other snowshoeing women in the area, and did I mention it was a weekend of meals someone else prepared? Bring your swimsuit for the hot tub! the website said cheerfully. DONE AND DONE. Then, earlier this week, I got a notification that the weekend was cancelled, or, technically, postponed until 2024. And this after my husband bought me a new headlamp so I could take part in the Night Snowshoe Adventure. Well, I did get use out of the headlamp when I walked Rex before sunrise a few weeks ago; the completely unlit path was a little terrifying even with the headlamp, and I kept waiting to get murdered or for us to get attacked by wildlife, but perhaps wildlife could smell Rex and kept out of our way.

Happy Friday everyone! I hope you have a great weekend. xo

Conversations With Strangers

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Last Wednesday marked the beginning of Tiny Secret Festive Season! If you’re new here, welcome! Everyone is welcome in the Boyhouse. Also, if you’re new, you may be wondering what even is Tiny Secret Festive Season. The short answer is that it is something that I have created to enjoy the Christmas holiday spirit in the face of those who think that November 1st is Too Early to start being jolly. Generally in Canada “Too Early” can be defined loosely as “Anytime Before Remembrance Day, You Disrespectful Bitch” all the way to December 1st. In the US, the consensus seems to be “Before US Thanksgiving.”

But why should there be time restrictions on Being Jolly, I ask, and so Tiny Secret Festive Season was born. Now, if you are a person who is in agreement with the Too Early sentiment, well, you are still welcome here but just know that I am keeping it a secret from you, hence the Secret part of Tiny Secret Festive Season. On the other hand, if you’re a person who likes to mimic Costco and start your Holiday Jolliness in July, well, that’s not really Tiny, is it? You’re still welcome here, in fact, I salute you! But that is not what Tiny Secret Festive Season is.

The key is that one must incorporate small, festive items into everyday life, so on the outside one is just living a regular everyday life. But on the inside! Secretly there are small things that are making our Inner Elf feel known. For me, that means a) festive hand soaps by the major-use sinks, b) wearing my Christmas bracelet every day, c) using Vanilla Candy Cane foot cream, d) hanging holiday-themed tea towels on the oven door, e) playing holiday music for my daily piano practice, f) wearing holiday-themed pajamas, and g) using Christmas napkins at the dinner table.

In other festive news, we had not two but THREE Trick-or-Treaters on Tuesday! I gave my husband a meaningful look as I dropped a few assorted full-sized bars in the little girl’s pillowcase; the lesson, people, is to always buy extra candy. I think this is a lesson not just for Halloween, but for life. Now, was I a little surprised to get a knock on my door when I was in my pajamas with no makeup on and a face full of night cream? I was. But I overcame them, in the spirit of the holiday.

Speaking of which, I do think the myriad night creams and serums are working, in that my skin is softer and more, dare I say, radiant, but there is nothing in this world that is going to fix my raging case of Bitchy Resting Face. It’s pretty bad, friends. Several years ago I was at a get-together with friends from high school, who I hadn’t seen since those days, and a man looked at me and said that I looked disgusted with everyone. I replied with surprise that this is just my face in repose.

One area in my life that happily appears unaffected by my Bitchy Resting Face is that people, particularly strangers, are apt to talk to me very openly about a wide variety of topics. Maybe I give out an aura that I want to know everything about them, which is true, I do. People are endlessly fascinating to me. I think that small talk is a wonderful way to connect to people in this shared human experience, and it often, for me, leads to incredibly involved discussions about someone else’s life. I think that people are often very lonely, and just want someone to listen to them, and when I die I hope my photo evokes conversational memories for the populace. Oh hey, that’s the woman I talked to about my eyelashes and how I was using that new L’Oreal Telescopic mascara while we were in the security line at the airport.

Eyelashes are definitely a hot topic of conversation for me these days – are they real, if not, what mascara are you using – and much preferred to the one I once had about the occasional utilization of Smooth Move tea on days that a person is, shall we say, backed up. This conversation took place after a yoga class, with a young yoga student who was just in my class. I generally do not want to talk about bowel movements – I am even grossed out by the poop emoji, do NOT text me with that thing – but I guess I am happy that I’m a safe space for such discussions, and also that I am clearly just a regular gal. Also, I should probably not be so squeamish; after all, as the children’s book says, Everybody Poops.

I can talk to pretty much anyone about a wide variety of topics, is what I’m saying.

Sometimes, looking back, I have no clue how lighthearted chitchat turns so intense. In the last two months alone things have escalated. I don’t know how the piano tuner got on the topic of how his wife died of cancer only four days before their thirty-third anniversary, but I was happy to hear he’s found love again in the shape of his colleague at the middle school they have both worked at for twenty-five years. I’m not sure why the woman with the cute Labradoodle at the dog park tearfully told me that she yelled at her children that morning for losing their shoes and then cried after school drop off, but I’m glad our dogs could play together while I assured her that parenting IS hard. I’m still a bit worried about the cashier whose dad was in the hospital with what they thought was a gall bladder flare; he’s ninety-six and she was waiting for The Call. I felt badly for the older gentlemen couple on the walking path who just got back from two weeks in Paris in which they never got over their jet lag and also stayed at a very high priced, but inconvenient location, dissuading them from going to Europe ever again.

Possibly the most interesting conversation with a stranger of late was at, of all places, Superstore, and in this case I actually DO know how one topic segued into the next. I complimented the cashier on her Tree of Life necklace, which led, immediately and startlingly, to how she wanted to turn into a tree when she died, as opposed to being cremated. We briefly touched on the unsettling environmental impact of cremation, at which point I, having recently heard a science podcast on the topic, brought up the idea of human compost, and with that, we were off to the races, unfortunately for the people behind me in line who were listening to this grim topic of What To Do With Our Bodies When We Die. We both agreed that we believe souls can live on, and maybe we’d both return as birds to visit the flora that our composted bodies were nourishing. I contemplated this beautiful idea as I wheeled my giant cart away and I didn’t notice my 16-pack of Kleenex had fallen off the bottom of the cart and was lying in the middle of the parking lot until another woman called my attention to it. Another opportunity for small talk and human connection, but after discussing usage of my future corpse I was not equal to it. I thanked her, picked up my Kleenex and went home.

Weekly Reading

Sweetbitter. I typically dislike books in which the protagonist is a very young mess of a woman (SEE BELOW), with vast amounts of drug use, description of the aftereffects of drug use and drinking (SO MUCH VOMIT), and bad choices in general. Typically I avoid those books but there was something really captivating about this story of a young Ohio woman who lands in NYC and starts a job as backwaiter at a very upscale restaurant. If you’ve ever worked in a restaurant the scenes of stress and conflict during a shift will resonate, even if the restaurant in question was Moxie’s in the 90s, and not an expensive NYC place in 2006. Nothing really happens, and yet everything happens. It’s a compelling read.

Really Good, Actually. SPEAKING OF HOT MESS YOUNG PROTAGONISTS. I have to say, this book was quite a ride. At first, I found it absolutely delightful and so very clever – lots of smart pop culture and literary references, like the “soft animal of her body loving what it loves” while she ate hamburgers, for example. Then, midway through I thought “wait, is this the whole book?” Then the delight really took a turn into “wow, if this woman was in my life I’d never speak to her again.” As an example, there is a scene in which her dear friend and her fiance have decided to adopt a dog, and instead of being happy for this turn of events, she says “We all know a puppy is just a down payment on a dog funeral” which, hey hot mess protagonist, just go fuck yourself. I found myself warming to the her a bit near the end as she tries to redeem her sorry self, but in a cool, detached, “If I saw her in the grocery store I’d maybe have a polite conversation about seasonal vegetables” way. It’s yet another book about a hot mess of a young woman going through a divorce, is broke, and her thesis as yet unwritten. It’s very readable, but kind of like Train Wreck Readable, and tl:dr; I am probably, yet again, too old for these books. But fun fact: the author was one of the Schitt’s Creek writers!

Happy November, everyone! How are you doing? It rained here for a few days and I cannot even express how novel that is to me. Rain? In November? It’s not snowing? Well, as they say, it’s hard to hold a candle in the cold Gnomevember rain. xo