Monthly Archives: January 2025

Nicole’s Favourite Things: The Jan Stan Edition

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I asked my son if people still used the word “stan,” and he said what do you mean, like the Stan countries? When I explained that no, I wasn’t talking about the Central and South Asian, mainly former Soviet countries, I was talking about describing how I feel about things I like, he tilted his head. I don’t think people your age say it, probably. Excuse me? I was listening to Stan before you were BORN. I am TAKING BACK the Stan.

I know January has been a rough, grim, and frankly terrifying month, on the international front particularly, but you know me:

And to that end, there are many things I found I could Stan in the month of Jan. I would like to go on record to say that January sunsets are truly things of beauty, and even though we still haven’t made it to 5:00 yet – tonight’s sunset is at 4:48 – there is more and more daylight and clear skies every day.

Nicole’s Favourite Things: The Jan Stan Edition

If I Could Turn Back Time

Where have the Cerave products been all my life? I know where they have been, inexpensively hanging out in the drugstore, so I suppose the real question is WHY haven’t I used them before now? A few months ago my skin was feeling so tight and dry with the change in seasons, and I bought this moisturizer for my first morning ablutions:

It’s revolutionary! I put it on first thing in the morning after washing my face; it’s much thicker than what I would usually use on my face, but it absorbs by the time I’ve brushed my teeth. In the summer I prefer a much higher SPF but I think 30 is perfectly fine for a) winter, b) walking in partial darkness, and c) the cloudiness that is typical of winters here.

I also purchased this product, allegedly a “serum,” but which seems more like a lotion:

I put it on before my Neutrogena retinol night cream, which leads to a LOT of tingling, but I think it actually does make my skin brighter and softer and maybe – MAYBE – even lessens the look of wrinkles. Does it turn back time? Absolutely not, but I think that’s just too tall an order for any kind of topical treatment, particularly one for less than $20 at the drugstore.

Bundt and Hustle

As I have mentioned before, I have been diligently working my way through my friend Julie’s cake cookbook (HI JULIE) since I bought it in 2022. I ran into a roadblock, though, because a number of recipes call for a Bundt pan, which I did not have until this Christmas, when my son gifted me one. This was along with a copy of Commonwealth, which I mention only because it otherwise sounds like he gave himself a Christmas gift under the guise of generosity. Also, I wanted both of those things. In any case, I made Julie’s Family’s Chocolate Cake, and instead of the ganache called for, topped it with a cream cheese frosting in order to use up the last of the four pack of Costco cream cheese I had purchased for a friend’s birthday carrot cake.

I foresee many Bundt cakes in our future. I have the pan, nothing can stop me now!

Snow Much Fun

It’s so strange to me to live in a place where in January there is next to no snow on the ground. Yes, it has snowed. But each snowfall was accompanied by a melt within a day or two. Someone recently informed me that one year it snowed here in December and that snow was still on the ground at the end of January, and my response was one of befuddlement. This was not as winterly impressive as that person thought. I’m from Calgary? Sometimes the snow from October lasts until May? But in any case there is no snow here in the valley, and so my husband and I have been occasionally driving up into the mountains to do some snowshoeing.

I love snowshoeing so much. What a great way to experience the winter. It’s fantastic exercise that takes in the beauty of nature, and it also makes me feel Wholesomely Canadian.

There is also no falling, and after I bruised my tailbone last year cross-country skiing, I am a big fan of staying upright in wintry conditions.

I Understand You Completely

I don’t know what is going on lately, but there seems to be an explosion of Pride and Prejudice merch available, and I am here for it. Before Christmas I was shopping at Indigo and although I most certainly did not need to buy myself anything, let alone another mug, I could not help myself.

Not to get all snobby and pedantic, but this delights me on so many levels. A regular, non-Jane-Austen-stan might think oh yes, there IS no enjoyment like reading and yes, we all feel that way. But it’s much funnier on a deeper level. The quote actually belongs to Miss Caroline Bingley, who is ostentatiously picking up a tome of a book in order to impress Mr Darcy. After flipping a few pages she abandons the book for other, more enjoyable pursuits. It’s a deep cut, and it makes me absolutely delighted every time I use it.

While purchasing new clothes, I came across a whole lot of Pride and Prejudice-themed items, and I immediately added to cart this sweatshirt, purchased two sizes larger than normal in order to be as cozy and comfy as possible.

I had to explain the significance of Most Ardently to my husband and son, who looked at me like Shrek and Donkey when they first hear the song Duloc Is A Happy Place. They much preferred my tee that the three of them bought me several Christmases ago:

Poor maligned Lydia. She’s only trying to exercise the only economic power women had back then. Also, we were all fifteen once, and I’m sure if I lived in that era my head would also have been turned by a red coat, even if I am a Charlotte Lucas at heart.

Paint It Black

Have I mentioned lately how much I love my girlfriends here? I adore The Golden Gals Squad; they are always up for something fun, and to that end my friend Sandi (HI SANDI) booked us in for a paint night at a local restaurant.

Credit for the above goes to my friend Sara (HI SARA), and honestly, she saw me. I was objectively the worst painter in the group by a long shot. I was there for the vibes and the hysterical laughing.

My husband, of Supportive King fame, said wow, it’s so much better than I thought it would be! I mean, me too? But the bar was pretty low. Also I’m not sure what he thought it would look like, but probably he assumed it would be tear-stained. Frankly, it looked nothing at all like the demonstration piece – for one thing, there is supposed to be a stag involved but I know my where my artistic limitations lie – but it wasn’t like I was planning on displaying this anywhere in my home anyway. I’m not Botticelli, people! This isn’t the Birth of Venus! It’s just a bunch of apparently dancing trees in a winterscape. Happy little trees! Let’s have a moment of silence for Bob Ross.

Outfit of the Month

This month’s outfit has a nice mix of old, new, and medium pieces. The polka dot tank and long-sleeve tee date from around 2017, the jeans are new, obviously, and nicely stretchy, and the cozy long sweater was purchased sometime during the pandemic. I don’t know when, as all those years blur together and what is time anyway, but I do like the sweater. It’s a perfect layer for an occasionally hot-flashy woman like myself in the dead of January, because it’s easy to slip off.

A few years ago I saw a meme about Decorative Gord Season, the Canadian version, which included a photo of the Barenaked Ladies’ Gordon album, Gordie Howe, Gord Downey, and, of course, Gordon Lightfoot. These days around 4:48 pm I start humming Sundown, which is an honourary favourite thing this month.

I know there is a lot to be glum about right now, and I personally have to completely skip over the news and even the headlines, lest I spiral into complete and utter despair. But I hope you can find a lot of beautiful things in your own little world, and I hope you found some this January. xo

Those Days Are Gone Forever

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Typically I am a person who likes to finish jobs in a reasonable amount of time, the exception to this rule being putting photos into albums. I have photos from January 2024 and on that I have printed, but that are still awaiting their placement into the albums that have been purchased for the purpose. It is a weirdly overwhelming job.

Other than that, I generally finish tasks fairly quickly, which is why it is notable that as of this week I completed something that has taken me since November to get through, and that is a closet purge.

I feel like I just did this; late last spring I threw all of my jeans into a big pile, and replaced them all with styles that boasted infinite fit and promised no more muffin top. I wasn’t happy having to do that, buying all new jeans, but I felt it was a worthwhile investment to have pants that fit and were comfortable.

It turns out that the jeans were just the thin edge of the wedge, so to speak.

I have a strict rule about my clothes, and that is that I want to feel beautiful – or at least cute – in every single item. You might think that is a tall order for workout wear and gardening clothes, but I stand by it. If I don’t feel cute, I stridently tell myself that it is the fault of the clothes, and that those non-ego-boosting items have no place in my closet, which should be a safe space of love.

This is great in theory, but in practice there is a big problem, and that is that it turns out I am very emotionally attached to a number of items, specifically my collection of little black dresses.

I went through the five stages of mourning for all of these items, as I tried them all on with increasing distress. At first I denied it was happening, even while I struggled to pull them over my newly-strong-and-juicy booty and to zip over my newly-disappeared waist and softened tummy. Then I was angry, I was angry about all those beautiful clothes that no longer fit, on which I had spent a significant amount of money over the years. One might rationally say that I most certainly got my money’s worth out of dresses and sweaters that were not even bought in the last decade, but rational thinking has no place here.

This led to bargaining, which is the most shameful part of the story. I wondered what I would have to do to be able to zip up that adorable sheath dress. I ignored my inner voice that was reminding me that bodies change over time and it is a perfectly natural and beautiful part of life. I looked at myself in the mirror unhappily and thought about shapewear and giving up wine. Giving up wine! This is what crossed my mind, friends. It was a dark moment.

This led to depression. Intellectually I know that it is unreasonable and probably not even desirable to hang onto clothes for decades, but I was really sad that my cute dress I bought at Jacob in 2009 no longer fit. It saw me through so many occasions! I was sad the black and white polka dot dress I wore for my son’s grade nine graduation no longer flattered my shape and I was devastated that the dress I bought for my husband’s company Christmas party in 2017 was unzippable. I remembered how beautiful I felt in all those items, and it was the opposite of how I felt now, and it felt very, very sad.

Then I felt sad for being sad. I mean, shouldn’t I be beyond this by now? I’m almost fifty! I told myself I was being ridiculous and that I had no right to be sad; I should be celebrating my body for what it is and what it can do, not judging myself on whether or not I could feasibly wear a fifteen year old dress without the seams exploding. And then I would look at the stuffed-full bags heading for the donation centre and feel sad all over again, after which I would be angry about being sad, and suddenly I’d be experiencing the first four stages of grief once more, the snake is eating its tail.

In a way, it reminded me of a day many years ago, when I found myself pushing a double stroller through the mall. I walked past my then-favourite store, the long-defunct aforementioned Jacob, from which I had purchased the majority of my clothes for many years, mostly office wear and the like. But that day, when I walked past the store and saw the gorgeous slim pants and blazers and skirts, I realized that that store was no longer appropriate for my life. I looked down at my two babies in the stroller, at the gigantic diaper bag stowed in the back, and at my jeans and casual sweater and low-heeled boots, and I had a Saint Paul on the road to Damascus-style realization. I realized that I would never again find myself in those kind of clothes with that kind of life, and I burst into tears. I would never trade my children for anything, I would never make a different decision with regards to my career path, and yet with the one-two arrival of my children I had never actually said goodbye to my old life. I had never allowed myself to mourn that former self and her daily clothing choices and so there I was, crying in the mall.

Those days are gone forever, I should just let them go.

Well, there were a lot of hormonal new moms in the mall, likely no one would have noticed one more, and in any case no one did. Back then I was awash in postpartum hormones, these days I am bouncing around in perimenopause; it feels like two sides of the same coin. A new era is upon me, and in a radical act of acceptance, I bought new clothes.

The majority of this existential clothing crisis occurred in November, which was fortuitous; my husband pointed out in the most positive way, this is the best time for this to happen, because Black Friday is just around the corner! We stan a supportive king, as Heather McMahon says. Just to provide a little balanced insight into my marriage, though, that supportive king also said For god’s sake Nicole, if you keep this up you’re going to turn into C. This is in reference to our crackpot former neighbour who would mutter non sequiturs about weeds and other people’s pets while garbed in much faded neon outerwear from 1985, as well as her merch from the Calgary Olympics. Everyone in the neighbourhood avoided conversation with her because it was always completely unhinged, and also it was hard to not look at her wildly swinging braless breasts underneath her Blues Fest 1991 tees.

But he was right, honestly, because it’s a slippery slope from thinking a nine-year-old item is practically brand new to wandering around the neighbourhood frightening people with your weird monologues about street sweeping. Plus, new clothes are fun, particularly new clothes that don’t make a person feel constricted or unattractive or that destroy one’s self-esteem. Embrace the season! And this is my season of comfortable pants and dresses without tight waists.

In a radical act of self-acceptance, and also a full-on copy of Marie Kondo, I said goodbye to my clothes and dresses. I thanked them for their service, as I piled them in garbage bags. I told them that I hoped that they would make someone else happy, that they would find themselves at a special occasion someday, and that they would make their new owners feel beautiful and special.

And in a radical act of honesty I will tell you that during those same Black Friday sales, I also purchased some shapewear.

Weekly Reading

The Divorce. There are two sides to every story, and this book – translated from Swedish – explores the lives of two people getting divorced after 32 years. What seems like a sudden and snap decision is actually a long time coming, and it was both interesting and terribly sad to see the nuances of something that happens every day. It reminded me not to judge, because we never know what goes on in someone else’s marriage. Fun fact: the translator has the same name as one of my great-grandmas! Thanks to Pearl (HI PEARL) for the recommendation!

This Time Next Year. This was a very fun rom-com about two people born three minutes apart on New Year’s Day 1990. The first born wins the prize for “First Nineties Baby,” and the second, Minnie (HER NAME IS MINNIE COOPER) feels her life has been jinxed forever. She does have some truly bad luck on New Year’s Eve, and the two live parallel lives without knowing it…until their joint thirtieth birthday, when they finally meet. Capers ensue! It’s really delightful but also interesting because – let’s do the math – their thirtieth birthday is January 1, 2020. Much of the book takes place in 2020 but because it was published pre-March, there is no pandemic. It actually made the book more delightful, a sliding doors, if you will, but without the soul-crushing reality of 2020. Thanks so much to Ariana (HI ARIANA) for introducing me to this lovely author’s works!

I hope you all have a lovely last week of January! Rex and I have been enjoying the Canada geese – from a distance – and he enjoyed barking at a coyote until it ran into the partially-frozen creek. We later saw a dead coyote on the side of the road and boy, do I hope it wasn’t the same one and that Rex was inadvertently responsible for its demise. But look at that face. xo

You Can Find Me…

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In Da Club

I am thrilled at the response to my yoga post! Don’t you just love the thought that we are all in our own separate lives, but yet together? I like to imagine you all just adding touches of loving-kindness and asana throughout your day. I think we could have a monthly check-in, with perhaps a mantra or featured pose (asana to do in your kitchen while you wait for the oven to heat up!) or a very short video. In early days of the pandemic, I created a series of gentle yoga videos specifically for my students as a stop-gap measure as we all tried to figure out the zoom life; the quality is pretty bad, and it was never meant for a wider audience, but perhaps someone will find them useful. At the very least, you can see what parts of my Calgary house looked like. Full disclosure: I have not rewatched these as they are a bit triggering, as it were, remembering the circumstances that led me to making yoga videos in whatever space in my house was unoccupied for whatever time I could manage.

If You Get Caught Between The Moon and The Walking Path

The Okanagan valley where I live is famously overcast in winter; this helps keep the temperatures mild and windless, and to me, that is a pretty sweet tradeoff. It does get gloomy though, and often it’s too cloudy to see the astronomical wonders in the sky. Over the last week, though, the clouds have been lifting, right in time to view the Wolf Moon.

On my early morning walk with Rex, I felt like I was inhabiting a Mary Oliver poem as the Wolf Moon fell on my right and the sun rose on my left.

The sun sets close to 4:30 now, which is a solid half hour later than a month ago. I’ve been known to suddenly scream at everyone in the house to look outside, oh my god, look outside, so I am one step closer to my Life Goal of Becoming Judy.

And look at this sunrise! I truly AM living in a Mary Oliver poem. No joke, Canada geese have been flying around me on every walk. WILD GEESE. I cannot make this up.

Please Please Wait A Minute Mr Postman

When we went to Italy, Rex went on his own little vacation to the pet resort. It seems like it was a three week bender. He came back with an eye infection, an ear infection, lice, and an extra two and a half kilograms. His collar was partially shredded and his license tag was missing. Wasn’t that a party…look at the mess I’m in! We should all have such a good time.

It was great timing, though, because I had been meaning to get him a nicer collar, and so I ordered one from Etsy as a Christmas gift, not that he knows what Christmas is or, more accurately, every day is Christmas for him. The Etsy shop MAILED it, even though the postal strike was already on, and so it was stuck in the US lo these many weeks. It finally arrived this week and I think he looks pretty sharp.

December felt very strange with zero holiday cards in the mail; I was a little blue about it but my husband assured me that I would be very excited when the mail started moving again. He was right; who knew holiday cards in January would be exactly what I needed? The mail is exciting again!

Also exciting was my package from Allison, who was my Secret SANta (HI ALLISON)! Allison and I have been friends for about fifteen years, and boy, does she know what I like. Look at this box of treasures!

Every single thing was a complete delight! Fuzzy socks and lotion, chocolates and candies, a bookmark and a gnome!

A gnome cross-stitch card? Omg! Thanks Allison!

Weekly Reading

The Body. A few years ago my friend Leanne (HI LEANNE) introduced me to the Bill Bryson Theory of Diminishing Returns that states that the first Bill Bryson book that you read – any of his vast collection – will be completely and utterly fascinating, and will cause you to excitedly read more and more. The next book – no matter which book – will be slightly less fascinating, and subsequent books will decrease in delight as you go along. I found this to be very true, abandoning the author altogether after Notes From A Small Island. But I saw The Body displayed at my local library; it was the very first Bill Bryson book I read, in 2021, and I wondered if it would be subject to the law of diminishing returns or if it would be as fascinating as when I first read it. Friends, it was the latter. It’s an absolutely incredible study of the human body and its functions and foibles. Now, I will say if you are squeamish at all, or if you even slightly veer to hypochondria or germaphobia, then you should probably give it a pass. I fortunately remembered the horror that was the breast cancer section and the description of the first mastectomies, and so I quickly skipped over that section this time around. Sadly, I did NOT remember the lobotomy section and read it again, which led to the same nightmares I had the first time around. Still, an excellent read, even if I did re-learn that “vagina” comes from the Latin word for scabbard, which, really? Can we have NOTHING for ourselves? It’s bad enough that until very recently clinical trials excluded women on the basis of their pesky old Aunt Flo, which led to inefficacies and sometimes toxic overdoses of prescription drugs for the female body, it’s bad enough that women are constantly misdiagnosed for heart attacks as we present differently from men, it’s bad enough that menopause is only recently being studied and that for hundreds of years women died en masse during childbirth not because of the birthing itself but because of puerperal fever brought on by MALE doctors NOT WASHING THEIR GODDAMN HANDS. We can’t even have that most female of body parts named in a way that isn’t in reference to the man and his MIGHTY SWORD? God, I could flip over a table and scream into the void. TAKE BACK THE VAGINA, LADIES! But back to the book. Modern medicine and everything we know about the body can be attributed to a) dogged, tireless, and often personally hazardous work by scientists, researchers, virologists, and other medical professionals, b) wild accidents, and c) absolutely atrocious and inhumane experimentation on people by Germany and Japan during World War II. A fascinating, if sobering, read. Also? Wash your hands! It’s the single most powerful way to stop disease, not just childbed fever, but almost all disease, including those considered airborne. The description of how a cold virus ends up everywhere is pretty disgusting and I am NOT going to think about it for one minute longer. Pardon me while I go wash my hands.

Don’t Forget To Write. When I was mired in emotional instability brought on by the beautiful but haunting Moon Road, my friend Hannah (HI HANNAH) suggested this as an antidote. It’s just fun; a story about a young woman in 1960 who gets caught making out with the rabbi’s son and gets sent to live with her great-aunt for the summer. This great-aunt just happens to be a matchmaker, and capers ensue! Sassy comebacks abound! There was a surprise ending that really was a surprise – I usually can see these things coming but I did not. Is it believable? Absolutely not! But it’s a perfect diversion from life.

Home Stretch. The day before a wedding, in small town Ireland, there is a terrible accident that kills three people – including the bride and groom – and seriously injures another. Two others are able to walk away, one of them being the driver, whose life in this small town is now ruined. This book is a perfect example of how to write compelling character-driven prose. Secrets abound and while some can be guessed at, the reader is compelled to keep going; it’s an un-put-down-able book that spans 1987 to 2019, from Ireland to England to New York City and back again. It’s a great story of choices, secret lives, and redemption. Thanks to Lisa (HI LISA) for this recommendation!

I hope you all have a beautiful week filled with fun mail, pretty skies, and, of course, yoga moments! xo

Five For Friday: The Good, Bad, and Unspeakable Edition

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ONE. One of the greatest pleasures in the world is good food, and Elisabeth (HI ELISABETH) asked what was the single best meal you had in 2024? I mean, I went to Italy for three weeks. I had so many good meals! Plus, my garden was so prolific this year that I was able to eat so well, and so fresh, for months. But if I had to choose one meal, just one, it would be the pappa di pomodoro in Sienna.

A close runner-up would be this bruschetta in Rome, complete with Aperol spritz:

Not pictured but always remembered are the myriad bowls of delectable pasta with tomato-based sauces and with pesto, the baskets of bread with balsamic vinegar and oil, and one particular cup of orange non-dairy gelato from a place in Rome, just down from our hotel. The gelato had tiny pieces of candied orange scattered through it and I may be thinking about it until I shuffle off this mortal coil.

TWO. It was during our trip to Italy that my husband and I decided we needed more intentional connection. Do not worry, this is not going to be a discussion about intercoursing, although of course that is a good thing to keep the home fires burning, as it were. I think that marriages, and relationships more generally, go through many iterations over time, particularly if there are children involved. When the kids were very small it felt like my husband and I were amiable zookeepers, just trying to figure things out to keep the zoo inhabitants thriving. Then those inhabitants got older and busier and my husband’s work ramped up and life just became demanding. Now, of course, all those things have changed; one might think that because my husband is retired, we are together all the time, but that’s not the case. The two of us often have parallel days, with the exception of dinner, which we eat together every night with whichever of our children is around, and at which we have never allowed screens or devices. Unless, of course, if there is an “important” football game during the dinner hour, and then it’s screened quietly in the background in the room adjacent to the dining room.

In Italy we decided it would be good for us to have a devoted time together, just the two of us, no phones or books or television, and so we decided to have a weekly cocktail hour. Suzanne (HI SUZANNE) asked how did you come up with the idea, and how do you implement it? As with everything in my life, it’s scheduled – usually on Fridays, late in the afternoon. My husband makes us cocktails or pours wine, and we turn everything off, and talk. It’s a fun treat that I look forward to, and I think it’s good for the old marriage vows.

THREE. It’s not all sunshine and cocktails around here, though. We disagree on a few things and probably always will. Elisabeth (HI AGAIN ELISABETH) asked what topic are you most likely to disagree about? We disagree about cilantro, the definition of the patriarchy, cake frosting, and whether or not Rex should have a treat just for coming inside after a romp around the yard. I’ll leave you to decipher who is on which side here. But the topic that we disagree on the most, and that I have waved the white flag about because one can only fight so long, is how to hang up towels.

My husband hangs up all manner of towels – bath, hand, tea – folded neatly down the middle. I think that folding in thirds, with the outside edges hidden, is far superior from an esthetic standpoint, and also from a use-of-space standpoint, particularly with regards to bath towels. Friends, you cannot change a leopard’s spots, and I know when to fold them, literally, in this case. I listened to a podcast in which a man said that he gave up fighting his husband about leaving his dirty underwear on the floor, and just picks it up, and now it’s marital bliss, and I thought oh god, at least I’m not living with a grown man who is incapable of using a goddamn laundry hamper. If this long-suffering dirty underwear-retrieving fellow could survive such atrocities, I could survive incompatible towel folding methodology! Do you want to have towels folded in thirds, or do you want to be married? I asked myself, and so now I spend upwards of forty-five seconds a day refolding his neatly folded towels.

FOUR. This is not, however, the silliest thing we’ve ever argued about, which was another question from Suzanne (HI AGAIN SUZANNE). That distinction goes to a fight we had in 1999 regarding a Sex and the City episode, and although the particulars have been lost to the annals of time, I still remember the episode, and the key line “Your girl is lovely, Hubble,” said to Mr Big by Carrie. She talked about being a wild horse, running free, and it was this that sparked the argument that led to door slamming in our tiny apartment. Again, I don’t recall the specifics of this incendiary topic, but I remember the emotion behind it.

FIVE. I opened up the Ask Me Anything form to see that there was a new question! And it was from Kyria! (HI KYRIA) I excitedly scrolled down to see the following: Tell us a poop story.

Me:

Kyria! No! Everyone knows how I feel about the worst emoji ever invented! No no no!

But I don’t like to disappoint, and I did say ask me anything, not ask me anything that is unrelated to bowel movements. So I will say that I am thrilled that dietary fibre is finally having a moment. I feel like I have long been a Fibre Evangelist; I don’t like to track my food consumption – that way lies madness – but I am sure that I far exceed the recommended intake, mostly via fruits and vegetables, but also with beans and legumes. I mean, when I was a kid my favourite cereal was Raisin Bran, which requires no further comment on my part.

Years ago in my yoga teacher training, the woman who was leading the sessions about chakras spoke passionately about the muladhara, which is the root chakra. Her words have been burned on my brain lo these many years: she said, on the topic of having a bowel movement, that it was the happiest time of the day. At the time I thought that was an unhinged response to using the toilet, but on further reflection I cannot say that she’s wrong. Anyone who has ever suffered in that department knows what a literal bummer it is.

But in addition to improving that happiest time of the day, fibre is so important for our health. It’s vitally helpful for aging generally but for women in perimenopause and menopause specifically. There have been numerous empirical studies that show the multiple benefits of fibre for women in controlling perimenopause symptoms, which is wildly exciting to me. Bring it on, I say as I spread the word, stepping onto my bran-shaped soap box, raising my fist in the air, my fist full of chickpeas and kale.

Do you have a question for me? Let me know and I’ll do my best to answer it. Please, though, no more questions on poop. I think I’ve exhausted the subject. xo

A New Kind of Yoga Challenge

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It’s that time of year where people are making all sorts of goals; specifically, it seems, health and wellness goals. I miss teaching yoga, a little, at this time of year because my classes always had some enthusiastic and curious new students. I really loved it, introducing people to yoga and specifically introducing them to my view of the practice.

Recently Stephany (HI STEPHANY) asked do you plan to teach yoga again and I don’t really, not right now. The thought of building up a clientele from scratch, looking for a class to teach, and finding substitutes for the classes that I will inevitably need when we travel just seems too overwhelming.

But I miss encouraging my beloved students on their yoga journeys. Many years ago – I think it was 2008 – a teacher said to me that there is a difference between going to yoga classes and having a yoga practice, and it is this latter that I wish I could impart on everyone.

I taught many different people with many different body types and abilities, and I feel like every one of them benefited from a practice. I taught seniors and I taught young people, I taught people who were able-bodied and people who were injured and people with chronic pain, I taught people who had suffered strokes and people who couldn’t get down to sit on a yoga mat and people in scooters. Over the years I taught hundreds of classes and I learned a lot about people and their bodies.

I remember one day looking around at my Yoga for Stroke Survivors class; there were probably fifteen people there, and everyone had wildly different physical abilities. I remember thinking how will I teach this? and then a lightbulb went off. I realized that there were so many different ways that a single asana could be experienced. Cat-cow, for example, is typically experienced on hands and knees, but the same spinal flexion and extension could happen if a person was seated on a chair, or standing with hands on a wall or another support.

Sometimes friends will tell me I wish I could do yoga, but I don’t have time. Or, I can’t do downward dog, I can’t touch my toes, I’m BAD AT YOGA. Friends, I am here to say that no one is bad at yoga. And you can have a yoga practice, if you want to, even if you feel you don’t have time.

Listen. I’m not your mom, unless one of my kids is reading this, in which extremely unlikely case I say hi lovies, I love you! I’m not here to be the boss of you or tell you what to do, but I do wish that I could spread the word that a yoga practice can be whatever you want it to be. Yoga videos and those thirty-day challenges are all great, if that’s your thing. I would never say a word against them.

But here’s the thing: for every person who benefits greatly from a yoga challenge and for whom that is the beginning of a lifelong practice, there are many others who find them discouraging or injury-inducing or otherwise detrimental. It doesn’t have to be that way, it really doesn’t. There are no yoga police. No one is going to kick you out of the Yoga Club if you aren’t able to hold a plank or if you can’t go into child’s pose without discomfort.

One doesn’t need lululemon pants or a video or even a yoga mat to have a daily yoga practice. I had a lovely older lady who came to my class once a week, and the rest of the week incorporated a small daily practice into her life. She would do a tree pose while she brushed her teeth, using her bathroom counter for support. She would do a standing cat-cow while she waited for her coffee to brew. A few times a week she would roll out her mat and do a few sun salutations, or she’d lie in savasana. I found her inspirational.

Here’s my challenge, should you choose to accept it. Pick five favourite postures, and then every day do ONE of them. If time allows, do two or more. There’s no need to do them together or at any particular time during the day, just whenever you find yourself with an extra minute. Maybe twist on the chair that currently houses your body, maybe stand up and reach your hands toward the ceiling. Take a forward fold when the shower is heating up. When stopped at a red light, turn off the radio and listen to the sound of your breathing. Bam! Meditation. Hell, if you have time, roll out a mat and do all five postures, maybe more, maybe do a whole practice or a video or go to a class, but just know that even one minute a day adds up over time.

One of the key tenets of a yoga practice is the concept of maitri, or loving-kindness, and this is not limited to how a person interacts with other people. The first person one should extend loving-kindness to is oneself. Giving yourself a little stretch during the day, permitting yourself to sit in quiet meditation for one minute, allowing yourself some grace to come as you are when life is chaotic and the pressure is on to set goals, goals, goals, these are gifts we can bestow on ourselves every single day.

Weekly Reading

Speaking of gifts, what could be better than a few good books?

Save the Cat! Writes a Novel. I have started my revising and editing course this week, and I have found this book on beats and scenes so helpful in terms of organizing my manuscript. I have work to do in the editing process but it all feels manageable, and I’m happy with my progress so far.

Worry. This was a wild, darkly funny satire about two sisters who end up living together in New York city. The older sister suffers from anxiety, hypochondria, and massive phone and Instagram addiction; the younger sister, who suffers depression and debilitating hives, moved in with her sister after a suicide attempt. Meanwhile, their mother, down in Florida, has become a Messianic Jew, doomsday prepper, and pyramid-seller of essential oils. There is almost no plot, but instead a statement about life in 2019, about codependency and sisterhood, about the numbness of internet connections. I loved it but it is satire; it’s like David Sedaris meets Hello Beautiful meets Prozac Nation meets Momfluenced in the weirdest way possible. It’s bonkers and I loved it. 

Alphabetical Diaries. This is such a wild idea: the author took a decade’s worth of journals, put each line in a spreadsheet, and then sorted alphabetically. Each line. From every journal entry for a decade. The result was half a million words, which she edited down to a much more readable 60000. The result reads like a really long free-form prose poem. I couldn’t help but wonder if the amount of work that went into this project paid off, monetarily, but I guess one doesn’t go into writing for the money. Thanks to my friend Engie (HI ENGIE) for bringing this one to my attention!

I started writing this post just wanting to talk about my views about yoga, and now I’m thinking – let’s make it a real challenge! Who wants in to my Yoga Club? To join, you have to a) commit to at least sixty seconds of a stretch or sitting in silent meditation once a day, and b) practice loving-kindness towards yourself if you miss a day. It’s a practice, not perfection! And since I do miss that aspect of teaching, if anyone ever has questions about postures and their variations, please send me a message. I’d be more than happy to share what I’ve learned through the years. xo

Twelve Drillers Drilling

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Today is the twelfth day of Christmas, and I am celebrating with dental work! Apparently two fillings I have in my mouth, dating from 1982, are cracking and causing fissures in my molars. According to the dentist, four decades exceeds the maximum life expectancy for those metal fillings we got in the 80s, which was a surprise to me, as I thought those would follow me to my grave. I was wrong, though, and so I’m saying goodbye to the holiday season in a truly festive way.

I’m kidding, of course – not about the dental work, that is definitely happening – about saying goodbye to the festive season because as we all know, my switch flips from Festive Feelings to Fresh Start Energy on January 1st. Other than missing my friend Denise (HI DENISE), who always hosted an incredible Ukrainian Christmas party before she moved out of the country, leaving me with only my memories and Noelle, I don’t really consider anything past the seven swans a-swimming to be part of the holiday season.

If, however, you are still enjoying the festivities, may I suggest two holiday movies that were new to me this year? The first was Klaus – not to be confused with Claus – which was suggested by my younger son. It’s an animated movie – it was actually Norm MacDonald’s last movie – but I would not recommend it for young or sensitive children, as it’s quite dark and scary in parts. It’s an absolutely wonderful, very unique telling of the origins of Santa Claus lore; actual, traditional Santa Claus from an isolated island in northern Norway, not the Coca Cola Santa Claus that was popularized in early twentieth-century America. It is a beautiful movie of friendship, love, grief, and the conflicting motivations behind generosity.

The second movie was Hot Frosty, which also sounds like it could get a little jiggy-between-the-sheets, but it is actually a sweet holiday romance about a sexy snowman who comes to life and who brings a lot of happiness to the small, upstate New York town in which he finds himself. Fun fact: the sexy snowman is Ted from Schitt’s Creek. It’s very cute, and I think a person could easily watch this with tweens without any of the scarring that came from my Santa porn book review. Both movies are less than two hours, which I think is perfect. Do not come at me with those three hour movies, people, I am NOT interested. Those are just TOO long.

Speaking of too long, that is my main grievance about dental appointments. They seem to swallow up entire afternoons. I am not a person who has fear or anxiety about the dentist, as I have been very fortunate in that aspect, having not had dental work since these fillings found their metallic home in my molars. But what I lack in fear and anxiety, I make up with General Irritation at how long things take in the dental world. Every other unpleasant medical procedure is generally over pretty quickly – mammograms, Pap smears, the scale at the doctor’s office – but even a routine dental cleaning takes upwards of an hour.

And the scaling. Oh, the sound of that scraping on the teeth. At my last appointment in November, where the cracking was discovered, I asked if I could have ear buds in while my teeth were being scaled and cleaned. Why I didn’t figure this out before, I cannot say, but the second-best time to plant a tree is right now. Here’s the weird part: I put in a podcast to listen to and then, when the appointment was finished, a different podcast was playing. I have no recollection of the first podcast nor of the podcasts changing. People, I think that I somehow, against all odds, fell asleep. Either that or my soul actually left my body once the scaling began.

When I was relaying this information to my family, they stared at me in disbelief. My son asked how anyone could possibly sleep while someone was working on their mouth, and my answer is that I have no idea. I do remember, vaguely, moving the suction thing around my mouth as required, but other than that I am blank. The hygienist told me that she measured my gums with a pokey instrument, and then said I’m not sure if you noticed, while looking at me in a very odd way that indicated I was truly out of it. I sure didn’t notice, and I will tell you that I was slightly alarmed to see some tissues with bloody spots on them, presumably from my mouth. What happened to me? At least the suction instrument prevented me from drooling on myself.

Of course my son also asked if my shirt was tucked or untucked, but that is a useless question for a perimenopausal woman. Of course I was untucked! I haven’t tucked a shirt in for years. Also, since it was a cleaning, I didn’t have any kind of anesthetic, so HOW DID I FALL ASLEEP?

In my recent Ask Me Anything – which is still open, until the end of the month – Stephany asked (HI STEPHANY) what are some of your best life hacks, and I would say, based on recent events, to listen to earbuds while at the dentist. It might not make you fall asleep, but you may just hypnotize yourself into a strange fugue state and the time will fly by!

Elisabeth asked (HI ELISABETH) if I have always been an early riser, and the answer to that is yes. I think it’s imprinted in my soul, honestly. I love early mornings and always have; they feel magical to me. But even for a morning person like myself, I think that there are a few little hacks that make starting the day a bit easier and more pleasant. I like to set myself up for a good start by getting the coffee pot ready the night before, and also by laying my clothes out, including socks, underwear, and hair scrunchies. This way I can start the coffee immediately and without fumbling around; by the time I have put on the already-laid-out athletic wear the coffee is ready, and I’m all set up for my morning yoga and workout.

More generally, I think my best life hack is to make things easier in any way that I can. May we be safe, may we be happy, may we be healthy, may we live with ease, as the maitri mantra says. Life is hard! Why not take the option that makes things easier? For me, that means minimizing boring and tedious daily decisions by making them ahead of time; this includes but is not limited to daily outfit choices, weekly meal plans and the associated necessary groceries, which Peloton ride to take and when, daily schedule including workouts and writing time, and which book to read next. The latter is almost entirely dependent on library due dates, which segues nicely into this week’s books, which was a mixed bag.

Weekly Reading

Moon Road. This was rough. I think the only thing worse than losing a child would be to have a child go missing, and that is the premise of this book. Nineteen years after a young woman goes missing, her estranged parents get together for a road trip across Canada to see the bones that have turned up; the mother is to give a DNA test to see if it’s a match, and the father wants to see the site of the bones. They drive from an unnamed small Northern Ontario town east of Sudbury all the way to Tofino, and if you’ve ever driven in any of those areas in between, you will be struck by how perfectly the author captures the small town stopping points. This is a devastating book on grieving and loss, and it might be one of the saddest books I have ever read. It’s incredibly compellingly written, the characters coming to life in a way that is rare. One of the characters is so dislikable, but you can really understand WHY she is so dislikable. The subject matter is so grim, though, be warned. I had to put the book down and stare into the distance at one part, when the mother goes to Prince George with missing posters, and a woman at the Husky station shows her where she can put them up. There are many posters already there. As any Canadian will know, this is along the Yellowhead, known as the Highway of Tears. Worth the read but prepare yourself for some hard truths. An absolute work of heart-wrenching art.

Dear Fahrenheit 451: Love and Heartbreak in the Stacks. After Moon Road I needed something really light, and this fit the bill. It’s a book about books! How meta. It’s written by a librarian, and is made up of love letters and breakup letters to a variety of books, as well as lists of books to read for different moods. I will admit I gave it the side eye early on, when the author proudly stated that she’d named her first son Waldon after reading Thoreau, but after I got over that hurdle I enjoyed the cute little letters. She covers a very wide range of books, from The Giving Tree to The Virgin Suicides, from Colour Me Beautiful to To Kill A Mockingbird. If you’re a real book lover, you may just enjoy this. It’s a little repetitive, but hey, who among us, am I right? I feel fairly certain I myself am guilty of repeating myself on any number of topics, including my feelings on Thoreau and also shopping cart carrels.

Husbands and Lovers. Friends, I know better. I KNOW BETTER. I should never have picked this up. Here’s the thing: historical fiction almost never works for me. Dual timelines in which family secrets are revealed and incredible coincidences occur never work for me. This book was no exception. I found I just could not care about any of the characters nor could I connect with the story. I should have known and, when it comes to my evergreen goal of DNFing books I am not enjoying, well, GOAL INCOMPLETE. If you are a historical fiction person, you might like this: the premise is interesting enough about a woman who goes searching for her family history so her son can have a kidney transplant, but it turns out that history is complicated, etcetera etcetera I don’t even KNOW because the execution just didn’t do it for me. I’m sure this is a Me Problem, not a This Book Problem, but all the little twists and turns that all tied up in a neat little bow at the end just felt trite and irritating.

Well, wish me luck, friends. I’m hoping I can recapture that fugue state for my dental work this afternoon, or at the very least, that the freezing will wear off so I’m not drooling and slurring through my weekly writing group meeting. Take care, everyone. xo

Holiday 2024 Roundup and Reading

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I am a person who derives a lot of energy from the idea of a Fresh Start, and it doesn’t even have to be anything as significant as a new year. It could be a new month, a new week, a new day; even a new lipstick or pair of panties will signify a Fresh New Start, and I will be energized at the thought. A new era is upon us, I’ll think on a random Tuesday, Today is where your book begins, the rest is still unwritten, I’ll think while applying a new shade of Maybelline Ultimatte.

And so it was that I found myself de-Christmassing and deep cleaning the house for many hours yesterday. I don’t know when exactly I started this routine on New Year’s Day, but it does feel like the Festive Season is officially over for me, and so all signs of it are now packed away until November.

Half of the holiday season was marked by a completely empty nest, as the boys went on a road trip last Saturday to visit some friends; they are returning tonight and I can hardly wait. Recently Kamryn (HI KAMRYN) asked How are you managing adult children, how do you set boundaries, how often do you communicate? Well! It’s a New Era indeed. We were all having dinner the night before they left for their trip, and Landslide came on the playlist. My husband looked at me for a moment, and then said “Maybe we should put on a different playlist when they’re gone.”

When they were younger, any time we reached a new era I would think I’ve been afraid of changing because I’ve built my life around you and then my eyes would well up and threaten to spill over; one would think that I would be a complete mess these days, particularly over the holidays when they are not here. In a completely unexpected turn of events, I am not a mess at all. Or much of one.

No one is more surprised than me, honestly, but I really love having adult children, and I only get happy nostalgic feelings when something like this reminds me of what the holidays used to be. Also, a huge upside of an empty nest means that I can really put that Jimmy Buffett song into action: why don’t we get drunk and screw?

I mean, not every day, but it’s nice that the option is there.

Back to the topic at hand, for me the key to a good relationship with my sons is the ability to step back and trust that they will make good decisions, and if they make mistakes, to trust that they will fix them and learn from them, or live with them. This isn’t always easy, of course. The other key is to keep open communication and to keep my judgements to myself. I never want to put guilt trips on my kids or to make them feel badly about themselves, and so unless I am specifically asked, I don’t offer unsolicited opinions. This is also not always easy! Particularly when they are going on an eight hour road trip through the mountains, and it’s snowing and raining the entire way, just as a small example.

In terms of boundaries and communication, one of my sons does still live with us, so I talk to him every day. I text with the other one a few times a week, and I generally see him weekly when he comes home to do his laundry and to share in our big Sunday dinner. I am not an overbearing type, so I step back and let the communication flow in a way that makes sense. The exception to this is when they are, you know, driving in winter conditions for eight hours, then I not only ask for updates but I also check where they are via location tracking, which is something I do NOT do normally.

When my kids were very small, I came across Kahlil Gibran’s poem On Children, which starts Your children are not your children and continues You may give them your love but not your thoughts, for they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies but not their souls, for their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. I have kept that in my mind ever since, and I try to remember that they are their own people, they are not me, they are not my chance to live a different life.

Moving on! I had a lot of downtime this holiday season, and so was able to read some good books.

The Knockout Queen. I was about halfway through the first chapter and I thought “hmm, something seems familiar.” And indeed, I had not only already read this in April 2021, but I also apparently liked it a lot since I gave it a 4.5 star rating. Yet I couldn’t remember what happened! Can I blame the pandemic? I think this was exactly after my first vax, maybe I was foggy. Even though I have a huge stack of books that I have actually not read, I decided to keep going with The Knockout Queen and I’m so glad I did. What an excellent book this was, what a statement about the nature of violence and the way we view it differently depending on if it involves a man or a woman. Rufi Thorpe is such a talented writer, and I just sank into this book and resented everything that took me away from it. It is not at all a forgettable book, so I am going to just go ahead and hope that my complete memory lapse was indeed vaccine and pandemic related.

Tell Me Everything. This book felt exactly like a love letter from Elizabeth Strout to her devoted readers. The moment I heard that she had a new book, and that book involved both Lucy Barton AND Olive Kitteridge, I put it on my Christmas wish list and mentioned it approximately ten times a week. Well, Santa did bring it for me and it did not disappoint! Not only are Lucy and Olive central to the story, but there are characters from every single one of her books, even the more obscure Abide With Me, even her debut Amy and Isabelle. I can imagine a scenario in which someone who HASN’T read Elizabeth Strout’s works obsessively might be looking askance at this book, like “who are these people and why are they all together” but OH, for us fans, oh, it is wonderful. I loved every single vignette, every single moment, every single slice of little lives. The book addresses all the unrecorded lives of everyone surrounding us, and you KNOW that is my favourite thing. I love thinking about how extraordinary all of our ordinary lives are, and this book just hit perfectly. 

Love Your Life. And now for something different! Listen. If you pick up a Sophie Kinsella book, you should expect a Sophie Kinsella book. What can I say, the woman sticks with what works, and in this case it’s an Opposites Attract-type rom-com. It’s fluffy and silly but also fun, let’s not overthink things here. Two people meet on what sounds like the weirdest writing retreat ever, where everyone has fake names and are not allowed to divulge any personal information to each other. Wouldn’t you know it, these two people immediately start boning and fall instantly – INSTANTLY – in love. When they get back to regular life in London, reality hits. Ava is wildly unfocused and chaotic, whereas Matt is dutifully but unhappily working for the family firm. These two characters cannot sustain the magic that they had at the weird writing resort, but a satisfying twist that has each of them adopting a little of the other’s personality makes for a happy ending. Is this realistic? Of course not, we don’t read Sophie Kinsella for realism. It’s a fun bit of escapism and was a pretty cozy holiday diversion. 

My book total for 2024 was 130, and of those 118 were women writers, 99 were fiction, 12 memoir, 18 other non-fiction, and only one book of poetry. That felt off to me but then I remembered that I spent at least nine months re-reading selections from Mary Oliver’s Devotions, but I didn’t “finish,” as it were. I don’t have any particular reading goals this year, except an evergreen one of not being afraid to DNF a book if I’m not enjoying it. Life is too short to read unsatisfying books! We will see if I keep to this goal, because I have a tendency to push to the end, just to see.

Happy New Year, friends! I hope you had a beautiful holiday season or – if you’re an Orthodox kind of person – are still having a beautiful holiday season! xo