Author Archives: Nicole Boyhouse

Gaslighting, literally

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

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

Jesus take the wheel.

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

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

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

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

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

Lemon, it’s Wednesday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A bowl of cherries

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Little Quirks

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

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

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

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

Nails

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

Gratuitous Friday night wine shot!

Public Toilets

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

Mailboxes and the Library Chute

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

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

The Pre-Flight Spiel

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

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

Next Stop: The Glue Factory

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Last Friday, two days before my first road race, the road race I’ve been training for over these past many months, I went for a light run. My hip was a bit achy but I thought I would push through; this was apparently a big mistake as suddenly I had shooting and stabbing pain in my right leg and hip flexor. It took me a solid twenty minutes to get from the gym to the parking lot and once home, I couldn’t put weight on it at all. I had to crawl just to use the bathroom. I spent most of Friday lying on the couch, crying.

Needless to say, I didn’t run in my road race.

My very good friend, who is also a counsellor (HI TARYN) told me that the emotional toll of physical pain is often worse than the injury itself, especially for people who are very active. I believe it. I spent a lot of the time over the weekend feeling blue and also being in a lot of pain. There’s nothing like having to get your husband to help you PUT ON your underwear to make you appreciate your normal physical abilities.

My fear was that there was something really wrong with my hip joint and that I tore something, but I didn’t have bruising or swelling, so I didn’t THINK that was it. I have torn my groin before, just like a pro hockey player, and I knew what that looked like. It turns out that the ache in my hip was a nerve impingement which led to extreme muscle spasms. I’ve had a couple of appointments with dry needling, which is the weirdest and yet most instant-relief experience I’ve had. I have renewed optimism that maybe, just maybe, I just might make it after all.

“Next stop: the glue factory,” I said to my younger son, who just stared at me. “Like Boxer! Remember Boxer?” He continued to stare at me silently and then told me that yes, he remembers Boxer and that really, I wasn’t very funny.

The upside of all this is that on Friday the boys made dinner, including a vegetarian protein source just for me. It was a pasta salad – complete with creamy dressing made with vegan mayo – with edamame and all my favourite vegetables, and they sauteed themselves some chicken as well. AND THEY CLEANED UP, LIVING UP TO MY OWN RIGOROUS CLEANING STANDARDS. Why don’t I get them to make dinner more often? It was a highlight of what was a pretty bummer weekend.

Another highlight is my flowers arrived! I had ordered some planters and herbs from a fundraiser, and they are gorgeous. My husband brought a chair into the yard so I could direct the action as he put the flowers into pots for me. I have officially given up on trying to grow anything whatsoever except false Solomon’s seal in my very dry and very shaded front bed, and so for Mother’s Day he bought me three more big pots in which to grow annuals. I’m so happy with them! The Mayday is finally starting to bloom and the annuals are adding some very much needed colour to the landscape.

Remember last year when I talked about the surviving tulips and how terrible they looked? Well, nothing has changed on that front. The foliage is, again, all flopped over and looking terrible. How is this happening? The people just down the street have a glorious showing of tulips, all different colours, all in bloom. Why are my tulips so stupid? I was talking with one of my seniors and I told her that I have no interest, none whatsoever, in nurturing fragile plants. Our growing season is so short, I want plants that are hardy and happy and that would probably survive nuclear fallout. It’s why I have so many daylilies in my yard. It’s also probably an indication as to why I would not be a good nurse.

Speaking of nurses, god bless my husband and kids who have had to put up with me and my “confinement.” Nicole doesn’t really do well without exercise, my husband told his boss yesterday, which feels like a big understatement. I’m trying not to be too crabby about things – after all, there are so many worse things in the world. I’ve been going to physio and getting dry needled; if you’ve never had dry needling, let me tell you: it’s kind of a trip. It feels a lot like when you’re sleeping and you dream that you are falling and jerk yourself awake, but only with certain muscles.

In non-injury-related news, today is Barkley’s birthday! He’s 11! Later today he’s getting a special freeze-dried chicken treat, which he loves, and on the weekend I’ll bake a cake for the humans in the house. I was thinking carrot, but the boys think a brown cake would be more appropriate for a brown dog’s birthday, so I guess chocolate it is.

Happy birthday, Fuzzy MacFuzzfuzz. xo

Aunty Ant Takes Her Revenge

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Earlier in the week I was so tired; it was the kind of exhaustion that makes me wonder if something is seriously wrong. Why am I so tired? I kept saying, over and over, like the world’s most boring broken record. My husband gently reminded me that every so often I DO get this tired, and every time I get this tired I wonder why, and possibly I shouldn’t run myself at full throttle every single day? Well, it turns out he was correct. I am generally a Jack Russell terrier, but every so often I need to embrace my inner Basset hound. A few days of extra sleep and an afternoon spent gardening in the sunshine, and I seem to be back to my usual self.

Generally speaking, the more things I have to do, the more energized I get. It’s like I have my own little contest going on, trying to squeeze in one more thing every moment of every day. Can I bake a batch of muffins while washing the floor and folding the laundry? And then read this collection of short stories while I make pasta sauce? At some point I become like the airplane headed for Carnival in Rio in Richard Scarry’s Busy Busy World; I explode with the addition of Aunty Ant.

Looking back over the past couple of weeks, I realize that I might have been going at even higher speed than normal; every single day that the sun has shone I’ve been doing yard work on top of running 23 kilometres a week, spin classes, daily yoga practice, and dog walks, not to mention my teaching schedule. Oh, and grocery shopping, food preparation, running a household, parenting, and all of those things we all do every day without thought. A few days of rest is definitely a good thing; if I was talking to a friend or a student, I would tell them to be gentle to themselves and to take rest to restore their bodies and souls. Every once in a while I should really take my own advice.

This past long weekend we travelled to visit my mother-in-law, adding “packing” and “taking dog to kennel with all his prepackaged food and medication” to last week’s to-do list. Packing is a job that I find myself obsessing over; my husband packs his own things and my kids choose the clothes that they need, but my need for order and control means that I alone am in charge of the suitcases. Or, the Orange Suitcases of Sadness, as we call them in this house. The moment the Orange Suitcases of Sadness come out of storage, Barkley is on High Alert and will either be found sitting beside one or be completely underfoot, so that I’m tripping over him while unloading the dishwasher or stepping over him as I neatly roll up all the clothes in order to maximize packing space. I heard a woman talking on the plane about how her friend spent six weeks in Europe with only a single piece of carry on luggage, and I was amazed. A weekend away necessitates a huge suitcase plus carry on for me. I mean, how do you even pack enough toiletries without checked baggage? I guess there are pharmacies and shops in Europe but still.

My sister-in-law and I bonded this weekend with our mutual disdain for travellers who sneak too-large pieces of carry on luggage onto the plane and then cannot fit said pieces into the overhead compartments. Just spend the $25 and check your damn bag, I always think to myself, watching them nearly take out people as they swing their giant distended roller bags overhead. You people are the worst. Perhaps that’s how that woman got through six weeks; with a contraband oversized carry on.

I like to pack a lot even for a weekend, because as you well know, I love clothes. My friend Jen (HI JEN) mentioned that she is going to start her own One Year Shopping Challenge, and for a few minutes I wondered if I have been appreciating all my clothes enough; should I too do another challenge? Nothing makes you appreciate what you have like not being able to purchase new things. However, I am pretty sure my husband would stop speaking to me and my mother would disown me, so I won’t. Maybe I’ll quietly do my own six-month challenge, though, now that my wardrobe has been supplemented over the last nine months of restocking. Maybe.

Speaking of clothes, I noticed a few very interesting outfits yesterday. First, as I was walking the dog, I noticed an older gentleman mowing his lawn wearing nothing whatsoever but a pair of white shorts, the type favoured by basketball players in the 1970s, black socks, and work boots. This was especially odd given that the outside temperature was only about 15 degrees; it didn’t feel like “only shorts and nothing else” weather but then again, I tend to be cold most of the time. Then at my son’s drum lesson, a young boy came in wearing a Garfield hoodie and shorts set. It was bright yellow, adorned with the lasagne-loving cat, and the hood was made to look like Garfield’s head. This I found intriguing; is Garfield still relevant? I guess he must be somewhere, since the outfit looked quite new and bright. That is some longevity for a cartoon feline.

The most interesting outfit was really the third in a series. The young woman who gives voice lessons at the same place that my son takes drum lessons is absolutely fascinating to me. The first week I took him, she was dressed exactly as an anime character: shiny bobbed black hair with a hairband adorned with two big pompoms, a short colourful dress, and tall, shiny, white platform boots. The next week her hair was still black, but soft and wavy, and she was wearing a flowing flowered dress; the type your grandma might have worn as a housedress, but longer. Then yesterday her hair was greyish-lavender, curly except for straight bangs, and she was wearing a long grey and white see-through lace dress over top a short white dress, with black lipstick. I honestly can’t wait to see what happens next week. The mom of the Garfield-clad boy looked at me and said, “Every week, she looks different!” which seemed like a vast understatement.

I cannot recall ever purchasing anything from the Venus catalogue, and so it is for reasons unknown that I have been the recipient of said catalogue for many years. I find it fascinating just how many different iterations there are of star-spangled bikinis. The catalogue is mostly filled with swimwear and beach accessories, but a good third of it contains “street wear” and that, my friends, is the best part. Better even than star-spangled bikinis, the pages are filled with “butt-lifting” jeans and really startling spandex dresses and loosely-knit cropped sweaters worn over sparkly tank tops. There is also a whole section on “work wear” which very much differs from my idea of office-appropriate attire. Although, who’s to say work wear is synonymous with office wear? After all, my work wear consists of yoga pants and tank tops. Perhaps other people have jobs that necessitate cold-shoulder bell-sleeved blouses, off-the-shoulder wrap dresses, or wildly low-cut zipper-front sheath dresses. Who am I to say?

And the sun is shining so yard work is calling; off to embrace my inner Jack Russell. Enjoy the sunshine, sunshines. xo

But did you know when it snows my eyes become large

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Several times a week – sometimes even several times a day – I peer into the mirror and notice a smudge of mascara under my eyes. It’s only after I’ve taken a tissue with makeup remover to it that I realize the exercise is futile; that the smudge in question is not mascara at all, but it reflects the actual colour of the skin under my eyes. I’m not sure how many times I will dab at my under eye circles before I realize that they are not removable, but right now the number is high and growing.

Aging is a privilege and I never forget that for a moment, and so I should probably just embrace my haggard self with joy and acceptance. I have been using Neutrogena Rapid Wrinkle Repair Eye Cream for many months now, and I will say that it is great for under eye wrinkles; I have no crows’ feet and the lines are minimal. However, despite its claim that it “brightens the under eye area” and “reduces the look of dark circles” it has done nothing in that vein. Or perhaps – and this terrifying thought just came to me – perhaps it is doing a LOT and without it I would resemble an actual zombie.

Moving on.

It’s a short week around here and in the manner of short weeks, it feels excessively long. Part of this was that my husband was out of town; the kids are so easy now that it shouldn’t really make a difference, but it does. Last night – and last week as well, due to Mr’s long working hours – I took my younger son to his drum lesson. The drum lessons themselves are held on the second floor of a seedy-ish building, and the drum teacher seems to be constantly a little bit high. “Heyyyyyy, let’s play some DRUMS” is his general greeting, and with his beard and beanie and general demeanor, he is exactly the kind of person you might peg as a drum teacher. This is not in any way a judgement; I think he’s actually great. My son has really clicked with him and meanwhile, I’m listening to a lot of beats related to “Paint it Black” and “Gimme Some Lovin’.”

Speaking of beats, for Mother’s Day the boys gave me a tambourine. They all – this includes my husband, on the bass – jam downstairs, and since my own beloved instrument – the piano – is highly not portable, as well as being not conducive for jamming, they decided I needed something to be included. I now feel like my lifelong journey to Dancing Queen status is complete.

How was your Mother’s Day? The Saturday prior was my mom’s birthday, and so we went to my parents’ for the night. I made a cake and I was very happy with how it turned out, and that I am getting used to using my decorating tips:

I was particularly pleased since I wrapped her gift from the boys, and it looked like this:

Why don’t I just give it up and go for gift bags? Why do I always feel like I am a person who can actually use wrapping paper and tape effectively? I feel like I’m missing some sort of gene here, the gift wrapping gene. My husband looked at it and burst out laughing. “Why didn’t you trim the paper more?” he asked, like someone who is unaware that every time I do that I trim too much off and then end up taping pieces on the exposed box in order to compensate. I would never dream of starting over with a new piece, because I don’t want to waste all the paper that has already been inevitably crinkled up in my sad attempt to gift wrap.

Gift bags, I must embrace them.

The past week or two has been glorious in terms of temperature; the sun has been shining and I’ve gone for walks in only a sweater, with no gloves. In fact, it has been so nice that I have actually had the windows open in the house. This is a good thing and a bad thing: I like to listen to my Spotify playlist entitled Nicole Karaoke, and, as you may infer by the name, it contains songs that I love to sing along to. Well, I love to sing along to most songs, but these are my particular favourites. The negative part comes when I find myself really belting out the tunes and then realizing that my neighbours are likely out enjoying their yards and are probably privy to my passionate version of Kiss From a Rose or Eye in the Sky. BABY! I compare you to a KISS FROM A ROSE on the grey. OOOOOHhhh. As we all know, my zest for singing far outweighs my vocal talents, so thoughts and prayers for my neighbours. The one consolation is that my octogenarian next-door neighbour is a little deaf, so she’s probably safe from I am the EYE IN THE SKY, looking at YOUUUUUUU I CAN READ YOUR MIND. 

The rain and cold – and possible snow – started today. Knowing this was coming, yesterday I took advantage of the sunshine to go to the garden centre, purchase the hardy, frost-and-snow tolerant plants I wanted to add to the garden this year, and plant. Later when I walked Barkley, I noticed half the neighbourhood frantically working in the garden, trying to make hay while the sun shone, so to speak.

The rain (and possible snow) will be great at getting those plants settled in, anyway. Plants become stressed when planted in too-hot conditions, I heard a local expert say on the radio this morning, which, well, there is no fear of that. I plan on reading a lot this weekend.

On that note, I have lately been reading books with very heavy subject matter: a devastating memoir of a man with epilepsy who was the victim of gross medical incompetence, a memoir of a woman who was physically and emotionally abused in her arranged marriage, and The Tattooist of Auschwitz. After that trio, I needed a palate cleanser, and so I read this:

It was exactly what I needed, and it might be what you need too, if you are in the mood for a light and hilarious book with a real feel-good ending. I loved it so much I went straight to the library and picked up her first novel. Between that and some David Sedaris, I plan on having a long weekend with entertaining books.

I hope you all – you Canadians, anyway – have a wonderful long weekend! May you escape the snow. xo