Author Archives: Nicole Boyhouse

Reach out and touch someone

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This is a thing that actually happened at Superstore this week: behind me, unloading her groceries, was a mom with a small boy, around aged two, eating one of those free cookies the bakery gives any child under 12. Behind HER was an older lady, who started talking to the little boy, seated in the cart. She was talking the way you do to a two-year-old – Is that a good cookie? Are you a good helper? Are you getting groceries with Mommy? – and then suddenly, loudly and stridently, said to the mom, “You really should teach him that he shouldn’t talk to strangers! I’m serious! I just read something about a little boy being abducted and KILLED after talking to strangers!”

I whipped my head around from where I was piling my groceries into my bins. I was smiling to myself when I heard the little boy babbling, and this woman’s complete change of tone was startling, to say the least. The mom made slow and direct eye contact with me, raised her eyebrows and smiled, and then turned to the older lady. “Thank YOU for your concern,” she said in a very polite and kind voice. The woman kept talking, saying she was serious, this was a serious situation, and the mom just kept nodding and smiling. “Okay, THANK you. That’s kind of you to be concerned.” She said it in a way that was completely unoffensive and simultaneously showed that she would not give this weird busybody a single thought.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so impressed in my entire life. Also? What the actual, lady? First of all, why are you luring a two-year-old into a conversation with you, only to chastise the mother for allowing such a conversation to happen? Secondly? While of COURSE I taught my own children to be cognizant about their surroundings and not randomly begin conversations with strangers on the street, I do think there is something to be said about polite chitchat in the grocery store. I would like to think that if an older person began conversing with my children in the security of their local grocery store, that my children would be so kind and polite as to carry on with the conversation. Everywhere you go these days, people are on their phones, desperately avoiding any and all human contact, and this has made the world a worse place. Whatever happened to making small talk while waiting in line? We have enough temptations in our phones to avoid society as a whole, we don’t need weirdness about Not Talking To Strangers when that stranger is simply making a comment about the weather or the photo of the Duchess of Cambridge on the cover of Hello! magazine.

Clearly, this hits a nerve with me. I am a person who – surprise! – loves to talk to strangers. I think we, as a society, would all be better off if we took the time and extended ourselves a bit to have a light conversation with other people, people we don’t know, people we will likely never encounter again in our lives. Instead of just scrolling, liking, and commenting, making actual contact with other humans, people who may or may not be lonely, people who may or may not need a kind word, people who may or may not just want to be seen by someone, even if it’s a complete stranger asking if those Dr. Oetker pizzas are any good, because she’s never tried them, but she’s always wondered.

The world is so small now – we can connect with people half a world away with just a click – but it’s also so big. Reaching out and just making contact can really make a difference, plus, it can be fascinating. People are so interesting, aren’t they? Everyone has a story. I remember years ago, a friend posted a photo of a lovely little apartment in Italy, with flowers on the balcony, and she said, I wonder who lives here and what their life is like. I think that all the time, but with food. I wonder what that person is going to do with all those pears and Swiss chard, I might think as I gaze at the groceries on the conveyor belt in front of me, or Oooh, that looks like a birthday party to me!, or What makes Gourmet Gummy Bears gourmet? I always look at other people’s groceries, not in a judgmental way, no, but out of genuine interest. The other day I was at Costco with my usual cart full of groceries, and the older gentleman in front of me had a total of four things, which is always interesting to me when that happens. A person has to be, in my opinion, in possession of some incredible inner strength to go to Costco and leave with four things. How do they do it? I feel virtuous and strong if I leave without spending $400, let alone only putting four things in my cart and then LEAVING. But this particular gentleman made me smile because all I could think of was this guy is going to have a good time this weekend. In his cart was the following: a vacuum-pack of baby back ribs, a ten-pound bag of onions, a Costco-sized pumpkin pie, and a two-pack of the kind of whipped cream that comes in a spray can. PARTY.

Of course, sometimes the contents of people’s carts make me wonder. The other day, a young couple with a baby were behind me, and the cart – the entire, giant cart – was filled with that kind of baby food that comes in a squeeze packet. There was nothing else at all in the cart, just dozens and dozens of squeeze tubes, in all different flavours. It seemed like every squeeze tube of baby food was actually in that cart. For once in my life I didn’t instigate a conversation, because I didn’t want to sound in any way weird or judgmental (that’s a LOT of baby food you have for that one baby!). My natural nosiness was satisfied though, as I heard the lady say to the cashier that they were going to China for five months, and this kind of baby food was either unobtainable or expensive. I imagined a suitcase full of baby food on its way to China and smiled.

A cart full of squeeze-tube baby food is one thing, can you imagine a cart full of this?

I was looking for travel-sized shampoo when I saw this on display. I admit I stopped and stared at it for a good couple of minutes, completely blocking the aisle until a lady asked if she could get by. I apologized and explained that I was looking at this, to which she said, in an excited kind of voice, “Are you going to try it?” No. I’m not. I don’t want placenta on my face, no matter how revitalizing. She went on her way but I like to think that she circled back to pick one up. It could have happened!

Have a beautiful weekend, my friends, enjoy the end of September! xo

Let them eat really pretty cake

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In case you were waiting on the edge of your seat, yes, I did survive the seven-hour-ten-teen-boys birthday party on Saturday. More than that, it was probably the lowest-maintenance and most-enjoyable birthday party ever given in my house. Literally all I did was provide food; the boys entertained themselves very easily. What they did I do not know exactly; there was some trampolining, there was some extremely loud noise-making, there was a LOT of eating. At one point it was so quiet I was a bit concerned, but when I peeked downstairs they were all busily playing a card game, which was very unexpected. The sole downside was that all the adults who came to pick up, and I myself, were kept up way past our bedtimes, and we all looked like zombies at 11 pm.

However, a great time was had by all and the cake I had made turned out really nicely:

The birthday boy decorated it with Rolos just in case there wasn’t enough sugar in the caramel frosting and drizzle.

I recently purchased new, somewhat pricey, 9 inch round cake pans to replace the lowest-cost-possible-off-brand 8 inch ones I bought about twenty years ago. The latter are shallow little things that would result in very strange looking layer cakes. Twenty years of strange-looking layer cakes, people, and let me tell you, these new pans are amazing! I am reminded yet again that one gets what one pays for, particularly when it comes to kitchenware. Saturday morning I took the pans out of the oven and marvelled at the absolutely perfect layers. I forced everyone to come into the kitchen and admire them. Why didn’t I buy these pans before? I asked rhetorically, to which all three guys answered in unison, Because you’re cheap!

Well. Cheap is a harsh word; I’ve always been loathe to replace something that is Working Perfectly Well, even though Working Perfectly Well does not equal Working Optimally, as we all know. May I remind you of the life-changing effects of finally, after many, many years, obtaining a really good garlic press, vegetable peeler, and spatula? After Kondo-ing the house and my life I have been especially cognizant about bringing excess Stuff into the house. We don’t need more STUFF! I will say sternly to anyone who will listen. I think of this as virtuous but as you can see, it can also be construed as a character flaw that can only end in sub-optimal food preparation and results.

The econometrician in me desperately wants to do a cost-benefit analysis of this phenomenon, including the economic term “utility.”

This week has been busy with yoga teaching and grocery shopping, my dual loves. I am not even saying that ironically, I love yoga teaching and, in a very different way, I love grocery shopping. Mostly. I was at Costco and was shocked, absolutely shocked, at the state of the parking lot. I know what you’re thinking! Nicole, we have really heard enough about errant Costco carts and how people who don’t return them are the Worst People In The World. Well, surprise! I wasn’t going to talk about carts, although yes, those people are the Worst People In The World and I fervently wish Bad Costco Karma on them all; Bad Costco Karma consisting mostly of Long Lineups, Blocked Aisles, and The Discontinuation Of That One Product You Came To Costco For.

Moving on, it wasn’t the cart situation that shocked me yesterday; for one thing, I’m becoming deadened to it, for another, there were many errant carts but the situation wasn’t as bad as it often is. No, what was shocking was the multiple lineups of cars trying to access the gas station. Apparently the gas station is going through some refurbishment, although I am unclear as to what this entails. Perhaps there are fewer pumps available? I don’t know, all I know is that there were bumper-to-bumper lineups in all possible directions, all ending at the gas station. I am not exaggerating when I say there must have been fifty cars lined up to get gas. It looked like a photograph from the gasoline shortages of the 1970s, but with fewer Oldsmobiles.

Why would anyone spend thirty minutes of pure aggravation, idling their cars and eating up the very energy that one seeks at a gas station? Well, according to a lady I chatted with in the parking lot, the price of gasoline was a solid ten cents lower than anywhere else in the city. Ten cents is a pretty good savings, but when we do the math, it works out to – on average, assuming that everyone’s tank is about the same as mine – a $5 or $6 difference. Now, I am a frugal person, although you might not be able to tell from my extensive Lululemon wardrobe. I regularly price compare and calculate per-unit costs of household goods, I shop at different stores for different deals and I am absolutely obsessed with collecting and redeeming PC Optimum points. I KEEP SUB-OPTIMAL CAKE PANS FOR TWENTY YEARS BECAUSE I DO NOT WANT TO SPEND $20 TO REPLACE THEM. I tell you this: there is no way that I would undergo such an endeavour to save $5 or $6. Hey, I’m not judging! Maybe it’s worthwhile to the fifty cars idling away, blocking the parking lot exits. But, as I nosily peered at the people in the cars, they all looked as agitated and irritated as one might imagine.

Speaking of cars, I was driving to the yoga studio behind a car with a vanity license plate. The plate read “NIX TOY” which I took to mean, Nick’s Toy. Now, when you think of a car that would be construed as a Toy, what do you imagine? I think of a hot-looking sporty convertible or perhaps a refurbished muscle car. Something shiny and fast, in a sexy colour like red. What I don’t generally picture is a white four-door Buick sedan, which this car was.

Well, I will withhold judgement on that one. Maybe the owner went from a minivan like mine to a sedan, which might seem Toy-Like in comparison. Who is to say, really. At the moment I feel like my new cake pans have effectively changed my life for the better; perhaps a sedan revolutionized Nick’s life too.

It’s Apple Season! And Snowman Season!

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Ah, fall. The season of colourful leaves, crisp air, apples, and this:

Snow!

Well, to look on the bright side, it’s just a dusting.

I feel like the world is divided into two kinds of people: those who love and embrace summer with all their hearts and souls, and those who do not. People in the latter category, please enjoy your season for the next 8-9 months, and meanwhile, I will be busy putting on legwarmers, scarves, and other layers for eternity. It seems like a very unfair distribution, but what can you do? Complain to the management? Because I don’t feel God will suddenly decide to make Calgary a climate of beauty, just because I complain.

I might complain just a little though, as tomorrow a certain young man is turning thirteen, and there will be a total of ten teen boys in my house for SEVEN HOURS. Why or how this was arranged I do not know, but I was counting on a few hours of let’s go play war with Nerf guns at the playground and so the forecast is, shall we say, disappointing. I am sure none of the parents will judge me for indulging in a glass of wine or two whilst the Festivities Are In Full Swing. My non-drinking husband will be there in case someone loses an eye to a Nerf bullet or, more likely, falls into a sugar coma from the requested Chocolate Layer Cake With Caramel Frosting And Rolos On Top. I think I fell into a sugar coma just writing that. To counterbalance, I have a lot of vegetables to make a veggie plate, to go along with the pizza, star-shaped frosted sugar cookies, and three giant “family-sized” bags of chips. If there’s one thing I know about teen boys, it’s that they are a hungry people.

Now that I have two of them, if anyone needs me, I’ll be grocery shopping. Again.

The happy news about grocery shopping – and about fall in general – is that it is officially Apple Season! Apples are, in my humble opinion, the very best thing about fall, followed closely by pretty leaves and the return of thick black sweaters and tall black boots. I am pretty particular about the type of apples I eat; I am strongly Team Macintosh. We are all, as I tell my children and yoga students constantly, different, and I’m sure that many of you will disagree, but I firmly stand by my opinion that Macs are the Superior Apple. They are the perfect flavour and texture, and I essentially binge eat Macintosh apples the second they hit the produce aisle until they are no longer available. I also like the Scottish name; it is as if the Macs and I are namaste-ing each other in a Scottish way. The Scottish way to namaste is probably Aye Lassie It’s A Broad Bricht Moonlit Nicht Tonich or something similar.

Again, we are all different and the world is a rich tapestry and variety is the spice of life, but when I get excited about Apple Season and someone becomes similarly excited about apple pie, my response is this:

I will not judge you, you lovers of apple pie and apple sauce and apple crisps and other mushy abominations, but I will never understand you. This is the same way I feel when I hear of people making jams and muffins with fresh fruit and berries. Such things are so precious to me that I would never do anything but eat them raw. Muffins and jams, in this house, will always be made with frozen fruit, and I stand by that decision, at least while I live in this godforsaken snowy hellhole.

Oh! But I wasn’t going to complain! Perhaps I shall just go eat an apple and finish frosting all the cookies, and dream about warmer climates instead. Have a wonderful weekend, everyone! Please spare a thought for me tomorrow night. xo

One Thousand

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Can I Get A Witness

I can hardly believe this, but this is – get ready for it – my ONE THOUSANDTH POST. One thousand posts. Can I get a medal or something for this? Very few people old-school blog anymore, but I am glad to have this diary of my life over the past – get ready for it – DECADE. Of course, I could have just kept a regular diary, but what would have been the fun in that? It’s nice to have a witness to this everyday life. Can I get a witness?

The Winner, In A Landslide

As I’ve mentioned before, I often think of the Soundtrack of My Life; it occurred to me the other day that there are songs that are inextricably associated with other people, in my mind. For example, my friend Hannah (HI HANNAH) is linked forever and always with Some Kind of Wonderful, and so now that I have asked if I could get a witness, I will be a) singing that all day, and b) thinking of her. For fun I asked Facebook friends what song reminded them of ME and it was a very interesting experiment. A friend who knew me way back in elementary school mentioned Corey Hart (HI MELISSA), a friend from high school reminded me that we always sang Hello City when we were together in chemistry class (HI TRACY), a friend from university mentioned Total Eclipse of the Heart, the Old School version (HI ALICE), and there was a nice mix of interesting music from friends made in the past decade (HI EVERYBODY). The most common song, however, was Landslide, which is both unsurprising and apt, given this time of year.

This Is Me In Grade Nine

My BFF, who I met in grade nine, (HI TARA) said what reminded her of me was Light My Fire, stemming from that period in which I was obsessed – OBSESSED – with The Doors, and also wearing all-black-all-the-time. Well, my interest in listening to The Doors has certainly diminished to zero, but my all-black fashion statement largely remains.

This is me in grade nine, baby. Yes, my love of black and also excessive jewelry has remained, nearly thirty years after the fact.

Speaking of which, I have had This Is Me In Grade Nine stuck in my head for days – DAYS – because the start of school has ushered in a new era: my oldest is, indeed, in grade nine. I am assuming the same will be true next year at this time as my youngest will be there as well. Usually I have Back To School, Back To School, To Prove To My Dad That I’m No Fool from Billy Madison stuck in my head for days; this is preferable. I got a red leather tie and a pair of rugger pants, I put them on and I went to the high school dance.

This is further proof that my brain is needlessly filled with song lyrics and if I could just channel that brain power I could probably work for NASA.

Dogpression

Barkley knows what packed backpacks in the kitchen means, and he does not like it. Now that we are four days in, he has come to weary acceptance, so long as he can come along for school drop-off.

Winter Games

I have been using the silent house and also the free time before my new registered classes start next week to get a few menial, tedious, and annoying jobs done. These include but are not limited to calling the cable company to order a new remote, necessitating me looking up serial numbers and account numbers and clearing up last name confusion, registering myself and my husband to vote in the upcoming provincial election so as to not have to wait for an enumerator, and calling a certain government agency to ensure an issue that was not caused by anyone in this household but instead someone who we actually paid for their services and still makes me irritated to think about it has been cleared up. (Spoiler: it hasn’t!). Yesterday I was on hold for what seemed like an eternity, only to be redirected a few times before getting the correct person for the job, who ended up completely unable to help anyway. The interesting part of this story, at least to me, was that while I was on hold, the theme from the Calgary 88 Olympics was played. Two things: a) that really took me back in time, and b) is it just me or does that seem like a strange choice of music? The rest of the music was pretty neutral elevator-Kenny G-type music, and then wham! Bah bah bah bah bah bah bah bah bah BAH BAH!

It’s Just Like New Year

September feels like a much milder form of January, doesn’t it? Everyone with their fresh starts and getting back to the gym and making crazy school lunches with bento boxes? I personally have a couple of resolutions for September and on, and one of them is to not use my phone when the boys get home after school. I instituted a “no screens” rule for myself and the boys, although it has since been amended to “no screens until homework, physical exercise, and something creative has been done.” For me, though, it’s no phone at all, unless someone texts or emails me. It’s really helping me be more present, which is an ongoing goal of mine, and also allows me more time to read and play the piano. In fact, it’s given me so much more time that I feel a twinge of shame about my (former) phone habits.

Only 1255 Pages To Go

I have had A Suitable Boy on hold from the library for some time, thanks to a recommendation from my friend Mary-Lynn (HI MARY-LYNN). Imagine my surprise when I went to the library to pick it up and discovered that it is almost 1500 pages long. Hoo boy. I have been keeping a spreadsheet of all my books read, in an attempt to be more like my bibliophile friend Allison (HI ALLISON), and so far this year I have averaged one book every 3.5 days. This is going to mess me up big-time. To add fuel to the reading fire, two more of my holds came in yesterday, so if anyone needs me, I’ll be over there, reading. I know, I know, it’s the journey, not the destination, but I like my current book-to-day average.

I Love Your Pictures

A few months ago, someone had posted on Facebook about how sick they were of seeing photos of other people’s kids, and no one cared, and just keep those photos to yourselves, you terrible attention whores. I’m paraphrasing, but only slightly. Then a friend told me that someone told HER that seeing back-to-school photos was the worst, and if your kids weren’t in kindergarten, then nobody cares. You terrible attention whores.

I am taking this opportunity – this One Thousandth Post opportunity – to say that I CARE. I love seeing all your photos, of your kids, of your pets, of your fancy drinks, of your houses, of your vacations. I love your selfies, your outfits-of-the-day, your bikini shots, your workout shots, your nature shots, I LOVE IT ALL. I want to see MORE updates about your lives, not less. What else are we on social media for? Outraged political updates? I think we have enough of those. After all, look how well all those political posts pre-US-election turned out.

I mean, I even love seeing photos of what you had for dinner, so long as it’s not already digested. Which brings me to this travesty:

You Know How I Feel About This Emoticon

People, this is a bridge too far. TOO FAR.

Nicole’s Favourite Things: August 2018

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The thing about writing an old-school blog for ten years (TEN YEARS, PEOPLE) is that I receive a lot of pitches from people who have clearly never read my blog. This is to be expected; PR people aren’t exactly scouring through archives to find the perfect fit for a perfect product – who has the time for that? Their job is just to Hail Mary emails, and hope someone catches it. Despite never having done a sponsored or guest post on this blog, I receive pitches for both every day, and usually they are so ridiculous that I do not even respond. However, a pitch I received a few weeks ago was something beyond ridiculous.

Hello, Nicole, it started, We would love for you to do a product review or giveaway on your website!

The product in question was a kit that would help me conceive sooner. This kit, the pitch said, is an all-in-one, natural, proven solution for mommies-to-be conceive sooner and easier than ever before! 

I would also receive bonus gifts: 20 early results pregnancy tests and 20 one-step ovulation steps.

Jesus, take the wheel.

I was more surprised to get that pitch than I was when someone asked if I’d like to try their new brand of beef jerky. I’m sure that PR person is just trying to do her job, and who knows, maybe she thought I had a Sarah and Abraham situation going here, rather than a trying-to-multiply-loaves-for-my-ever-hungry-teenagers.

On that note…it’s time for Nicole’s Favourite Things! As always, I have received nothing for free and I’m certainly not being paid for this; anything I write about is just something I love and I want to share with you.

Nicole’s Favourite Things – August

This Sweater

The end of August is, most definitely, fall. In fact, all of August feels a little bit that way to me; I can feel a tiny chill in the air on warm days, and I definitely feel cold in the mornings. By now I have taken my boots out of the closet and am starting to layer my clothes yet again.

I bought this sweater years ago – maybe five or six years ago? – from Lululemon and I do not wear it very often because a) it’s cream, and b) those adorable drapey bits really get in the way of day-to-day life. However, it’s perfect for a chilly morning at the zoo, which is where this photo was taken. It layers nicely, but is very light, so I only wear it in not-yet-winter months. Years ago I wore this to the playground for school pickup, but I was wearing a coat over top. A friend came up to me to quietly whisper that I had toilet paper hanging out of my pants, which ended the era of wearing this sweater underneath a coat. In any case, I love it but wear it seldom, because there are very few months in Calgary that I do not wear a coat.

Primer

Why, why, why has no one ever told me about primer? I was in Shopper’s the other day buying some of my favourite Smashbox BB Cream, because there was a special PC Optimum points bonus on beauty products and let me tell you, I couldn’t pass it up. The salesgirl gave me a sample of Smashbox Primer, and after some lengthy discussion with her – what is primer, why would I use it? – I bought some to try. See also: PC Optimum bonus points.

I do not think it is an exaggeration to say that it was a revelation. It’s a whole new world, people.

So here’s the thing: primer is used to “smooth and blur” but also to help your makeup last longer. Now, I don’t know how “smooth and blurred” I am – it’s not like I’m walking around in soft-focus like Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca, or even just an Instagram filter – but I can tell you that it does help makeup last. I put it to the test last week when I took the kids and their friends to the local amusement park. Five hours outside in the smoky sunshine? With an extra layer of sunscreen? Here’s the before, completely unfiltered, taken just after applying makeup, at about 8:00 am:

And here’s the after, taken at about 3:00 pm.

Frankly, that’s pretty amazing. I usually retouch my makeup a couple of times a day, but for the sake of an honest review I did not, and I also don’t think I really had to.

SpaRitual

I get pedicures once or twice a year, and the place I go to uses SpaRitual polish. I’ve been purchasing the Soulful colour for my toes for years; I do my own pedicures normally, going to the spa is a treat I save for Mother’s Day, and maybe just before a beach vacation. I like to have my feet looking nice because they are on display daily. I’m sure no one is really looking at my feet when I teach, but I liken it to wearing nice underwear; no one else might know, but I do.

I don’t know why I’ve been buying the fancy polish for my toes and substandard drugstore polish for my fingernails, but here we are. A few weeks ago it occurred to me that the SpaRitual polish lasts forever, barely chips, and looks great, so why do I only use it for pedicures? Particularly when I have trouble finding the perfect polish in a drugstore? When I was at the spa for a wax, I had a long and detailed conversation with the esthetician about my fingernails and their propensity for chipping, peeling, and splitting. I ended up buying SpaRitual in Idyllic, which I thought was a nice complement to Soulful, along with the special top coat. It is, in my mind, the perfect neutral polish, which is something I legitimately search for and spend time thinking about.

Ignoring my bony, old-lady hands, don’t my nails look nice? I was a serial nail biter until I was about 23 and had my first professional job. The secret, for me, to keep from biting my nails is to always have a nice polish on them. SpaRitual is longer-lasting than most polishes, plus it’s vegan!

Special shout-out to my friend Amy and her beautiful mala bracelets. Check out her Etsy shop!

Pandas

Save me your speeches about zoos, I took the kids to see the pandas at the zoo and you guys, look:

HE’S HAVING A SNACK.

If there is anything cuter than a big fat panda, I do not know what is. Oh, wait.

Who’s a good doggy?

Stepping into madness.

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I work very hard to be a calm and zen-like person, but those who know me well know that I am, deep down, a controlling and Type A person. It’s not even that deep down, one only needs to load the dishwasher differently from me, or fold the tea towels in halves instead of thirds, to know this. I like to think that being controlling and Type A is not actually in opposition to being calm and zen-like, really; I embrace the adage that you cannot control external forces but you can control how you react to them.

With that in mind, it doesn’t take a psychology degree to make the connection between the end of summer, and the new school year as a demarcation of the rapid passing of time, and my embarking on a Project. Normally these Projects are of the Cleaning and Organizing Type, which is, to me, only a benefit. One year, you may recall, I completely Kondo-d my entire house, donating twenty-five garbage bags of clothing and household objects. Another year I embraced the Kitchn Cure, right down to my multiple fridges and freezers. No one is harmed in these Projects; they fulfill my need for order, and the house is better off for it.

The only exception was the year my youngest started kindergarten; the day before school started I decided to make birthday invitations for his entire class, which ended with an inexplicably broken printer and me, sobbing on the phone to the printer help desk. I cried so hard that the very kind gentleman on the other end told me everything would be all right, he would take care of everything, and maybe I would like to get a glass of water? He ended up sending me a brand-new printer at no charge, so I guess the house was better off for it, even if it was at the expense of my own nervous breakdown.

It started off innocently enough yesterday; I decided to make granola. The house filled with a delicious, maple coconut aroma, and I noticed that a couple of the kitchen cupboards were a little smudged. I decided to wash them, which is not an unusual occurrence. The cupboards are white and I do wash them down once a month or so. But yesterday, after washing the cupboards, I started washing down and polishing all the appliances, big and small. Then I took everything out from under the sink and began scrubbing. Then I noticed some smudges on the wall in the back entry, which resulted in my scrubbing down the entire entry and the stair railings. I couldn’t stop there; the stairs leading downstairs also seemed smudgy, and so did the back door.

This way leads madness.

I could actually feel myself spiraling out of control; I recalled that there were some toothpaste spatters in the bathroom which meant I was soon washing the walls there too. As I scrubbed out under the bathroom sink, I realized that if I didn’t stop soon, I would be tearing all the pictures off the walls and moving furniture to wash the walls behind it, which would probably lead to hours of cleaning that no one, save me, would ever notice. I vowed to just wipe down the hall cupboards and stop; it took every ounce of willpower to empty my bucket and put it down in the basement. As it was, my kids and their friends came in from the back yard to get snacks, and were tiptoeing around me as I washed the hardwood. Don’t worry Nicole, we can minimize the amount of feet on the floor, one of them said as he took enormous steps on his tiptoes. In an attempt to model normal healthy behaviour, I stopped cleaning after finishing the floors.

Many years ago, my mother-in-law told me that when she was first married, her mother-in-law washed all the walls in the house once a month. Once a month! she said to me. Really, that’s too much. Once a season is plenty. I remember staring at her, thinking once a SEASON? The walls in my house get washed a) when they are going to be painted, and b) piecemeal, when I notice smudges. And c) when I become obsessive at the end of summer, I guess.

This cleaning binge put me in mind of a book I just read and loved, David Sedaris’ Calypso. Are you a Sedaris fan? If so, this book is a must-read. It is, in my opinion, his best writing ever. Oh, to write like David Sedaris! Every sentence is gold. One essay in, and I was telling my husband that it was on my Christmas list – I knew I would want to read it over and over again, and I had only gotten it from the library. My husband’s response was It’s August but no matter. Gold. Several times my family asked what I was laughing at, and more than once I was doubled over, with that silent laughter that comes from the inability to breathe and make any sound, tears running down my face.

Calypso includes the essay Stepping Out, which is my favourite thing he has ever written, and also perfectly articulates why I cannot have a fitness tracker. Some of us cannot be trusted. My husband has a fitness tracker and he uses it like a normal person. He looks at his steps, calories burned, and whatever else a fitness tracker records, and then he goes on with his life. If it were me, all semblance of a normal life would go out the window and I would be welcoming Fitbit, My New Overlord.

In the words of David Sedaris, “…there’d be no end to it until my feet snapped off at the ankles. Then it’d just be my jagged bones stabbing into the soft ground. Why is it some people can manage a thing like a Fitbit, while others go off the rails and allow it to rule, and perhaps even ruin, their lives?”

See, this is the thing. Self-awareness is where it’s at, and given my propensity to spin off the rails, I can say with confidence that a Fitbit is not for me. Occasionally I will mention to my husband that it would be “interesting to have one,” at which he stares at me silently, probably imagining a life with a lunatic who is “just getting her steps in” to the detriment of everything else. I mean, I’m already at the point in my life where I scope out parking spots that are the farthest from the door, and I refuse to take an elevator for anything less than seven floors. And imagine what would happen during the last week of summer vacation? I would probably end up in a different province, pumping my arms enthusiastically. And with my terrible sense of direction, I may never make it back.

Another thing to delegate to the Blue Job Category

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I realized with a start that NEXT WEEK is the last week of summer vacation, and as always at this time of year, I am filled with low-level melancholy about the ending of my favourite season and the rapid passage of time, et cetera. Landslide on repeat, as it were.

The past few weeks have been characterized by two opposing forces: trying to squeeze in lots of fun activities – trips to the zoo, the amusement park, endless afternoons of the kids hanging out with friends – and trying to squeeze in all the non-fun activities like haircuts, oil changes, and back-to-school shopping.

Normally the boys only like to shop with their dad for clothes, as he is generally the Fun One and also I am less than patient when it comes to clothes shopping. I know! It doesn’t seem quite right, does it? But it’s true. A few weeks ago I had the boys try on everything in their dressers, and to pile on the floor all the things that don’t fit or that they don’t like. Does this shirt spark joy? I didn’t say to them, but that was my idea. The piles were enormous and the dressers were looking pretty scant. One child in particular had no pants; the other had one pair that was skirting the line between “acceptable” and this:

My husband took them pants shopping, to everyone’s delight. Well, “delight” might be a strong word. Still, who knew that I would one day delegate clothes shopping to the Blue Job category? Certainly not me. Maybe it would be different if I had girls.

I remember when back-to-school shopping filled me with utter joy; I’ve always enjoyed clothes and fashion and every August I would think about what my signature look would be for the upcoming year. I wrote about it here if you’d like to see all my favourite outfits of my teen years. Dreadfully enough, many of those outfits are making a comeback.

Pants aside, a few items still needed to be purchased, along with standard school supplies, and so I took a deep breath and prepared myself, vowing to be patient.

I took them school supply shopping at Walmart, which – Walmart. Walmart, am I right?

I joined a whole army of moms who all had eye-rolling teens in tow and who all sported looks of grim determination on their faces. We are all in this together, ladies. We whipped through the list pretty quickly, except for one item: paper. PAPER. There were several thousand different boxes of pencil crayons, glue sticks, and pens, and yet regular, lined paper was nowhere to be found. A woman beside me, grilling her teen daughter on her preference for pencil case colours – do you like this one? How about this one? For the love of god just PICK ONE – seemed like she had been there a while, so I asked her if she had seen lined paper. She hadn’t, and we looked at each other with perplexed expressions. It must be here somewhere, how can they not have paper? After searching for upward of fifteen minutes, which is fifteen hours in Walmart-time, I found the last two packages of foolscap. Do they still call it foolscap? I’m not sure how it’s possible to not have paper during the back-to-school shopping blitz, but I imagined being mugged in the parking lot for my two packages of paper. I mean, who is doing the ordering here? It doesn’t expire, people, just order some more paper.

I later saw that mom at a distance, still searching for items on her list, and presumably paper was one of them. I felt a little guilty for having the only two packages, apparently, in the store, but I did not approach her. When it comes to Walmart, it’s every woman for herself.

After that episode, I should have just called it a day, but no. I pushed on. There were still a few clothing items to be purchased and although I would have been more than willing to delegate, my husband has been working a lot, weekends included. After the paper-related guilt, my soul couldn’t take anymore, so I womaned up and went to the mall.

Mothers of teens, you know that moment you realize that kids’ clothing doesn’t really fit anymore and now you find yourself shopping in the men’s department?

We ended up, on my husband’s suggestion, at Bluenotes, which sells no children’s clothing whatsoever but focuses more, as the salesgirl said to me, on young adults. The salesgirl and I also had a spirited discussion about the ubiquity of what are commonly called Mom Jeans but I would pedantically argue that they would be better referred to as Grandma Jeans. After all, what moms do you know that wear Mom Jeans? I know of none.

Grandma Jeans might not sound like a sexy marketing slogan, but when you consider that Granny Grey is a hot new hair colour for the youth of today, maybe it could be!

Speaking of Grandma/ Mom, I was getting my hair coloured when I spied a People magazine, which I don’t normally read, but on the cover was an article about being a new mom at age 54. It was Bridgette Nielson, who just had a baby at age 54 and by no means am I one to take away someone else’s joy, but wow. I was exhausted just thinking of it. Of course, it’s very likely that Bridgette Nielson will be able to afford a staff to help out with those sleepless nights but still. I mean, just imagine back-to-school shopping when you are in your sixties! I need to lie down at the very idea.