Category Archives: Books

Let Me Eat Cake

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One of the things I was most excited to do when I moved here was to restart cross-country skiing; I love it but, sadly, for one reason or another, have not skied in twenty years. Now that I don’t have children in school or classes to teach, I have been eager to restart, and because ski technology has changed significantly in my prolonged off-season, not to mention that my feet have gotten bigger, my husband and I went to the local outdoor store to procure new equipment.

We were immediately helped by a nice, knowledgeable young man named Brett, who showed me some skis that he thought would be appropriate. When it came to sizing them, he measured against my height and then casually asked my weight. I replied, truthfully, that I really didn’t know. I have not weighed myself since August 2020, when I read Your Body Your Best Friend; even at the doctor’s office, I have turned around while being weighed and asked not to be told the number. Brett suggested that if I didn’t know my weight, I could just step on the scale, that one, right over there!

“Oh, I’m not stepping on a scale,” I said, and my husband laughed. “That’s a dangerous question!” he said to Brett, and what was so interesting to me is that Brett looked completely puzzled as to why a woman would hesitate weighing herself not just in public, but ever. Like, he was genuinely nonplussed. Why would weight be any different than boot size or height; this was value-neutral information used to select the appropriate ski equipment.

Honestly, it’s aspirational. I cannot imagine being in a mental place where knowing my weight didn’t cause a steep descent into utter madness, regardless of what that weight is. I cannot imagine just knowing my weight without some kind of insane moral value judgement, the way I feel about my height and the size of my feet and hands. In the end we compromised; Brett told me the weight range in kilograms for the skis I was looking at, and I was able to tell him that I thought I was within that range.

I am still a little depressed about the Weight Watchers book I read last week, friends. I don’t know if it was because I read it just before my Ladies’ Holidays when I was already in a fragile emotional state, but wow, did it ever bum me out. The idea that we are living in a society that essentially wants women – sure, men are subject to weight judgements too, but let’s face it, it’s mostly women – to take up less space and to always be hungry or, alternately and concurrently, not hungry but guilty and full of shame, just made me so sad. The thought of all these millions of women who have been weight cycling their entire lives, just futilely dieting and gaining and back again, and then made to feel shame about it, made me feel like wrapping up every one of them in a hug.

The author herself, and most likely, millions of other women, seemed to have two modes when it comes to food: restriction and the accompanying obsession with food (did we learn nothing from the Minnesota Starvation Experiment?), or shame about eating and the accompanying obsession with food. Restriction and shame, those seem to be the options. There was no joy whatsoever.

I learned something unsettling this week, and it has to do with Ozempic. I know there is a lot of discourse around this drug, and I am not going to touch on that. What I am going to tell you is something that I did not know, and that is that while Ozempic has been used very effectively for fairly significant weight loss, once a person stops the drug the weight is regained. The only way, apparently, to maintain the weight loss from Ozempic use is by continuing usage of Ozempic, indefinitely. The thought of people staying on a drug that is probably not tested for extreme long-term usage – how could it be, when it’s relatively new? – for the rest of their lives just to maintain an arbitrary Ideal Weight has me upset on a macro level. What are we doing in our society?

Once you open your eyes to the insidiousness of diet culture, you can’t not see it everywhere. Conversations about skipping dessert to be Good happen everywhere, or thoughts like I want to eat a lot at this event so I won’t eat all day to prepare abound, women everywhere are thinking I ate those cookies yesterday so today I’ll skip lunch. Whole swaths of food are demonized as Bad, every time you turn around it’s something different: oils, sugar, carbs, whatever some so-called expert has decided to pick on. Food is fuel, of course it is, but it is so much more than that. Food needs to nourish our bodies AND our souls; it is nutrition and it is community, it is family and it is joy, it is culture and tradition. When we reject these things, we are rejecting little parts of ourselves. Of course we need to make choices that are best for our bodies, of course we do, but our physical bodies are only one part of us.

What upset me the most from that Weight Watchers book was somewhat of a throwaway line, and that is that Jean Nidetch said that being thin needs to be more important than any food, and suggested this life hack: on your birthday, every birthday, for the rest of your life, bake a cake, cut the cake, serve the cake, but DO NOT EAT THE CAKE. Now, I probably would not have noticed this line at all if she talked about pie, which I loathe, or even something I feel neutral about, like doughnuts. I don’t dislike doughnuts but I never feel like eating one, and so if someone told me that there would be no more doughnuts or pie for the rest of my life, I’d never blink an eye. Done and done! But cake! We all know how I feel about cake. The thought of slicing a cake and not eating any on my own birthday, ever again, is the saddest food-related thing I can think about.

Maybe it’s because I’m 48 and although I hope I have a little more life ahead of me than behind me, likely that is not the case, but I just refuse to spend even one more minute like this. I refuse to think that if I have that, then I shouldn’t have this. The fact is that I genuinely do not think about my weight at all anymore, unless I’m in a ski shop and they ask for it, but it’s taken work to get here.

On the subject of cake, it was my husband’s birthday, and so we spent the weekend feting my Shmoopy. Obviously there needed to be cake involved, and for this special occasion, we went with carrot. It was delicious.

Weekly Reading

Falling. Let’s say you’re on a plane. The pilot discovers, after takeoff, that his family is being held hostage and he is given one of two choices: crash the plane, killing everyone on board, or his family dies. What’s he going to do? This is an entertaining thriller of a book, although probably not recommended for anyone who, you know, has a fear of flying. I don’t, so it didn’t bother me BUT I could not stop thinking about the author. The author, get this, is a former flight attendant who WROTE THIS BOOK WHILE WORKING THE RED-EYE. That’s right, as the passengers slept on overnight flights, she wrote a book about terrorists threatening every person on board and the pilot’s beloved family. What kind of a warped and twisted mind does that? I don’t know but I’d love to be her friend. Imagine getting your little bag of pretzels or Celebration cookie from a seemingly-innocent flight attendant who is imagining your death. Actually, given how some people behave on planes, this is kind of a reasonable response. Thanks to Stephany (HI STEPHANY) for the recommendation (listen to her podcast, The Friendship Paradox!).

Daughter in Exile. I think this is an incredibly honest and accurate book about what it is to be an illegal immigrant in the US; this story follows a young, educated Ghanaian woman who gives up her job at the Thai embassy in Senegal to go to America with her boyfriend, who turns out to be a cad, uninterested in her when he discovers she doesn’t have wealth. Stranded in America, pregnant, she struggles just to survive, the people around her in equal measures helping her and also taking advantage of and hurting her. I’m sure this is very realistic, with one awful thing after another happening to her, but it is very hard to read. I guess it is just a slice of life. I can’t say I enjoyed it; I did not like the writing style and I found the dialogue to be pretty stilted and unnatural. I think, however, it was a very eye-opening novel to the immigrant experience. 

The Woman in the Library. This was SUCH a fun and entertaining read! It’s a murder mystery with clever parallel story lines – a mystery being written, and a beta reader reading that mystery. Very fun indeed!

We took advantage of a beautiful weekend, and having my son home for my husband’s birthday, to take our annual family photos. Would you like to be included on my holiday card list? All you have to do is include ME on yours! At the risk of sounding like a Christmas Asshole, I am only interested in card EXCHANGES, so if you too love sending out holiday cards, and want one from me, let me know! If you sent me a card last year you are already on the list, never fear. In any case, have a lovely week, everyone; hopefully there will be cake or something delicious involved. xo

Just Me Or Everyone

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In beginning of The Blind Assassin, my favourite book of all time, there is a scene where octogenarian Iris is presenting an award at the local high school, watching the graduates file on stage.

Up they trooped, solemn and radiant, in many sizes, all beautiful as only the young can be beautiful. Even the ugly ones were beautiful…None of them understands this – how beautiful they are.

I first read this book when it came out, in 2000, when I was only 25, and this scene resonated with me even then. I think about it all the time, particularly at this time of my life, particularly when I see groups of girls walking together, going home from school or hanging out at the mall. I always think they don’t understand how beautiful they are.

Because, let’s face it, they don’t. I mean, I didn’t! And I am not going to write about the perceived negative effects of aging and perimenopause on my face and body – that’s IMPLIED, my goodness – because the truth is that I feel so much more confident in my appearance now, at 48, than I did 30 years ago. I would rather FEEL beautiful, the way I do, than BE actually youthfully beautiful, with all the insecurity around my appearance that I had when I was youthfully beautiful.

Now, let us be clear, I’m not blind. I feel beautiful but I know how mirrors work. I realize that my neck looks like a striated tree trunk when I smile a certain way – but that certain way is when I’m really happy and excited. I realize that my forehead is lined from a lifetime of speaking expressively with my whole face and that I have lines around my eyes and mouth from laughing and smiling, but I think those are a pretty decent price to pay for visual reminders of joy and happiness. I realize that my breasts resemble semi-deflated water balloons and require feats of engineering in the bra department, and that my waistline isn’t quite so defined anymore, but I HAVE breasts, which I do not take for granted, having so many friends go through cancer treatments, and if my pants are a little tight at the waist, well, it’s a sign of enjoying my life and also that, perhaps, my incredibly frequent Ladies’ Holidays might be nearing the end. I rejoiced at the expansion of my waist during pregnancy, and while I am not rejoicing, I refuse to be upset with the expansion of my waist during perimenopause. It’s just a new stage of life, and also, elastic waistbands exist.

Listeners of Alison Rosen Is Your New Best Friend will be very familiar with the segment “Just Me Or Everyone?” where guests will talk about something that they do or think, and wonder if it is something only they experience or if everyone else is experiencing the same thing. I love this segment. I, too, feel sadness and concern when I see a little boutique or restaurant that is empty! I, too, feel guilt when dusting up a spider web, thinking I destroyed the hard work of an industrious little arachnid who is trapping pesky bugs for my benefit!

When I see groups of young girls, and I think of that quote from The Blind Assassin, I want to actually go up to them and interrupt their conversations about whatever young girls discuss to tell them how beautiful they all are. I mean, I have to remind myself that this would be a creepy and strange thing to do. Imagine! Imagine how weird that would be! But I see teen girls, and I know – I KNOW – that they are filled with that special kind of female self-loathing perpetuated by our patriarchal society that makes girls and women think that their worth lies completely in their physical appearance, I know that they are all dissatisfied with their faces or their hair or their bodies or all of the above, and I want to pull over my car, jump out, and tell them to their beautiful, youthful faces how gorgeous they are. Probably they wouldn’t believe me anyway. Probably they would just live with their loathing until several decades go by and they look at photos of their younger selves with wonder. Is it just me, or does everyone want to do this too?

Speaking of the youth, is it just me or does everyone get confused when people change their names on Instagram? This seems to happen quite frequently, and it always throws me off. Who is that? I’ll think as something shows up on my feed. Where did they come from, why am I following them? Finally I’ll realize that my friend’s daughter simply changed her handle for the fifth time, or that random follower from my YMC days got divorced, or that I’m not even following that person at all, they are simply “suggested for me.”

Despite occasional confusion, I do love Instagram. Mostly because I am nosy and I love little peeks into other people’s lives; I realize that what people share and the reality of their lives can be two different things and yet, I love it. I most certainly understand that no life is a highlight reel of fabulous vacations, brilliant, high-achieving children, or even good hair days; there is a side of everyone’s life that they don’t always care to show.

Later in The Blind Assassin, twenty-something Iris visits her childhood home and stands looking pensively at the portrait of her grandmother who she never knew, a portrait that had been there her whole life. With insight gained from her own life experience, Iris thinks I bet you were alleycatting around…I bet you had a secret life. I bet it kept you going.

Is it just me, or does everyone occasionally become struck with the idea that every single person we encounter has a whole side of themselves that few to no one sees; perhaps a secret life, like Iris’, but usually it is just a personal side of themselves. I remember this striking me incredibly when I was a young woman working on the trade floor for an energy company. There I was, surrounded by men in a professional atmosphere, everyone working and making decisions and, in some cases, screaming at people on the corded phones. I remember seeing all of their wedding rings glinting in the harsh overhead fluorescent lights, which, by the way, did not contribute to a feeling of positivity about my own face and appearance, see above for “self-loathing,” and I thought All these men are married. All of these men, who are currently swearing at their screens, presumably bought rings and nervously paced while preparing to propose, all of these men have a secret life that I know nothing about. And on the flip side, their spouses probably had no idea what their work life was like, probably they did not know the gritty details of their days and had no idea, while sitting across from them at the dinner table, that they spent many hours of the day tersely shouting at their brokers and were possibly being recommended by HR to take anger management courses.

People contain multitudes, is what I’m saying, and sometimes I feel something nearing awe at the idea. Every person has a multifaceted story and a secret side of life.

When I was visiting my parents last week, my mom and I went to my friend Merry’s Mercantile – if you are in Central Alberta, you MUST go – and when I saw that card in her display, I laughed until my stomach hurt and immediately purchased several. I am loathe to imagine anyone at all doing the deed, but there is something particularly unsettling and disturbing about one’s parents taking a trip to pound town. I’m sure my own children share this sense of horror and have mentally blocked out any such idea. Secret sides of life, we all have them.

Weekly Reading

The Librarian Of Burned Books. This book of historical fiction brings attention to the Armed Services Editions, books sent to soldiers in WWII, alongside book burning in Germany in 1933, and banned and censored books through the war. It also looks at the treatment of the LGBTQ community in Nazi Germany and what it means to be a bystander, and it felt like all these subjects, sadly, still have relevance today. It’s interesting and culturally relevant but I will say that unfortunately I found this book to be more of a “Tell” instead of a “Show.” That aside it’s still a pretty decent read, with different and connected characters.

This Is Big: How The Founder of Weight Watchers Changed The World (and me). Woof. This was one of the most depressing books I have ever read. Talk about self-loathing brought on by our culture of shame, judgement, and obsession. The book itself is well-written and is designed in a really unique way: the biographical chapters about Jean Nidetch, founder of Weight Watchers, are alternated with memoir chapters, where the author details her year of joining Weight Watchers and her life of weight cycling and, frankly, self-hatred. It is kind of hard to read: the author was put on her first diet before she was five years old, and her parents basically body-shamed her for her entire life (“you don’t need the bread basket.”). The author admits that she spent her entire life obsessed with food, diets, and hating her body and while I wish this was a unique experience, I feel like it isn’t. It’s an extreme case but I would say that every woman in this world has spent a great deal of time in the same way, and it is shitty. It is SHITTY. It is sad and depressing and terrible. The parts about Nidetch are fascinating and also very depressing. She built an empire, but after the sale of Weight Watchers to Heinz, she was no longer president, and kind of floundered, gambling and shopping and basically trading food for other obsessions. She ended up dying alone, with less than a million in the bank, and given she made a LOT of money, this is really saying something. I finished this book and just stared into space for a while.

Well. On that note, let’s pivot a little and look forward to the week ahead. We have a birthday to celebrate, I have some fun things planned, and the weather promises to be gorgeous. I hope you have a gorgeous week as well. xo

Gratitude and Grievance

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Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Yesterday my husband and I took a ten hour road trip to visit my parents. It was a gorgeous drive but I am a tiny bit tired; not, however, as tired as I was Saturday morning when I was woken up several times by a pack of howling coyotes in the vineyard. They even woke my very hard-of-hearing mother-in-law up, so you can imagine how loud that must have been.

What I’m saying is I’m not feeling particularly rested this holiday weekend, but it was such a beautiful drive and, of course, it was lovely to drive into my parents’ very welcoming home. This is what I’m looking at right this minute:

I meditate every day, as part of my self-care REM Y REM; most days the meditation is part of my yoga practice and savasana, but once or twice a week I listen to a guided meditation. A few weeks ago I listened to one that had a gratitude theme, and one of the lines in that meditation was What you focus on is what you see more of. I mean, yes, obviously. But also YES!

Let’s say, for example, that you wake up one morning and perceive, on looking in the mirror, that for the first time in a very long time, possibly years, a pimple has inexplicably developed underneath your left eye. Perhaps, instead of feeling gratitude for the exuberance of youth that has suddenly revisited your face in such a way, you unhappily focus all your vision on this little red protuberance. In fact, you focus on it so much that, upon viewing your reflection, you cannot see anything else. You might as well have no other facial features; your face has become Only The Pimple.

At the same time, you might notice that it has been three weeks since you last coloured your hair, and so the hair framing your Only The Pimple visage is white with grey accents, contrasting sharply with the rest of your kind-of-orange-fading-red hair. Instead of feeling deep gratitude for this interesting confluence of Youth and Old Age that is your current reflection, you feel simultaneously grieved for your loss of youth and also for this strange resurgence of youth. Instead of thinking that your body, indeed, is a Wonderland, you are laser focused on what you perceive as flaws, which are really not flaws at all but just glorious markers of the human experience.

What you focus on is what you see more of, and if you step back and soften the focus on the things that you are unhappy with, and maybe take a selfie with the knowledge that car lighting is the very best kind of lighting, maybe you can focus a bit more on gratitude than on grievances.

I’m sure that’s what the guided meditation meant.

So many of my friends have Gratitude Journals, and I deeply admire that, although I do not have one myself. My friend Ally (HI ALLY) recently brought my attention to something called a Grievance Journal. I had never heard of such a thing before but indeed, there are many such items for sale; the price of such things might surprise you, for example, this grievance journal is $208. Ally correctly pointed out that one could simply purchase a simple spiral notebook that would serve the purpose, but we are often more inspired by thematic stationary, aren’t we?

My thought on this is that anyone who had a diary with a lock and key in their youth was most likely keeping a Grievance Journal. I shudder to think of my own teen angst committed to the pages of my locked diaries, but on the other hand, maybe I was a trend-setter without even knowing it! I was Grievance Journaling before Grievance Journaling was cool.

Then again, what is a blog but a repository for grievances – and gratitude, of course. And because it is Thanksgiving, I will share with you, my dear readers, something that I am very grateful for. One year ago tomorrow Rex came to live with us!

I like to call this our Rexaversary, although I’m sure my husband would like me to note that he hates that term, and no one really knows why. Perhaps it reminds him of Brexit? Or the ridiculously stupid Wexit? As a side note, a couple of years ago we were at the dinner table and my older son said, out of absolutely nowhere, “Remember that thing, Wexit?” and for no reason at all we all became hysterical with laughter. WEXIT.

Anyway, it is one year tomorrow that we received such an incredible gift. He was much loved by his former family, and I still can’t believe my luck that we were the ones chosen to care for our Big Silly, our Notorious D.O.G., our Doughnut, our Puppy Pup, our Rexie. He’s brought so much joy to us every single day; it’s ironic that I was the person who, after Barkley died, was so devastated that I refused to even consider bringing another dog into our family, and now I have a shadow, every waking minute.

My view upon getting out of the shower.

I did feel, a year ago, like Clifford the Big Red Dog was coming to live with us, but after a year of Rex, he just seems like a normal-sized dog, and all other dogs are miniature. Anyway, it’s appropriate that this celebration day coincides (ISH) with Thanksgiving as we are all so thankful to have his Big Silly Energy in our home.

Weekly Reading

The Magician’s Assistant. I really enjoyed this book about Sabine, a magician’s assistant who was married to the magician. When he dies, she discovers everything about his past that he had kept hidden. What’s not to like? Complicated families, interesting female protagonist, beautiful prose. It checks all my boxes! The thing about Ann Patchett is while many of her books follow a similar theme of brokenness and family secrets, they are all so different and unique. Content warning for mentions of domestic and child abuse.

The Perfect Marriage. Did you ever read the Sweet Valley High books? Remember how the physical descriptions were “All American good looks, with blond hair and blue eyes, size six?” That was what this book was like, a grown up SVH, but a “thriller.” The physical descriptions of the characters were so over-the-top: he is a hunky six-foot-two man with broad shoulders, she is a tiny blonde with never a hair out of place, wearing her Louboutin heels and pencil skirts. Basically, a man is accused of murdering his mistress and his wife is his lawyer for the trial. Is this well-written? No. Are the characters interesting and nuanced? No. Is the dialogue natural and believable? No. Is the plot in any way realistic? Absolutely not. Is this book hilariously entertaining in its ridiculousness? Kind of! It’s pretty ridiculous but hey, it’s a fast read and won’t require any heavy thinking or reflection.

I hope you are all enjoying this holiday weekend, or, for my non-Canadian friends, this Monday in October! I am grateful for all of you. xo

Hairum Scarum

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The thing about moving is that, once a person has moved, there is still so much paperwork to deal with, there are still so many decisions to make, and there is so very much to learn about the new environment. Moving across provinces, I am discovering, means that much time must be spent in a variety of government and other official offices and on their websites, just getting the basics figured out. In the past three weeks, for example, we have spent countless tedious hours just getting all of our driver’s licenses switched, organizing registrations, plates, and insurance for all five vehicles plus the RV, why do we have so many vehicles, why do we have an RV, and switching our health care from Alberta to BC.

It’s quite exhausting and every day I think of something new to add to the running list: I need to get Rex licensed, for example, and I need to find him a vet, having already found him a good groomer and boarder. I don’t think it will be hard to do these things, but all takes time.

Other things I do not have figured out: medical and dental care. I’m not at all worried about finding a dentist, they are everywhere and all seem to be accepting new patients, but there is a massive physician shortage so I feel like I’ll be lucky to get one before I turn 65. Just don’t get sick, I guess. There are plenty of walk-in clinics, if I do get sick, and on the plus side, a friend told me that a doctor referral is not necessary for a mammogram, unlike in Alberta; apparently, I can just simply book one. But then, that’s one more thing added on my massive to-do list, and my dense, lumpy breasts and I are due for one in October. Guess what! It IS October!

Before my husband retired, I used up all his optical benefits to get my eyes examined and new reading glasses. This is something I have been putting off for years, for no good reason. Can I blame it on the pandemic? In any case, finding an optometrist was easy – I looked for the closest one with the highest Yelp rating – and due to the time of year, they were having a back to school sale. I ended up with Dolce and Gabbana reading glasses, and with the sale and the optical coverage, they were very low cost.

I feel fancy!

Speaking of my husband’s retirement, at his party I was chatting with a woman who will be relocating in the next six months or so, to one of four locations, as yet undetermined, but the move will either be cross-country or out of country. She was, naturally, quite anxious about all the logistics involved in such a move and said to me plaintively I just don’t know how I am going to find someone to cut my hair. Girl, I know. I KNOW! I related so much because of all the myriad things I had to deal with upon arrival, finding someone I could trust with my delicate locks was top of the list.

It’s just such an intimate relationship, isn’t it, the one between hair stylist and hair stylee. There is so much trust involved, and then there are personalities that need to be able to mesh, not to mention actual hair styling talent. When I find a stylist I like, I hold onto them like grim death. I very briefly considered going back to Calgary every three or four months to get my hair cut, but that seemed ridiculous even for me, and the logistics involved were stupid.

So began my search for a stylist.

The first part of my search began, interestingly enough, back in July, when I was very new to town. I made a sugaring appointment at a local place; there are a couple of sugaring salons in town and I chose this one purely because their online booking process was easy and one I was familiar with. The first body sugaring place I tried had an incredibly difficult booking process which required the download of an app, and then it was tricky to find the actual place on the app itself, and I ended up deleting it all in frustration and going with the other, slightly less conveniently located option. It probably says something untoward about my character that while I am distressed at the thought of someone new taking scissors to my hair, I have absolutely no problem exposing my unclothed fuzzy vulva to a complete stranger, speaking sugaring code like can we also do the back, and that my choice of person for this service is made merely by their location and ease of booking process.

In any case, in late July I found myself half-naked with a lovely young woman named Kate, chatting about being brand new to town, the stress of moving, and how it was bathing suit season and what kind of cut did I wear? Kate herself had moved here from a small coastal town, and referred to Kelowna as the hustle and bustle of the big city, which made me smile, as I had the opposite experience. When we were finished, she kindly asked if there was any way to help me feel settled, if there was any information she could share with me. I told her that I was looking for a hair stylist, did she have any friends who she could recommend?

She did, saying cheerily to my express concern about needing a stylist who was well-versed in aging, thinning, brittle hair, that, in addition to servicing all her friends, Abi cuts my mom’s hair! Well. I could certainly be Kate’s mom’s age, but the image I had immediately was a no-nonsense style favoured by senior ladies everywhere, and I felt a little disheartened. However, I accepted the contact information, and was a little taken aback to see that it was a) an Instagram handle, and b) that Instagram handle was Abi Gives Good Hair.

And you guys, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t pick up the phone to make an appointment with Abi, who Gives Good Hair, partially because of the Instagram handle and partly because I visualized the clientele as being two-pronged: on one hand, the cute young things getting their beachy waves, who were featured on the Instagram feed, and on the other, the moms. This was probably an unfair assessment on my part, but it’s the truth, and so the weeks passed and my ends became more and more frayed.

Finally, feeling desperate, I reached out to my lovely friend Sammi (HI SAMMI) for help. You may be wondering why I did not reach out earlier, since Sammi has been an extraordinary resource in this move, helping me feel welcome, introducing me to people, and also recommending her very excellent nail salon, which is everything I want in a nail salon. The reason is that the woman who cuts Sammi’s hair is known to be a bit brusque and gruff, and I have been feeling a little emotionally fragile, worried that I would be judged for colouring my own hair or for too much heat styling or for having crunchy, uneven ends.

And of course, this ended up being not the case. This woman was truly wonderful, giving me possibly the best haircut I have EVER had in my life, asking me very thoughtful questions about my hair and its history, and not once criticizing or judging my hair choices. I did not find her brusque but did find her extremely efficient, as I was in and out within a half hour, and the moral of the story is that sometimes a person has to take the risk to get the reward.

Weekly Reading

Probably the most exciting development, other than finally getting my hair cut, was that since I have official BC identification in the form of a driver’s license, I was able to obtain a library card! I immediately put a stack of books on hold, and, while I waited, I picked up an old favourite.

Emma. I love this book so much! I so identify with Emma, although now I’m over twice her age. This book is brilliant – romance, hilarity, class introspection…it has it all. It is maybe one of the funniest of Austen’s collection, as the side characters are absolutely hilarious and relatable; don’t we all have a gabby Miss Bates in our lives, or a ridiculous Mrs. Elton, isn’t everyone related to a Mr. Woodhouse, with his anxious hypochondria and his refusal to allow for any other point of view? Such a great book.

The Swimmers. The first of my library books was a winner, albeit an absolutely heartbreaking and incredibly moving winner. This novel is essentially a love letter from a daughter to a mother with dementia. I do not tend to be a crier when I read, but this book made me well up several times.

In other news – what could top a hair cut and a library card, you may wonder? – our dear blog friend Elisabeth is back! Check out her new site, Optimistic Musings of a Pessimist. All of this is a great way to start a fresh new month, and I wish you all a happy first week of October. xo

A New Chapter

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I was thinking a lot about the last chapter in A Tree Grows In Brooklyn this week, when Francie goes back and looks at her neighbourhood, wanting to remember it just as it was. This week I was in Calgary again, for forty hours, and it was so interesting to see it from new, non-resident eyes.

Even for a short trip, there is just so much to do to prepare, isn’t there? My parents drove back through to spend the night in Kelowna on Monday, and then Tuesday was a flurry of laundry and groceries for my younger son for the week, and taking Rex in to the boarder’s. Before I move on, let’s just acknowledge that everyone with pets knows the particular and unique stress of leaving their beloved fuzzball behind. I will say that Rex has done great with boarding in the past, but this is a new place, and I follow this place on Facebook, and was a little bit stressed and anxious when there were photos of the various dogs posted but not one was Rex. He’s THERE, right? I said to my friend Jen (HI JEN) who graciously hosted me and my husband in her home. Like, if he was dead or gone or sick they would have told me, right? Like I’m not going to get there Saturday and they are going to say “Oh sorry, Rex isn’t here, he died.” She assured me that IN ALL LIKELIHOOD I would have received at least a text if something dire had happened. My husband suggested I call to check in, but my thinking is that one should not ask a question if one is not prepared for all the answers. If he wasn’t well, what was I going to do? Be stressed and tearful for the remainder of the trip? This felt like the recent time that a woman was at my house for a social event, and I casually threw out a you’re okay with dogs, right? as my big buffoon wagged wildly. No, not really, she said, at which point I was completely at an impasse. What to do? Don’t ask questions if you don’t want the answers. Anyway, with regards to the pet resort, I took some ujjayi breaths and assumed no news was good news, and in the end, that was absolutely the case.

But back to the trip. My sister-in-law drove me to the airport so that I arrived two and a half hours before my fifty minute, domestic flight was due to leave, on my request, because I am secretly this guy:

My husband, let the record show, thought this was an insane move on my part, particularly since my flight got delayed, but let me tell you, it was incredible. I was travelling by myself, with no one else’s schedule to accommodate, the dog was safely being cared for by someone else, and I had nothing to do but read for hours and eat at Subway. What could be better, I ask you? I think I was the least-stressed person in the entire airport, as I was completely untethered and without any obligations or commitments. The people seated next to me on the plane were nearly hysterical as they missed or were probably going to miss their connections, due to the delay, but I was as zen as could be. What is time, anyway?

My husband picked me up at the airport, and the city was gloomy and cold and drizzly, and it turns out that after two months in small-city, slow-paced Kelowna I was unused to the massive traffic snarls in Calgary, but still in my zen state I was completely unbothered. The next day, though, YYC pulled out all the stops. September in Calgary can be really beautiful; the leaves were as yet still on the trees and were beautifully golden, and the sky was so blue.

I had an entire day at my own disposal while my husband and friend were at work and her kids were at school; I went for a long walk, alternating between looking at the cute little shops in Kensington and the cute little old houses in Hillhurst Sunnyside. I would never want to live in a pre-war house, what with the newspaper insulation, wonky electricity, lead pipes, and complete lack of closet space, but I love looking at those houses and imagining the lives of the people in them. I especially enjoyed looking at all the lovely tiny yards with gardens, particularly one that was filled with gnomes.

My people!

It was just so incredible to have a day in which I had absolutely no responsibilities, no one to take care of, and nothing to do. I was able to write, and read, and walk, and I still had many hours of the day left. I don’t know if I can adequately describe how therapeutic this was for me, after months and maybe even years of just frantic doing-ness, but I was filled with pure joy and contentment. It was fun to see Calgary through non-resident eyes, but I will say that I found it a little emotional – I used to take the kids to that park! Remember the wading pool! They loved this playground! – and I think it’s easier, now that they are adults, to NOT be where they grew up. I felt very Landslide-y, which I do not feel much in my new home. Maybe it’s the bandaid-ripped-off concept of changing every single thing all at once.

Speaking of changing every single thing all at once, there was a very special reason that I was in Calgary, and that is that I was attending my husband’s retirement party! My husband officially retired last Thursday, and I nearly bought him a t-shirt reading “I tried to retire but now I just work for my wife.” NEARLY. Anyway, there was an amazing dinner for him, surrounded by his colleagues who I have gotten to know quite well over the years, and it was a really wonderful experience.

The next day we drove our hostess-with-the-mostess out to Banff, to meet up with her husband and spend the night before heading home. We had just the best time with our friends, having drinks and dinner and then more drinks, walking through Banff and browsing through little shops. These are our friends who are more like family, who I love so very much, and it was so great to spend time with them. It was also great being in Banff; the larches were changing, the temperature was crisp but not terribly cold, the mountains were show-off gorgeous, and we were staying in the beautiful Rimrock hotel, which in itself a treat.

The following morning we drove back to Kelowna, and I pretty much wanted to just collapse from exhaustion, but we had tickets with friends (HI SAMMI) to see a performance of The Piano Man and The Rocket Man that evening. I am SO glad we went, it was so much fun to see a tribute to two of my favourite performers, and Sammi had booked us tickets very close to the stage, which was just great. The two of us girls bonded by crying through Candle In The Wind, which I would have been much more stoic about had they not flashed images of Princess Diana on the screen. My girl! The people’s princess!

The rest of the weekend was mostly just spent getting my life organized and put back together, and also spending time with Rex, who was not dead and who also seemed to really enjoy his new pet resort, even if they didn’t flood their Facebook page with his photos. What a missed opportunity for them! His smiley face could have been the best free advertising ever.

Weekly Reading

The Dutch House. First of all, Ann Patchett. What can you say about Ann Patchett except that she’s an absolute gift to this world. What an incredible writer she is. This book is one of the most satisfying and wonderful reads I have ever experienced and you guys, that is saying something. It’s an absolutely perfect book. It’s about family and home, the complexity of relationships and the responsibilities we take on. It’s about forgiveness, and rage, and how people change and yet somehow stay the same. I am absolutely uplifted by this book and also astonished at the sheer genius and quality of the writing. This was a work of art, and is everything I love about books.

It has, obviously, been a very action-packed, busy, fun-filled week, and I am looking forward to a calmer and probably more productive week. I hope you all are enjoying this beautiful month of September. xo

Dog and (Social) Butterfly

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Although I have seen all of the Feuding Dog Park Men separately a few times, I have not seen them all together since The Incident, and I’m able to give them a nod and closed-lip Mona Lisa smile without being drawn into conversation with any of them. I did, however, get knocked off my feet by a large hound who, inexplicably, came running full speed into the back of my knees. I actually had some air time before landing on my left hip and right elbow and I am going to be grateful for my sons for nagging me about strength training, because I broke nothing. My hip still hurts, a few weeks later, but my doctor’s warning about osteoporosis was not for nothing; I guess my bones aren’t crumbling, thanks to my loathed-but-practiced strength routine and, probably, calcium-rich smoothies. The owner of the hound, a slow-moving elderly man, was horrified and apologetic, and Rex will not let the hound get within ten feet of me. When that dog is at the park, Rex is by my side, barking and growling if the dog gets too close.

Other than that, Rex is very friendly and playful with all the dogs we meet, particularly a three-legged doodle delightfully named Trio, and an actual trio of Bernese mountain dogs. His people! He’s halfway to being part of the group! Also, imagine what that owner’s house, back yard, and monthly dog food bill looks like. God bless, is all I can say.

Speaking of his people, we saw Rex’s doppleganger, Willie the other day, and it was just as cute as the first time. Rex’s social life has been very good of late.

A loose goal that I had created for myself on moving here and starting a new life with very few constraints or commitments was that I would say yes to everything I could, in terms of social engagements and new experiences. So far, this has really paid off in meeting new people, reconnecting and deepening my existing friendships, and generally making my life a lot fuller and more fun.

The past ten days have been a whirlwind of social activity, including a Girl’s Night at my house, a party at which I went in knowing zero people but ended up having a great time, and a mid-week visit from my parents. Having houseguests, sandwiched by parties, has been very fun and feels like a holiday, with big meals and lots of wine and dessert. Now, am I tired today and possibly in need of a cleanse and a liver detox? Yes I am. Do I desperately need to catch up on regular life, including massive amounts of laundry? Yes I do.

After these years of pandemic living followed by several months of packing and moving stress, I feel like my social life, along with everyone else’s on this planet, has taken a massive hit. I recently stumbled across an article about how having kids ruins your social life, and it felt like reading about a whole different world, one I could barely remember, with small children and playgrounds and simmering resentment between parents and non-parents. Clearly I am not the demographic for the original piece, which was written by, I believe, a woman in her thirties living the New York child-free lifestyle, ruing the changes in her friendships, but I read the entire article nonetheless, with interest similar to that of a social anthropologist examining an exotic group of people.

I do think that having children does vastly change one’s social life, for the simple reason that it is very difficult to go anywhere or do anything with small children, but in a way it actually improves one’s social life, as it is so easy to meet people when you have similar-aged children. If I was a woman, like the article’s author, going out five days a week in New York City, clubbing and eating at new restaurants, having leisurely boozy brunches on Sunday mornings, then I would absolutely agree that children wreck everything. Imagine paying for a babysitter for all those parties and taking small children to a fancy brunch; that would be nightmarish and expensive. However, even in my twenties I wasn’t a person who went out clubbing five days a week and now, close to fifty, the idea of going clubbing at all sounds dreadfully exhausting. Maybe if the club started at 2pm and ended at 7 I would be interested, but I’m fairly sure no such thing exists outside of nursing homes.

All of which is to say it isn’t my children that have suffocated my social life; if anything, the vast majority of my Calgary friends were ones who I met simply by having kids in the public school system; there was always a committee or school trip that needed volunteers, and of course, I was friends with the moms of my kids’ friends. So I did wonder what would happen, moving here, when I didn’t have school aged kids or a yoga studio or any of my other Meeting People Situations to rely on, that I have had my whole life. I wondered if I would have a hard time meeting people but so far this has not been the case; I have already met so many fun and interesting people who have been open and welcoming. Perhaps they too are tired of Lame Pandemic Social Lives and are willing to embrace new people; it sure feels that way.

Weekly Reading

Hello Beautiful. I do not have sisters, so I have always been fascinated by sisterly relationships and dynamics. I also love a book that has complicated families and strong female characters, and I did like this book. However – and this is a Me Problem, not necessarily a This Book Problem – it is a modern retelling of Little Women, and I am NOT a fan of the modern retelling of anything, particularly when it comes to a beloved-by-me classic. I have read Little Women a few dozen times; it was a very formative book for me as a child, and I have reread it many times as an adult. And so I will say that this coloured the book for me, and not in a positive way. I felt like it tried to draw too many parallels to Little Women in too many obvious ways, although I did like the portrayal of the parents. Louisa Alcott’s father was much loved by her but famously useless; he was a friend of Thoreau (do NOT get me started on that guy, I cannot EVEN with Thoreau), and he burned through their money, necessitating Louisa’s very hard and constant work so he could basically Find Himself, and I felt that the fictional portrayal in Hello Beautiful was spot on. I also liked that the author took Marmee’s hidden anger and unhid it, in the portrayal of the girls’ mother. Overall I liked this book but didn’t love it, however, your mileage may vary.

My parents’ visit was timed to coincide with my younger son’s 18th birthday. I am officially a Mother of Adults, which makes me feel very Adultish myself. Landslide, etcetera. I read somewhere, years ago, that adolescence exists to help kids make the break into adulthood, but I think it must also exist to serve mothers too. I really loved – and still love, both boys are still in their teens – the teen years, and it’s an extremely satisfying feeling to know that I’ve shepherded them all this way and now I can step back. I mean, I guess I have been gradually stepping back throughout their adolescence, but it feels different now. Your children are not your children is something I think about a lot, especially these days.

So it truly feels like a whole new chapter, and there is more news to come after this week, which is going to be so hectic and busy. More about that later, and in the meantime, I hope you all have a beautiful week. xo

A Grave Mistake

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There are few graver mistakes in the acquisition of comestibles than visiting Costco on the Tuesday after a holiday Monday. It is a mistake I made this past week. How I could have possibly made such an error in judgement is beyond my comprehension entirely. Did I have a brain lapse? Did I forget how calendars work? Am I new to this planet? Who can say, but in any case last Tuesday I found myself questioning all of my life choices.

It didn’t even occur to me, what I had done, until I found myself in a lineup just to get into the parking lot, which was, itself, completely full. When I recounted this later to my husband, he said, Why didn’t you just turn around and come home? which actually did occur to me, at that point, but we all know how it goes. Sometimes, we just want to push through. Sometimes, we throw good money after bad. Sometimes, we think, this is going to be a mistake, but what the hell. Sometimes, we feel like we didn’t come this far just to get this far, and so I proceeded to the very far corner of the parking lot where there was one single spot left.

It will be great to get extra steps in! I thought optimistically, grabbing a cart from the carrel and heading in to what can only be described as incredible chaos. I have never seen anything like this, not even when, in a moment of demented confidence, I went to Costco on a Sunday afternoon. It was bumper-to-bumper traffic, but with carts. There were lineups to get to the cashiers that spanned the entire length of the store, blocking off entire aisles and making it impossible to move forward, and yet, it was equally impossible to move backward, so aborting the mission was not an option.

I inched forward to my destined aisles, one side of which were blocked off by the cash lineups, but it got so much worse when I discovered that the aisles themselves were filled with lines of people waiting to get free samples. I wondered if I would die there, surrounded by large-scale baking supplies.

Was it worth it, I asked myself. Was the Kirkland brand coffee and trail mix really worth it?

Well, we make decisions in our lives and then we live with the consequences of those decisions. And eventually I did make it out back out into the parking lot, I did make it back to the far corner where I was parked, and a spot was opened up directly beside me. A man in a truck pulled into the spot; his windows were opened so I could hear him exclaim There IS a god!

I laughed as he got out of the truck, and mentioned that his belief in the divine might be challenged once he got into the store, at which point he offered to take my now-empty shopping cart for his own use. I gratefully accepted the offer, which brings me to my main point.

Although I strive to live my life without casting aspersions or judgement on others, in one area I am as rigid as a steel pole, and that is with regards to people who do not return their shopping carts to the designated parking lot carrels. This is certainly not new information to anyone who has known me for even the smallest length of time; although I do think there are very occasionally extenuating circumstances that would excuse this behaviour, the vast majority of non-cart-returners are, I think we can all agree, atrocious people. Not returning a cart indicates either pure laziness or complete disregard for other people’s well-being, or a mix of the two.

One very interesting thing I that have noticed since arriving in Kelowna is that there are no errant carts in the parking lot. None! All of the carts are happily ensconced in their familial carrels, snuggled neatly up with one another, just like nature intended. Juxtapose this utopia with the Calgary Costco parking lots, where there would be at least a dozen carts scattered throughout the parking lot, parking stalls, and on top of the parking medians. I have always been a strong believer in the Invisible Hand Theory of Shopping Carts, in that people will behave in everyone’s best interest if there is an economic incentive involved which, in this case, is a coin-operated cart. To blend Smith with Hobbes, I would say without that incentive, parking lot life is nasty and brutish, although not particularly short.

I wonder now if I have been wrong all these years, and if my theory was location-specific, and not a global phenomenon. Are people less atrocious here? Is it the beautiful weather and scenery that makes people cheerfully return their carts? Is it all the local fruit and wine? Time will tell but at the moment, things seem paradisical, at least from a shopping cart perspective. They were less paradisical from an actual shopping perspective, but despite what messaging we Gen X women have been subjected to through our youth, we cannot have it all. I guess right now what I gain in shopping cart happiness I lose in shopping experience happiness.

Weekly Reading

The Stand-In. This was a cute and light romance with a big side of family and friendship. It concerns a Toronto woman who is a lookalike to a Chinese film star, and she becomes her stand in for public appearances when the film star has issues with anxiety and depression. Of course the appearances take place with her male costar, who is a dreamboat, and you can probably guess the rest. This book was fun but I thought it was about a third too long; some parts really dragged for me – and it’s a light romance, it shouldn’t drag! Anyway, the ending was well worth it, as feel-good endings go, so overall it was enjoyable.

I Feel Bad About My Neck. Recently Engie (HI ENGIE) asked if there was a book that made you feel seen, and this is one of them for me. This resonated even more so than it did when I first read it, five or so years ago. I love Nora Ephron and I love this collection of essays about aging as a woman. It contains one of my favourite lines ever: “Not having to worry about your hair anymore must be the secret upside to being dead.” Word. Something to look forward to, the next time I find myself contemplating my own demise whilst in Costco.

A Tree Grows In Brooklyn. Speaking of Engie, I took part in a very fun blogger’s book club, hosted by her this summer, and this was the book we read. I had read it before, but many years ago, so there were many parts that I did not remember. It’s much sadder and a bit more scandalous than I remember, about a girl growing up in the tenements of Brooklyn in the 1910s. What I really loved about this book was its realism: in an autobiographical turn, Francie writes stories about her life for a school assignment and the teacher berates her for writing about ugliness in life. Francie is astonished, because she found beauty in all of life’s hardships. This is a beautiful coming-of-age book but it does have a lot of internalised misogyny, racism, and antisemitism; the language is typical of that place and time but it can be upsetting to modern readers. I first read this before I had children, and this time around I found myself simultaneously relating to and also judging harshly the decisions and feelings of Francie’s mother, Katie. It is well worth a read or a revisit. The final chapter is one of the most moving and wonderful feel-good chapters in any book. Francie looks around her neighbourhood before she moves away to go to college and thinks “…she knew she would never see it again. Eyes changed after they looked at new things. If in the years to be, she were to come back, her new eyes might make everything seem different from the way she saw it now. The way it was no was the way she wanted to remember it.” If you’ve ever visited your childhood home or places you loved as a child, you know this to be so true.

Speaking of old neighbourhoods, my Calgary neighbourhood friend Lyndsey (HI LYNDSEY) sent me this photo of my old house:

Do you see what that is in the front yard, beside the door? It is a shopping cart. According to Lyndsey, that cart has been there for weeks. I feel this is some kind of sign from the universe, but what it means I am not yet sure. If you have any theories, I would be happy to hear them, and in the meantime, I’ll leave you with a photo of my current neighbourhood Baloo, who I spotted on my way home from grocery shopping, heading down our neighbour’s driveway. xo