Category Archives: Hot Stuff – Perimenopause

Nicole’s Favourite Things: The Gourgeous Gourds Edition

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October is a really beautiful month around here: some trees are changing and some are not, so there is everything from green to red to look at, fresh fruit and vegetables abound, and harvest is over in the vineyard, leaving golden vines in its wake. It reminds me of the line in A Year in Provence, where Massot, the cranky neighbour, unexpectedly and poetically says that nature is wearing her prettiest clothes before spitting on the ground.

Nature IS wearing her prettiest clothes, the sunrise is perfectly timed for the beginning of our morning walks, and we have had some pleasantly rainy days which makes me feel much less apocalyptic, given the fire season we just had.

Something that did make me feel less than glowing happened on Monday, when I was serenely and happily cleaning up the garden beds. I was pulling out the nasturtiums which, if you don’t know, are flowers that give a thick and luscious vine-like groundcover along with their cheerful yellow and orange blooms. Those vines can crawl up a fence or, as I had planted them, cascade thickly and beautifully down a garden box. Those beautiful and thick vines were clearly valued by others in this natural world; as I reached in to pull out the roots, a mouse ran over my thankfully gloved hand. My soul briefly left my body. I screamed and dropped the flowers, at which point two more mice appeared from a hole in the soil, beneath the nasturtiums, and scampered away. Who knows how many more there were, because I ran, screaming, into the house. At that point, my husband gently suggested that I stay there while he finished the cleanup.

My watch informed me that I “seem to be experiencing higher than usual levels of stress” and that perhaps I should try a breathing exercise? I did that, repeating the mice are children of the universe, just like me over and over. I reminded myself that the mice had made a little nest for themselves, outside, which is just as nature intended. They’re just living their lives, and I had made a home for them by planting nasturtiums. I was briefly calmed by this feeling of good karma, and then I would think MY HAND, it ran over my HAND.

What I am saying is the true star of this month’s Favourite Things is the pair of thick, sturdy, pink-and-white gardening gloves which have protected my hands from thistles, brambles, thorns, and, now, the Hanta virus. Gloves, I love you. Without you, the skin on my right hand would be Lady Macbeth-ed right off.

Nicole’s Favourite Things: The Gourgeous Gourds Edition

It’s Decorative Gourd Season, Motherfuckers

If ever an autumn passes us by and I DON’T reference Decorative Gourd Season, Motherfuckers, please check on me, because I will not be okay. Perhaps a rodent will have ran over my gloveless hands and I will disintegrate just like the Nazis looking at the Holy Grail in Indiana Jones.

Check out my shellacked decorative gourds, assholes!

It’s fall, fuckfaces. You’re either ready to reap this freaky-assed harvest or you’re not.

And, of course, it’s Canada, so we celebrate Decorative Gord Season as well.

It’s Also Non-Decorative Gourd Season, Motherfuckers

We had a few rainy days in a row over the past month, and so by the time I made it to the garden, I had some not-small zucchinis waiting for me.

I also had an enormous haul of butternut squash, and here’s the thing: I love roasted butternut squash, but I dread roasting it, because it is such a bitch to peel. Or I should say that I used to dread it, because I have discovered A Hack: cut off the ends, poke it all over with a fork, and then microwave it for 1-3 minutes, depending on the size. Miraculously, the peel slides off easily with a vegetable peeler! No more breaking peelers or your spirit by trying to just make a festive fall meal. It’s all butternut squash, all the time around here now. If we are living in the Age of Information, I am going to use it to my advantage when it comes to vegetable preparation.

A friend of my husband’s gave me a few of these pattypan squashes, and I honestly had no idea what to do with them. Again, we are in the Age of Information! There is nothing you can’t learn from the internet! I cut it into chunks and roasted it with beets, to be served with a balsamic drizzle for Thanksgiving dinner.

Suzanne’s Favourite Fall Salad

We have Big Fun Salad for dinner once a week at least, and recently I have veered towards my friend Suzanne’s Favourite Fall Salad. Of course, because I’m me, I change up the inputs, but the warm fuzzy fall feeling is still there. One day I used the last of the kale from my fall planting, my butternut squash, as well as an apple that had been picked from our neighbour’s tree that very morning. How fun and local! I like to add roasted lentils, goat cheese, and some spicy candied pecans, with a dressing of 4-2-1 olive oil, red wine vinegar, and maple syrup, plus garlic and Dijon. It is a delight of a salad, very filling, and it makes me feel very Fall Forward.

Hide and Seek With My Gnomies

Speaking, again, of the garden, it is finally time to bring the gnomes in for the season. This year I decided to place my gnomes strategically so that the garden foliage would hide them. I would have been absolutely delighted, as a child, at the idea of hidden gnomes. Who am I kidding, this delights me as someone who is 51 years old. The raspberries immediately swallowed up the gnomes in the veggie garden, but it took a while for the foliage to overtake Giovanni and Salvadore.

What is life without whimsy? It occurs to me that maybe the mice were just trying to emulate the gnomes? Maybe they were wishing they too had little hats?

Ooooh Linda, Put The Coffee On

My friend Sarah (HI SARAH) sent me this postcard with the note Is this a picture of you before you drink your two gallons of coffee in the morning? It’s like Sarah is in my house. That is EXACTLY what I am like, emotionally, at least.

I am a Quantity Over Quality person when it comes to coffee: I make a pot, and then I drink it black, almost completely before 5:30 am. The exception to my black coffee is on the weekend, where I like the occasional Treat-Treat, as I say to Rex.

I can’t remember the last time I was actually in a Starbucks, but I do like a glug of one of these non-dairy creamers once or twice a week. My favourite, weirdly, for a person who doesn’t generally care for caramel much, is the caramel macchiato, but all three add a little weekend yumminess to my beloved cup.

Outfit of the Month

The weather feels delightfully fall-ish, which is to say that the mornings are cool and crisp and give way to sunny, warm-adjacent afternoons. And one fun development of this era of my life is that I am no longer freezing all the time, so I can brazenly walk around in a light, mesh-style top from Lululemon and be the perfect temperature.

It’s difficult to tell from the photo how mesh-y and see-through this top is, you will just have to believe me. I wear a shelf-bra tank top underneath, because it is so see-through. I’m pairing this with The World’s Most Comfortable Jeans, i.e., Silver brand Beau cut, which purport to “eliminate muffin top.” I mean, they kind of do? I cannot get over the comfort level, to be honest, and because, clearly, I am a woman of a certain age – overly hot, wearing no-muffin-top-jeans – I wear my Skechers sandals around the house. They are very unattractive but I haven’t had problems with plantar fasciitis for months.

This is a little early for my monthly Favourite Things, but there is a good reason for that: I am taking a blog break! Take care of yourselves, friends, and I will see you in November. xo

Nicole’s Favourite Things: The Perimenopause Edition

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It occurred to me recently that Gen X women are the first generation to really talk freely about perimenopause and menopause, just like we were the first generation to talk about the agony and ecstasy of parenting via “mommy blogs.” There were probably some exceptions but it seems to me that our mothers’ generation kept those experiences to themselves. And our grandmothers’ generation? Forget about it. No one wanted to talk about The Change, just like no one wanted to admit that they coloured their hair, IF they coloured their hair. My maternal grandma, at my age, had short steel-grey hair and wore housedresses and no makeup. I feel fairly confident she wasn’t chatting casually about vaginal dryness.

My feeling is that everything is easier when it is shared, and also there is no such thing as too much information. Today I will be talking about my Favourite Things when it comes to managing this sweaty, roller coaster-y stage of life. We are in this together, ladies! I also hope my three male readers enjoy the ride.

Nicole’s Favourite Things: The Perimenopause Edition

HRT for Me

When I was in prenatal class with my first pregnancy, I was assigned a “birth plan” to create. I remember clearly that my “plan,” such as it was, would be to try to avoid an epidural or other drugs, but I wasn’t opposed to them if needed. I had never had a baby before, so I didn’t know if I would want them or not. And indeed, I did have not one but two drug-free births, but during the first one, I started screaming I can’t do it anymore, I need the drugs!, at which point the nurse told me I was nine and half centimetres dilated, it was too late, no drugs for me. The second time around was even faster, and so I never asked for any. Plus I felt like an old pro by that time, as my babies were born less than eighteen months apart, and the vag wasn’t what it once was, if you know what I’m saying.

I have always found it a little distasteful when there is smugness involved in anything birth and parenting related, because the wheel of fortune is undiscerning. My labours were four and two hours long, respectively, but if I was a woman who was in labour for many hours or even days, I would absolutely have had drugs.

I had the same feeling about hormone replacement treatment for perimenopause, namely that I would consider it if I ever felt that I needed to. And for years I didn’t need to; for the longest time, I thought not right now, I can manage without, it’s not so bad, until last April. Last April, things became unmanageable. Suddenly I was unable to get restorative sleep, I was exhausted all the time, my whole body thrummed with fatigue and, oddly, an elevated heartrate. I was having hot flashes and night sweats constantly, and I just could not cope. I didn’t want to cope. My doctor, a brilliant and progressive young woman, immediately prescribed a low dose oral estrogen and progesterone protocol. When I went to the pharmacy to pick it up, the pharmacist explained that the estrogen would help with the hot flashes and the progesterone would help me sleep. Friends, I was so tired that I just burst into relieved tears, right there at the Costco pharmacy. The pharmacist smiled knowingly. The estrogen will help with the mood swings too.

I cannot begin to explain how life-changing this has been for me. In the way that you can’t tell how bad something is until you’re out of it, I realized I was on an energetic downward trajectory for MONTHS, and now I feel like my old self again. I wake up feeling restored and refreshed, my body doesn’t ache, my plantar fasciitis cleared up completely, and I have had not ONE incident of hot flashes or night sweats. My energy is great, I feel good, my cognitive function is such that I’m not wondering if I’m slowly losing my mind. Prior to HRT I was forgetting words like “lunch.” THANK GOD FOR MODERN MEDICINE.

This is the exact same Peloton ride: the top two numbers are post-HRT, the bottom two are pre-HRT, which indicates my general level of energy.

Ritual Stacking

I never forget to take my medication, vitamins, or supplements because I always tie them to something else. I take most things with my breakfast and lunch, but progesterone needs to be taken at night. I keep this mug that my friend Joy gave me (HI JOY) next to my bathroom sink; I tie the progesterone to my nighttime flossing and brushing routine. The mug makes me smile every day, and it feels like a call-out to all us Peri Bitches.

BEAST MODE

I bought you a present! my husband said, and I excitedly bustled over to see what it was.

Some people might not be super excited about a pull-up assist, but I sure was. We are all supposed to be working on strength to counteract age-and-hormone related loss of muscle mass and to improve bone density, and I do, but wow, is it boring. I grimly do my weight training routine with as much joy as I do the vacuuming: I like the end result but it’s just another chore in the day to get there. However, I will say that this pull-up assist is SO much fun. I feel like an absolute beast.

Look at me go! I find it very satisfying that eighteen months ago I could only hang, straight-armed, for a count of ten, and now I can do pull-ups with only the lowest-level of assistance. Maybe one day I will be able to do them totally unassisted! But even if not, it is the journey, not the destination, life is a highway, etcetera.

Roll Out The Welcome Matte

If you are a Gen X woman, then you will surely remember the days of using St Ives Apricot Scrub followed by Sea Breeze toner and Cover Girl matte foundation and pressed powder. We valued a matte face, let’s put it that way, and I still do. I hate the feeling of my face being dewy and shiny; I wear pressed powder every single day and have since I first started wearing makeup. The problem is that once a woman reaches a certain age, a matte look can exacerbate certain lines and wrinkles. How to balance the two?

I absolutely love Tarte BB Blur tinted moisturizer, which provides much-needed moisture without a ton of shine. It purports to have SPF, but it doesn’t say that on the tube, and so I apply it overtop my Neutrogena Face Serum Sunscreen.

It’s still dewier than I like, so I have been following it up with Tower 28 pressed powder; I had seen this powder highly recommended, and I will tell you it is worth the extra expense. It gives a matte finish that lasts all day, without any need for touch-ups.

It also doesn’t collect in little lines and crevices, which is an important consideration for me.

Wrap It Up

I am just not ready to embrace my natural hair colour, which is white and grey. For one thing, to go au naturel would be quite the undertaking: I would have to live with increasingly longer white and grey roots with increasingly fading red ends, or I would have to cut my hair super short and just let it be white and grey, or I would have to have my colour stripped out and then somehow allow my stripped hair to blend in with the white and grey. None of these options appeal.

A mere three weeks after colouring and my roots are on display.

I usually wear my hair in a bun if I’m on my third day of the three-day wash cycle, and for the last ten days before colouring my roots are pretty noticeable. Enter the hair wrap!

I just got this new one from Scrummy Scrunchies on Etsy; it’s nice and long and I can loop it around my head a few times or let it hang down my back in a bohemian kind of way.

In addition to covering up the roots, it also covers up thinner spots. I know, no one wants to talk about thinning hair, but it happens to the best of us. The feminine mystique takes a bit of a beating during perimenopause; our skin changes, our temperatures change, we sweat more, our periods are all over the place, our vaginas dry up, our waistlines expand, we sprout moustaches and chin hairs, and OUR HAIR STARTS TO FALL OUT. I will give another plug for Nutrafol (I WISH I was sponsored, alas, I am not), which I have been taking religiously since November 2022, and which has made a significant difference in my hair density. At one point, I was actually worried I was going to go bald. My Calgary doctor – A MAN – dismissed my hair loss concerns and said to me flippantly “How many bald women do you see, really?” To which I informed him that actually, my paternal grandmother had to wear a wig because her hair fell out, DO NOT GASLIGHT ME ABOUT MY HAIR, DOCTOR.

Anyway. Nutrafol has worked wonders but the thing about a hair growth supplement is that one’s roots become en evidence much quicker. Well, I can’t simultaneously complain about rapidly-appearing roots from hair growth while taking a hair growth supplement.

Outfit of the Month

I have a tale to tell about this skirt. I was in the market for a summer skirt that was more structured than my usual, and this one from Lululemon seemed to fit the bill. It is the perfect length, it is made of a stiffer material than my athletic skirts, it has a side zipper for a sleek silhouette, it has shorts attached underneath, and it has pockets! Perfection! The reviews online indicated that it fit smaller than usual, and since half my wardrobe is from Lululemon, I very confidently ordered it one size up.

When it arrived, I could not do up the zipper. Well, that’s not true. I was able to do up the zipper, but it involved massive sucking in. Also, I ended up zipping the skin of my waist into the zipper, which was a painful insult-to-injury situation.

I know what you’re thinking, because I was thinking the same thing. Did I changed sizes? I wondered euphemistically. I tried on my very fitted, structured Lululemon pants that involve buttons and zippers, but mysteriously, they fit perfectly. I tried on my jeans, and it was the same thing. It soon became evident that it was not me, it was the skirt, and so I took it back to the store and did what I should have done in the first place, which was to try it on.

And I ended up going up THREE sizes.

I mention this to illustrate that women’s clothing sizes are a joke. We tie so much of ourselves to a certain size – or weight – and then we feel badly when things don’t line up. But those numbers are just numbers. Those numbers are not US. A different number is not some kind of moral failing and it doesn’t say anything about us as a person. All the clothes in my closet fit perfectly, and there are many different sizes involved, depending on the store or brand. I will say that I felt a bit taken aback, going up three sizes for a skirt, and Younger Nicole might not have bought the skirt at all. Wouldn’t that be a shame! Forgoing something so cute for a stupid metric like a clothing size, and in any case, Lululemon tags are designed to be ripped out.

Sandals are from Skechers – comfortable shoes are a must at this stage of the game – and the top is an old one from the Gap.

The thing about perimenopause is that I feel lucky to experience it. Some women don’t make it this far! And the truth is that although some parts of it are absolutely unpleasant, we live in an age where we can talk about it, and there are medical interventions that can help with the really bothersome symptoms. I’m so happy to have a good and open doctor, I am so happy to have access to HRT, and I’m thrilled to live in a world where there are cosmetics, hair colour, and elastic waistbands. xo

It’s Bananas

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Some people righteously boycott certain shopping experiences or coffee shops, but my line in the sand is the phenomenon known as the celebrity podcast. I quite smugly and obnoxiously refuse, on the grounds that celebrity podcasts have pushed out smaller, independent podcasts. I will not have it. I will not have it! You can keep your big, showy podcasts with excessive amounts of advertising, and I will be over here listening to two Australian women sharing their hatred for sunflowers, or two Irish women deep diving into Sweet Valley High.

But of course, there is always an exception, and for me that exception is Wiser Than Me, wherein Julia Louis-Dreyfus interviews older women who are celebrities. And now I will tell you that there is an exception to the exception; I very much enjoy these interviews and Julia’s style with one important caveat, which I will get to shortly.

Recently she interviewed Cyndi Lauper, of whom I have been a fan since I was eight years old, when She’s So Unusual was released, and this episode did not disappoint. I adored listening to her heavy Brooklyn accent – whaddya wanna know? – relate her take on life and zest for standing up for what she believes in. But most of all, I loved that she called out Julia for the question that I absolutely loathe, and grit my teeth about during every one of her interviews.

At the beginning of every interview, Julia asks if the woman is comfortable divulging her real age, and after that, she asks how old do you feel? My love for Cyndi Lauper was like the Grinch’s heart, exploding out of the little box it had been in before, as she called out the question as the bullshit garbage it is. When Julia expressed surprise that Cyndi, who is 72, said she feels 72, she replied:

Well, here’s what I think. I think it’s a bunch of bullshit that they give you these numbers and they tell you what you’re supposed to do at what age and what age you’re supposed to feel like this and what age you’re supposed to feel like that and I think it’s a load of crap.

I love her. How old do we FEEL? I don’t know about you, but I feel 51, because THIS IS WHAT FIFTY-ONE FEELS LIKE. Can we please normalise the idea that it’s okay to be the age we are and, relatedly, that how we feel does not need to correlate to a number? If I said I felt 92, the immediate thought would be that I frailly had one foot in the grave, not that I felt wise and gentle with the years. If I said I felt 22, it would be assumed that I was vibrant and sexy, and not riddled with self-doubt and insecurity. I very much dislike that “old” is used pejoratively, and “young” is the opposite. Listen, I get it, I get that there are things that are objectively difficult about aging, but also, it’s not like being young is always a bag of laughs, see also last week’s rant about Monica Lewinsky’s youthful indiscretion and the resulting turmoil for that poor young woman. I would never, ever trade my menopausal tum-tum for my previously stellar flat stomach if it meant I had to go back in time. I LIKE having these years behind me, I LIKE not second-guessing myself, I LIKE the feeling of having experience and knowledge and that there is more of that to come. Sure, I may no longer be able to put my legs behind my bed or run a sub-eight minute mile – or CAN I? I haven’t tried for a while – but that’s a small trade-off for this glorious peace of mind, this who-gives-a-shit attitude, the feeling that this is who I am, take it or leave it.

It’s like bananas.

I don’t mean it IS bananas, although it is, the worship of youth culture. I mean that we are literally like bananas. God bless the banana, I say, what a versatile and wonderful fruit. Bananas are delicious when they are still a bit greenish, they make a great smoothie when they are yellow and frozen, and when they become black and mushy and kind of grody, they make the absolute best baked goods. I ask you, what can’t a banana do? They are full of vitamins, potassium, iron, and fibre, they have electrolytes and prebiotics, they are essentially a superfood. They are reliably inexpensive and available year-round, and if you are travelling and are concerned about getting explosive diarrhea from a piece of fruit? Have a banana! They come pre-wrapped! You can pretend to make a phone call with them, you can make your mouth into a giant banana smile, and you can look deeply into your husband’s eyes while eating them, so he can uncomfortably look away.

There is a time and place for every stage of a banana’s life.

There is no judgement about which stage is better – they are all useful and delicious in their own way. All hail the humble banana, and all hail us, in all our glory, no matter what stage we are in. I feel like I am in the banana ice cream stage: kind of sweet and soft, good for a dessert, better with some chocolate sauce and Reece’s Pieces…you know what, I’m not sure this metaphor is working anymore.

Weekly Reading

The Elegance of the Hedgehog. This interesting little book involves a middle aged concierge in an expensive Parisian hotel particulier and a 12-year-old inhabitant of said building, both of whom hide their extensive, and kind of pretentious, intelligence in order to fit into society’s expectations for them. The concierge pretends to like things like cabbage and television – so pedestrian! – so that no one will know she’s a brilliant autodidact, while the 12-year-old has decided that privileged life has no meaning, and so she is going to set fire to the building and kill herself by her thirteenth birthday. Talk about preteen angst. When an intelligent Japanese gentleman moves into the building, things start to change for both of them; discoveries are made and friendships are created. It’s a statement on class-consciousness, to be sure, as well as the beauty of life and the power of connection. 

Writers and Lovers. I first read this gorgeously-written book in 2022, and I wanted to reread it concurrently with the author’s latest, Heart the Lover, which is, interestingly, both a prequel and a sequel to Writers and Lovers. Alas, due to library holds, the concurrent read didn’t work out, but I think that’s for the better: I think the books work so beautifully stand-alone, with the “oh, THAT’S what happened” feeling of Heart the Lover. A concurrent read would highlight a big inconsistency with one of the major plot points of Heart the Lover, when compared with the character of Casey in Writers and Lovers. I know from an interview with Lily King that the big plot point was a late addition to one of the final drafts, and I like knowing that – I like knowing the process, and I think that plot point added so much to Heart the Lover, even if that means that some character details don’t stand up to close reading scrutiny. The tl;dr here is that I LOVE THIS BOOK and I also loved Heart the Lover, and I think they should be read and appreciated separately. I loved Writers and Lovers when I read it in 2022, and I love it even more now. It hit me differently this time around and affected me deeply.

Interestingly, I went to look up my 2022 review and it is in a post entitled “Psychological Long Covid” in which I talk about panicking at the grocery store, hoarding lemon juice, and also – callback to podcasts – eviscerate a book written by an obnoxious and privileged podcaster. Blog posts are such time capsules! And speaking of time capsules!

The Remains of the Day. Wow, this book. This book! I loved it so much. It combines two of my major interests: the staffing and running of great English houses, and the political ideologies and events in the years between the World Wars, hashtag I am a War History Buff Now. This book should be held up as the gold standard for showing, not telling. The narrator, who seems kind of like a robot, personality-wise, is not exactly unreliable, but the information we receive is limited and much is concealed. Slowly, we begin to see a clearer picture of both the butler’s life, and also the life of his employer. This is a slow burn and is really, really remarkable in the writing style. It is desperately sad and contains incredible insight. The quote that might stay with me forever is this: “You’ve got to enjoy yourself. The evening’s the best part of the day. Now you can put your feet up and enjoy it. That’s how I look at it. Ask anybody, they’ll all tell you. The evening’s the best part of the day.” As a metaphor, it’s incredible. As a book, it’s absolutely excellent. As a part of this blog post, it’s perfect.

My husband was camping this week, so after I finished The Remains of the Day and stared into space for a while, emotionally destroyed, I thought Maybe I should watch the movie! And friends, I should have learned my lesson from Hamnet, along with EVERY OTHER TIME I have watched a screen adaptation of a beloved book: don’t. Or, don’t watch the movie so close to reading the book, because instead of appreciating the film for what it is, I mentally pulled it apart for how it deviated from the book. Did I expect it to have that same emotional interiority of a book, even though that is impossible to show on screen? Did I expect the literary genius to come through? I told my older son I was going to watch the movie and he said, warningly, that I would be angry because it wasn’t the book. The young can teach us so much. He knows me better than I know myself. I do not like screen adaptations. I NEVER like screen adaptations. I am who I am, and who I am is a browning banana who needs to be peeled and put in the freezer before the fruit flies start swarming. I really don’t know what I am doing with this metaphor. xo

We’ve Got Fun and Games

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What We Have Here Is A Failure To Communicate

A while ago, my husband’s friend went to see Guns and Roses in concert in Vancouver, which is at least a four hour drive from here, meaning that this was not just an evening out. It was a commitment. Concert tickets these days are not what they once were, and accommodations in Vancouver are also pricey, so I imagine it was not an inexpensive endeavour. It probably would have been worth it to this sixtysomething rocker, had the band played even one of their many, many hits. But no. Guns and Roses spent the entire concert playing all new material.

I can understand an artist wanting to share new work with the world; I am not sure I would want to continue doing the same thing over and over for four decades. I can understand that it would get tiring, as Elin Hildebrand said on her podcast about her annual Nantucket books, that people want the same thing every year, but make it different. And yet, I do feel that a band with such stature as Guns and Roses, who charges exorbitant fees and who has an extensive catalogue of excellent, much-loved music, should give the people what they want.

This is why I love cover bands. I ADORE a cover band. If we go somewhere and there is a cover band playing the hits, you can bet I am going to get that dance floor started. This past Friday my husband and I went to see The Hip Replacements, which is the very witty name of our local Tragically Hip cover band, and it was so much fun. I danced all night, got home late, and paid for it the next day with sore feet, a sore throat from singing, and general exhaustion due to my inability to sleep in no matter what time I go to bed. It was worth it!

But back to Guns and Roses. I always, always have a song stuck in my head at all times, but in the past few weeks I have had three on rotating repeat, for a variety of reasons.

Sweet Child of Mine

A few months ago I heard a piano version of Sweet Child of Mine, and I immediately purchased and downloaded the sheet music. What fun! And also, whoa nelly. Look at this key!

It’s a challenge, let’s put it that way, a challenge that is peppered with unusual C flats and tricky fingering. I’m working hard at learning all eight pages of it, the result of which is that the tune loops through my head many times a day. She’s got eyes of the bluest sky I’ll think as I roll out my yoga mat, looking at the morning breaking. Where do we go now I’ll hum as I look for something in the pantry.

Welcome To The Jungle

Sweet Child of Mine gives up its place in my brain every morning when I head down to the garden, at which time Welcome To The Jungle wedges its way in.

The tomatoes are going rogue.

My arms are completely covered in scratches from squeezing between the raspberries and the zucchinis. Wear sleeves! my husband says helpfully, forgetting that I am a perimenopausal woman working outdoors in the height of the Okanagan summer, and that wearing sleeves feels as comfortable as donning a medieval suit of armour.

You’re in the jungle, baby, you’re going to die! is something that inappropriately floats through my head as I serenely build the sand mandala that is weeding.

Patience

Those two songs have been in my head constantly, but a third popped in last week when I was at Costco. I don’t know if this is a seasonal fluctuation, but for the past few months every time I go into Costco I think it just can’t get worse than this and then, somehow, it does. Said woman, take it slow, it’ll work itself out fine, I mentally sang to myself while completely immobilized in the dry goods aisle, with unmoving carts before, beside, and behind me. All we need is just a little patience I thought, waiting for throngs of carts to move so I could exit the freezer aisle.

I congratulated myself on making it out without internal impotent rage, and then I saw this beside my car.

It takes so much more effort to wedge a cart’s front wheels up onto the median without destroying the vehicles around it, particularly since the carrel was mere steps away.

I wasn’t as bothered as I usually would be, because I was still pondering a very kind, but odd, compliment I had received at the pharmacy. The young fellow – I would place him in his late twenties – talked to me about my prescription and then said Oh, by the way, I love your hair! I responded with a grateful and enthusiastic thanks, to which he followed up with It’s so old-timey! Like a 1940s movie star.

Listen, I will take any compliment, no matter how strange. And I’ve always thought it would be wonderful to swan through life in soft focus like Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca. Old-timey isn’t exactly a compliment I expected, but I will take what I can get, and just hope he didn’t mean Joan Crawford or Bette Davis in Whatever Happened To Baby Jane.

Weekly Reading

The book flood continues!

One of these is a reread so technically, there is no need to panic about it. But still.

Luckily, I have had a lot of uninterrupted reading time this week; after the guys got back from Vancouver, my husband went camping with some buddies for a few days, and I camped out on the deck for hours every day with my trusty reading partner.

Laundry Love. I put this on my TBR five years ago – and then promptly forgot about it. It wasn’t until my friend Stephany (HI STEPHANY) mentioned this that I metaphorically slapped my forehead and took it from TBR to my library pile. And I know what you’re thinking: an entire book about LAUNDRY? Yes. Not only is it a delightful, joyful meditation on caring for our clothes, each other, and the planet, but it also contains everything you ever wanted to know about the act of laundry, including how-tos about washing wedding dresses, wool suits, and fur coats, in case anyone actually has their grandma’s furs. I don’t, obviously, but I still found it interesting, and also oddly inspirational.

Flashlight. My writing friend Jen (HI JEN) told me about this densely layered, nuanced, and complex novel about a father and daughter who disappear while walking along a beach in Japan. The daughter washes up ashore, alive, while the father does not. The story is so much more, and takes turns I was not expecting. I learned so much about the relations between Japan and Korea – both during and after World War II – as well as the relationship of North Korea to its neighbours and to the US. The three main characters all have trauma and are all incredibly, deeply unlikeable. The writing is so good that I felt physically uncomfortable reading about their fraught interactions with each other and with the world at large; there were a few times that I had to look away from the book, so awful do these people behave. The reading experience was immersive and compelling, and one of the adjacent characters was so completely delightful that it almost made up for the nastiness of the others. A really excellent book, so well-written and executed.

Upward Bound. I would term this book as autofiction; the story is about the clients and staff at Upward Bound, a day care program for adults with severe disabilities. The author himself is the first nonspeaking autistic graduate of UCLA, and I understand there is some controversy surrounding whether or not he actually wrote this book, or if his mother stepped in while he used Facilitated Communication. To be frank, I do not give a fuck if he literally wrote it or not, that is not the point. The point of this book is to bring humanity and understanding to an underserved population, a voice to the voiceless. And if his mother did write it? Well, it’s not much different from ghostwriting, is it? It’s a moving collection of chapters from different points of view, and I think it can only help bring compassion towards people who are very much othered in our society.

The Nine Lives of Rose Napolitano. I love thinking about different paths our lives can take, and this book is all about that very thing. Rose is a woman who has never wanted children, and she’s always been clear about it. Her husband agrees, but then after they are married he changes his mind. This book goes through all different scenarios, a choose-your-own-adventure, if you will. I love books about marriage, particularly when there is strife, complication, and extramarital action. This book has it all and more, and I really enjoyed it. I thought it was a very nuanced and powerful statement on what it is to be a woman in our society, the pressures and resentments, the difficulties and the joys. I especially like that the book is not laid out linearly, rather all the lives are scattered throughout the book, so it kept me very engaged, even through the initial scene about prenatal vitamins, a fight that is repeated throughout the book. Thanks to Lisa (HI LISA) for the recommendation!

I’m looking forward to a pretty normal summer week; more gardening, more reading, and a nice afternoon with the girls coming up! I hope you are all having a beautiful July so far. xo

Five For Friday: The Packing List Edition

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What I Packed. As always, my husband and I took carryon luggage only for our almost-three-week trip to London and South Africa. I also had a large shoulder bag in which I stashed my smaller crossbody bag, and he took a backpack. Everywhere we went, the luggage porter would look at us and say That’s it? That’s all you have? Yes! I like not hauling large suitcases around, which is good, as it would have been really impractical for taking the Tube in London, what with all the stairs and escalators. I feel footloose and fancy-free, zipping around with only a small carryon. I like not having to wait at baggage claim, and I especially like not having a massive case of anxiety about lost luggage. I am not an anxious person generally, but as soon as my bag is out of sight I assume someone has lost it, or it is somehow being destroyed and I will never see my clothing and curling iron again. So carryon works for us in all respects.

Clothing-wise, including what I wore on the plane, I took three pairs of pants (moss green, beige, black), three black tanks, three black tees, and three long-sleeved UV protectant shirts in cream and moss green. I also packed two long floaty skirts, a bathing suit and cover up, a hat, shortie pajamas, two light scarves, socks, and underwear. I took one nice top to pair with the black pants for the theatre, where we saw a performance of Hamilton. For footwear, I wore cute Skechers walking shoes and I packed a pair of sandals. Also, because I’m the hottest bitch in this place, bringing sexy back, etcetera, I wore my beige, full-length, medical grade compression hose on the plane and packed two pairs of compression calf sleeves. We used the complimentary laundry service that each of the lodges offered, and I also did some sink laundry while we were in London.

Enjoying a glass of wine before Hamilton, in my one nice top. Look around, look around, how lucky we are to be alive right now.

What I Overpacked. As always, I packed way, way, way more underwear and socks than I could possibly use. I am okay with that, though, and I will not change my ways. What if for some reason I COULDN’T do laundry? THEN WHAT? I’m not going to wear unwashed panties or socks, thank you very much. I also took far too much sunscreen: two sunscreen sticks, face serum sunscreen, and two 60 mL tubes of Neutrogena sheer. As it turned out, I could have made do with only my face serum sunscreen, as I wore my long-sleeve tops on all the safaris, and I found that the bottle was more than enough for the few times I needed to lube up my shoulders and arms in London.

A few people spoke to me fearfully about malaria, but June is a very low risk season in South Africa. Still, I packed two small bottles of some kind of hippie insect repellant, and didn’t use any because a) it was too cold at night for mosquitoes to live, and b) even if it was mosquito season, each lodge provided an enormous bottle of bug spray in each room which would probably have worked much better than the plant-based essential oil woowoo I brought. In retrospect, I would have brought none at all and saved the space in my little liquids bag.

Leopard, totally relaxed in the long grass beside our vehicle, unbothered by mosquitoes or us.

What I Didn’t Use. It has to be pretty hot before I will submerge myself in an unheated swimming pool, and the temperatures never got above 26 C, so my bathing suit and cover up went unused. I also rarely wore my hat, not because it wasn’t sunny – it was! – but because the safari vehicles can move pretty fast and even with the chin strap the hat wasn’t comfortable to wear, what with the broad brim flapping around. I don’t regret taking them though; I like the option for both swimming and hat-wearing.

I also didn’t use my light scarves; it was too hot in London, and it was too casual on safari to wear them. Neither scarf takes up much room so it isn’t much of a regret on this front either.

I wore my scarf one day and then within thirty minutes tied it to the strap of my bag because I was sweating, as they say, like a New York waiter.

What I Should Have Packed. For years I had a 35-40 day menstrual cycle, followed by years of a 21-25 day cycle. In the last six months, it has stretched out again, and my last period before our trip was a 52 day cycle, which started only two weeks before we left. I’m in the clear! I thought happily, but then, wary of my own cheerful prediction, I added a few pantyliners to my toiletries case.

I was right to be wary. The very first day in London, I got my period – surprise! – which was lucky, since there are Boots pharmacies everywhere you turn. If that had happened in the middle of the bush, I would have been fucked. I mean, not literally, since I had my period, and I’m old-fashioned that way. But I did think of the scenario in which I would be free-bleeding in the wild, attracting predators and the hatred of my fellow safari-goers.

The moral of the story? If you have a uterus, even if you think that uterus is closing up shop, PACK PERIOD SUPPLIES.

Is there a Boots around this corner? MAYBE.

The Unexpected Star of the Show. The importance of wearing neutral safari colours – dark or moss greens, shades of beige and khaki – were drilled into us before we left Canada. No bright colours! Avoid black! For the love of god, no animal prints! In one of the lodges I did see a woman in leopard print pants who also had a small baby in a front-carrier with a pink and blue blanket, and again, I am not generally an anxious person BUT COME ON. Anyway. I unearthed a rarely worn dark green fleece jacket, which features a windproof vest and hood, from my closet. This was a pandemic purchase and one I have frequently regretted. The jacket was impractical for cold, windy Calgary walks, and it is too warm for Kelowna walks. I hate wearing layers that have hoods, and I kind of hated the colour as well. Why I didn’t donate it years ago, I have no idea.

I’m glad I didn’t, because it was absolutely perfect for safari! It was a nice layer to have on cold morning and evening drives, and the colour was more than acceptable. I shall NEVER donate it, in case I ever get the opportunity to go on safari again.

The star of the show, my fleece jacket. Also starring a female lion practicing pandemic protocol, keeping six feet away.

Happy Friday, friends! xo

Pencil Marks

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My husband works out every day in the mid-to-late morning, and he uses our extensive speaker system rather than headphones, which means I can frequently hear what music he’s working out to. Instead of a carefully-curated, peppy and motivating playlist like the one I use, he just has a playlist of “songs that he likes,” which can lead to what I think is an eclectic soundtrack for weight lifting. I find it amusing, for the most part; a Taylor Swift song might follow Enter Sandman, and then we could suddenly be thrown into early-2000s hip-hop, after which is Crazy Train. But the other day the song Buy Dirt came on. I went downstairs and, upon seeing my crying self, my husband turned off the music.

He had the same level of baffled bewilderment as when I talked about White Wine in the Sun, as well as when we watched a recent Joni Mitchell tribute and Both Sides Now was performed. I just don’t get why it makes you so sad, he said. It’s a song about…clouds?

My whole life, I have been very emotionally moved by music, very frequently to tears, and not always are those songs obviously wrenching to others. Some are – Landslide, for example – but others, like Is Somebody Singing or Miley Cyrus’ The Climb can destroy me emotionally because of specific memories associated with them. Usually I can hear at least a few lines or maybe an entire verse of my own personal tear-jerking songs before welling up, but I didn’t even make it to “chasing dollar” in Buy Dirt. I don’t even know if I made it to the lyrics, honestly, before dissolving.

A few days later, when he watched me emotionally decompensate just thinking about the song in our silent house, my Man of Action deleted it from his playlist. I’m sick of it anyway, he said, but I really know he just didn’t want me to accidentally hear it.

It IS a moving song, but I was much more emotionally fragile than I have been in a long while, for a few reasons. Typically every month before my period, I have a day or two of fatigue and disrupted sleep, a couple of hot flashes and an elevated resting heart rate. This month, I have had to date fourteen solid days of that with no period in sight, plus a very upsetting new symptom I had never had before: no appetite. This lasted for days. Not only did I have no appetite, but I had revulsion for food. I love food! I love to eat! I am, like Andy Sipowicz, an enthusiastic eater! But there I was, pushing my pasta around my bowl like a picky child, asking if it tasted weird to anyone else. This lack of appetite was accompanied by an intense, constant, and unquenchable thirst, to the point that I started googling am I diabetic, signs of kidney disease, and is HRT right for me?

This was reason number one for my emotional fragility: I was running on days of poor sleep, a racing heart rate, and almost no food, with a bloated and extended torso from all the water I was gulping down. Not to mention the hormones! Or, lack thereof, I guess.

But there was another reason I was fragile, and that is that my older son left on Saturday for an eight-week solo backpacking trip around Central and Eastern Europe. I am truly so happy for him; we encouraged him in this, and he planned it all so well. It’s something I really wish I had done at his age, and I think it will be such a great learning and growing experience for him. He’s seeing the world! The birdy is really flying far!

But the truth about it, it all goes by real quick. Every single month we all marvel that it’s a new month, how did that happen, time goes so fast, it’s almost May, can you believe it. My god, time really does go by real quick. My son is off seeing the world, all by himself. This feels like a whole new era, and it’s a wonderful new era, but the pages are flying off the calendar at cartoonish speeds.

I have loved every single age and stage my sons have gone through, every one of them. (Even when we were thirteen? my younger son asked. Yes. Maybe even especially then! I have so much love for the growth and expansion of those early teen years.) I am so proud of them; I can barely believe my good fortune. Sometimes I feel like I will literally explode, I love them so much. I will literally explode and all that will be left of me will be a pile of heart-shaped confetti.

When I was a kid I loved the book Jane of Lantern Hill, and I remember reading the part where Jane asks her mother if they could ever stop time. At the time, I thought that was absurd, why would anyone want to do that? I couldn’t get older fast enough. I wanted to be grown, to be autonomous, to be on to the next thing.

Well. I don’t want to stop time, but it all goes by real quick.

I have had some tests and I am confident my doctor, who is a brilliant and progressive young woman, will have some solutions for my physical self. In the meantime, the present moment is what we have, and so I will be over here, sweatily appreciating it. Thank you, body, for bringing me this far in life. Thank you for being a wonderland that is doing miraculous things as my estrogen plummets the depths of the ocean. Thank you, deodorants, for existing. Thank you, modern world, for giving me washing machines to wash my extremely sweaty jammies every day and for the clean tap water that I can gulp down to compensate for this excessive perspiration.

My son has landed safely in Europe to start his adventure. My best friend Tara (HI TARA), whose eldest daughter has travelled solo extensively, texted me with the uplifting message that we raised our children to be independent, so we shouldn’t be surprised when they are. We did! Look at them fly!

Watch their pencil marks and the grass in the yard all grow up.

Weekly Reading

Simple Abundance. My dear friend Michelle (HI MICHELLE) had mentioned this book to me last year, and I decided to start reading the short daily essays on my birthday over the next year. It was a really lovely, uplifting experience. I think it probably would have been a bit better had I started in January as the book intends – each month builds on the months before – but it was still a wonderful reminder to look at the simple things in life and take joy in them.

Wilderness Tips. his is a reread, but it’s been a while! There are some really great stories in this collection, and in my current state of mind I was particularly moved by the last paragraphs in the last story, Hack Wednesday.

When The Cranes Fly South. DO YOU WANT TO READ A SUPER SAD BOOK THAT WILL MAKE YOU STARE OFF INTO THE DISTANCE FOR A LONG TIME? This is the book for you! In retrospect, maybe not the best choice for this past, emotionally fragile week. Wow, it’s sad. An elderly man, whose wife is now in dementia care, lives alone with his elkhound dog, and has home care come in four times a day (this is Sweden, and such things are realities! Yay Sweden). His son, quite rationally and reasonably, thinks that the giant dog is really too much for the situation. After all, the old man sleeps most of the day, the dog gets very little exercise, and he’s worried the old man will fall when he’s taking the dog out. Very reasonable and rational. But also, the dog is the man’s main companion and great love. As the man snoozes the day away, he dreams about his long life; his loving mother and kind of awful dad, his move to Northern Sweden as a young man, meeting his best friend and his wife, and his son’s childhood. It is a very moving story about breaking cycles, new generations, love, and what matters in life. Fun fact: this is translated from the Swedish by Alice Menzies, and that was the name of one of my great-grandmas!

Zero-Sum. Before he left, my older son was telling us about his Managerial Economics course, and – as my husband and I both have Masters in Economics – I was extremely interested. It sounded like Managerial Economics was similar to Industrial Economics that I took back in 1996 or 1997. In any case, game theory featured heavily, which was very exciting to me. And then, my library holds came in and Zero-Sum was one of them! It was like my very own Baader-Meinhof phenomenon. Anyway, I have never before read Joyce Carol Oates, which seems like a grave omission. Every short story in this collection contains a zero-sum game, and it is absolutely fascinating and almost breathtaking in its literary creativity. The writing is just so smart, and every story is such a brilliant and interesting topic. Some of the stories were a bit dystopian/ horror based for me, but most of them were diabolically good.

I am going on my own, much less exotic adventure this week: a road trip to visit my parents. That is, if the weather-warning level spring snowstorms stop for a couple of days. Hopefully there won’t be any avalanches! In the meantime, take care of yourselves and I’ll see you next week – when it will be May. Can you believe it? xo

Nicole’s Favourite Things: The Nifty and Fun Edition

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Thank you all for the lovely birthday wishes! In a misguided attempt at being celebratory, my body gifted me the most intense and prolonged perimenopausal symptoms I have ever had, for ten solid days. Coincidence? I don’t know, but this is a Favourite Things, and although I am Pro-Aging and aware that it is a privilege and a gift and not everyone gets to experience perimenopause, waking up with sweaty jammies and crushing fatigue are not my Favourite Things. Such topics will be discussed at a later date!

I did have a lovely birthday, with a trip to the garden centre for flowers, basil, tomatoes, and peppers. They have not been planted yet, but will be soon, and in the meantime all my little seedlings have sprouted, life is good. Strangely, on my birthday walk with Rex I did not encounter one person I knew. I ALWAYS have at least one conversation with walking regulars, and I was ready to tell them it was my birthday to receive good tidings for the day, but NOT ONE did I encounter. Next time I AM wearing that sandwich board.

Nicole’s Favourite Things: The Nifty and Fun Edition

Feet Don’t Fail Me Now

In addition to wearing the contenders for the Ugliest House Sandals Award, I have also embraced middle age and purchased items from Dr. Scholls, specifically designed to relieve pain from plantar fasciitis. I put a pair of these into my trail runners for my daily walks, and they really have helped.

Turn That Frown Upside Down

A few weeks ago I was running errands ahead of my pedicure appointment, and as I approached the young man at the liquor store counter, he gasped. Well! You look lovely! he said with genuine enthusiasm, to which I responded with appropriate gratitude for the compliment. I mean it! You are so beautiful. Look at you! Your hair, your eyes, everything. I felt like Amy Sedaris in Elf, when Buddy tells her that she’s so pretty, she could be on a Christmas card. I strutted out of there, swinging my bottles of tequila like John Travolta’s paint cans.

On the way to the salon, I was stopped at a red light and the men in the utility truck beside me started giving me the eye. Wow, I thought, I really have it going on today! I strutted into the salon and as the esthetician started Dremelling off my polish, she asked if I had grandkids.

A few points to consider: I am 51, and I look 51, and it would not be strange to have grandkids at this age. I also hope that one day I do have grandkids, what a gift that would be. I did think it was a bit of an odd question, but I don’t want to judge anyone who works in a salon and who has to make small talk day in and day out. I’ve said some weird things myself while teaching yoga. I did not think it was an offensive question in any way, and I did not take offense.

That was before I learned that the reason she asked was because she thought I was the grandmother of her teenage son’s best friend.

My feelings on that discovery are not unrelated to the feelings I had when I was plucking my facial hair, looking into my “daylight” 10x magnifying mirror and noticed three faint vertical lines going up my forehead, in between my eyebrows. At first I thought I had, somehow, made three perfect lines in my forehead serum, but no. These are permanent features. I have long accepted my horizontal lines, as they have evolved from a lifetime of raising my eyebrows or otherwise making happy faces.

But these lines seem to be a result of frowning, which I do not like.

In any case, I use The Ordinary Multi-Peptide HA Serum on my forehead every day. It doesn’t turn back time – nothing does, short of injections or surgery – but I do think it helps slow the line-developing process. Maybe I’m frowning more than I think I am! I will have to address that. First step: stop reading the news.

What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger?

My friend Sharyl (HI SHARYL) has been an inspiration for many years now. She took me under her wing when I first started teaching yoga, and she had me assist, co-teach, and then take over her Yoga for Stroke Survivors class. That experience taught me more about bodies and how they move than my entire teacher training, it taught me how to teach a single pose in multiple ways for multiple abilities, all at the same time. Her goal was to get people to move without pain, and to feel good in their own bodies.

During the pandemic Sharyl started teaching yoga with small weights, and then she got into strength training, around the same time that I did. But she got REALLY into strength training; she is a woman of small stature who can dead lift 210 pounds. She posted a video of her doing a pull-up, and I started thinking: could I do that too?

Just before my fiftieth birthday, I made a loose goal of working towards doing a pull-up by my fifty-first birthday. And I am now 51 and I cannot do that. But I can do three assisted, using exercise bands under my feet as support.

Obviously I move the bar first, but you can see the stretchy bands in this photo.

Maybe next year! But I have come so far; when I first started I could only hang, straight-armed, for ten seconds. But I kept working on it and working on it, and I have seen so much progress. Maybe I never will get to a point where I can do them unassisted, but I have gotten so much stronger in the process. Also progress, not perfection, right?

Fueled By Cake

Everyone knows I love cake, and, to the amusement of my friends, I really love a grocery store sheet cake. My husband delivered!

Every Sunday I make a big dinner, complete with dessert, and sometimes that dessert is cake. Earlier in the month I had a craving for lemon cake, and so I made an angel food one. Fun fact: you can easily do this by substituting half the water in a typical angel food cake mix with lemon juice. I think it would be even better with some lemon zest, but alas, I had no lemons.

It was perfect with raspberries and a dollop of non-dairy whipped cream.

Channelling Mr. T

When I was about fifteen, a boy told me that I wore “more jewelry than Mr. T,” and I have taken that to heart as my personal esthetic ever since. It’s a good goal in life.

I have switched into my Spring Uniform, which typically is a short-sleeved top and jeans, as opposed to my Winter Uniform, which is a sweater and jeans. The move to the short sleeves is a significant one, though, because it means I can wear multiple bracelets on my left wrist, without getting them jammed in clothing.

Except for the chakra bracelet, which was given to me years ago by a yoga student, I bought all these in Vietnam at the floating market.

My look reminds me of when I was about thirteen, and I was low-key terrified of my friend Julie’s very stern German father (HI JULIE). He looked at me one day, me with my armful of jelly and friendship bracelets, and said, gruffly, Why do you wear so many bracelets? before staring me down. Eeep! I don’t know! When later Julie told her dad – in front of me! – that I was scared of him, he said, sternly, Why? I like Nicole. Upon that statement, he stared at me silently, while I wished I could melt into the floor.

Outfit of the Month

Behold the Spring Uniform!

The big smile on my face tells you that we were on our way to the garden centre! Short sleeved chakra tee, Silver jeans which are “boyfriend cut,” Skecher Mary Janes, and my beloved old Lululemon bag. I don’t really think I need a bag this size anymore, but I just cannot quit it.

Isn’t that yellow shrub pretty? Its next stage is green leaves and flowers. It delivers beauty year-round. I feel like that should be a segue into a discussion about seasons, seasons of life, perimenopause, and all the sweatiness, but I will leave that for another post. In the meantime, what were your Favourites this month? Tell me everything. xo