Category Archives: Housewifery

Nicole’s Favourite Things: The Thanksgiving Edition

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Last Friday our roof was re-shingled and, as the old shingles were tossed into the big bin, so went my sanity. My husband asked why I didn’t just leave the house for the day, but it happened to be one of the only days that I had slated in my week to get some work done at home. All day long was the scraping of the old shingles off the roof, then the hammering and nailing and sudden startling bangs that made me wonder if something had just fallen through the ceiling. Through it all was the faint, tinny sound of the roofers’ radio playing. The music was especially audible in the bathroom, so whenever I went in there I could hear the strains of various popular songs of yesteryear. Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but here’s my number, so call me, maybe. It wasn’t the music that I would have expected the roofers to be listening to.

Fortunately both house and garage are now done, to Barkley’s extreme relief. Having a sound like someone is loudly knocking at the door for eight hours will stress a dog out, not to mention seeing unknown persons in the yard. The occasional shingle would fly off the roof in unexpected ways, and so I was paranoid to let the dog out, or have the children come home, lest someone get concussed.

September flew by but this week has been a long one, and it is only Wednesday. I have been feeling a bit dreary and complain-y the past couple of days; this morning an article entitled How To Complain Less popped up on my Facebook feed. Oh, omnipotent Facebook. The article was prefaced with Complaining is almost never a positive response to our circumstance. See also: feeling judged by my Facebook feed.

It’s true, complaining gets us nowhere, but on occasion we must all vent a little, lest we explode, like when Homer gives up swearing and ends up kicking down his shoddily-made doghouse. So I will own up to being a big complain-y pants yesterday, and will make up for it with things I’m thankful for right now. ‘Tis the season for thankfulness, at least up here in Canada.

Nicole’s Favourite Things: The Thanksgiving Edition

Nature Is Wearing Her Prettiest Clothes, But She’s Also Kind Of Nude

Sure, most of the leaves are already off the trees at the dog park, but there are still some pretty fall colours out there.

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The trees might be naked, but look at that sky!

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The trees are still in full colour at my parents’ place.

Boring, Yet Somehow Satisfying

I have become a person who has an actual, strong preference for dish soap, and that preference is this:

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This is the part where I say no, this is not a sponsored post and no, I did not receive anything for free. I just really, really like this dish soap. Don’t we all have funny little frugalities? Mine is with dish soap; I usually buy the Palmolive brand that is “Original” scent, because it’s about $0.50 cheaper. But for some reason I SPLURGED on this brand and now I don’t feel like I can ever go back. I get much more than fifty cents’ worth of satisfaction from this Oxy brand. The marginal benefit I receive is much, much higher than the marginal cost, for all you economics types.

Stop! Smoothie Time.

My current favourite is spinach, almond butter, almond milk, frozen banana, and cinnamon. It has gotten to the point where I eagerly look forward to smoothie time, because I love this combination immoderately.

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Ugly, and yet beautiful.

Pasta Night Is The Greatest Night Of All

Wednesday night is Pasta Night in the Boyhouse, and some of us are happier about that than others. I love pasta night, and I love that I have this sundried tomato sauce simmering on the stove right now. It smells divine, it tastes divine, and it makes enough for three Pasta Nights. I roast cauliflower and zucchini and add it to my pasta, and it is just the best, most satisfying meal of the week.

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I’ll Make Him An Offer He Can’t Refuse. And In The Morning, I’m Making Waffles

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On our morning constitutional, up at my parents’ place this weekend, I spotted this guy. There’s nothing like a severed stuffed donkey head to make you wonder what’s going on with the neighbours.

Those are the things I’m thankful for and happy about today. I hope you have many things that are making you smile – perhaps your own severed donkey head? I don’t know what’s going on in your life. Happy Thanksgiving! xo

This is fine.

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I consider myself to be a pretty upbeat, optimistic person, but this morning I read a post about being prepared for emergencies like possible rioting due to civil unrest and it made me feel a bit like this:

And a little bit like this:

 

So, anyway, let’s think of other things. Let’s not think of how I’ve been Kondo-ing everything, including donating all my extra towels and sheets, and working to NOT stockpile up on things, etcetera. EVERYTHING IS FINE WE ARE ALL GOING TO BE OKAY WORRYING DOES NOTHING EXCEPT DRAIN STRENGTH TAKE DEEP BREATHS HAKUNA MATATA.

What I really need to do is adopt my husband’s attitude of No Matter What Happens The Next Day Basically Everyone Will Just Get Up And Go To Work. Whether or not this is true, it’s good for my mental health, serenity now serenity now serenity now.

Speaking of serenity, Facebook Memories reminded me that it was three years ago today that I found mouse droppings in my kitchen. So, it was only three years ago that I had complete nervous breakdown and considered burning the house to the ground to start fresh, but really just cried a lot and spent hours disinfecting everything, buying pantry staples, and transferring all said foodstuffs into impenetrable glass and stainless steel containers. Three years! How time does fly. We haven’t had a mouse issue since and my mental state is much, much better for it. Serenity now.

I’m so glad we have the Facebook Memories feature, or the anniversary of that incident would have passed unmarked. What an age we live in.

Today is Picture Day at the junior high, and it is also the day the grade sevens start their swimming module in phys ed. Maybe the school gets a kickback for Picture Retake Day, I don’t know. I do know that grade seven gym is in second period on Tuesdays, so the likelihood of them all getting their photos done prior to being in the pool seems small. It doesn’t really matter to me, since my short-haired son looks pretty much the same no matter what happens, but I feel indignant on behalf of all those who might take pains with their appearance, only to have those pains be for naught. I think I would have ohmygod literally died when I was that age, because how could we ever have teased our bangs to appropriate height in the small amount of time given for changing? How could we have reapplied our coloured mascara and crimped our hair in only ten minutes?

To be totally honest, I never did have coloured mascara nor a hair crimper, but oh, how I wanted one. I had to be satisfied with a Toni home perm.

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Some brief updates: the carts are gone from the alley. I repeat, the carts are gone. They have either died in their gang turf war and their pieces are buried in the gravel, or someone took them away. We will never know the answer.

What I do know, however, is that there was an unknown black cat in my backyard yesterday. Jake and I were walking home and Barkley started lunging and pulling on his leash like nobody’s business. Nobody, that is, but the strange cat that was sitting in full view near our back door. Jake offered to go shoo it away while I held Barkley, and when he turned around it had disappeared. We looked all around and couldn’t see it, so we concluded it hopped over the fence. To be safe I put the going-insane dog in the house, and Jake and I followed suit. As we emptied his backpack and chatted, Jake suddenly yelled “THE CAT CAME BACK!” and instead of answering with the very next day as would be my instinct, I ran to the back door. We looked again and the cat was gone. We were just about to go inside and question our sanity, but Jake found it hidden underneath a potentilla. It escaped over the fence and we watched it scurry away, thankful for a few things: that Barkley was still in the house, albeit having some kind of dog-stroke, that there was a cat and it wasn’t just our imagination, and that it was GONE. I don’t know whose cat it was but I don’t need a) Barkley to attack anyone’s beloved pet, or b) Barkley to get scratched by some unknown cat and therefore get Cat Scratch Fever, which I assume is a real, tangible threat.

I mean, I have enough to worry about without that. Civil unrest, for one.

I’m not a cat person by any means; I never know what cats are doing, I find their sudden movements startling, and I much prefer the straightforward, tail-wagginess of dogs. However, it’s too bad that cat didn’t show up on my doorstep three years ago. I could have saved myself several bouts of hysteria.

A slight blip in my magical journey

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“Things seem a lot busier with your yoga teacher training.” My husband said this to me over the weekend and it feels like A Massive Understatement. Saturday morning I got up early to bake a cake, then showered, bought groceries, took the kids to karate, and came home to frost and assemble the cake prior to heading off to the Saturday session of teacher training. Fifteen minutes after I got home in the late afternoon, the guests for Jake’s sleepover birthday party arrived. So things have been a bit hectic.

Happy hectic, though. The sleepover was a huge success; I really like the boys’ friends and we did get some sleep as well. The kids didn’t get much sleep, but I got a decent amount, so that’s all that counts, in my opinion. Everyone was in bed early last night and this morning we all felt pretty much rested for the busy week ahead.

I guess I’m not used to this level of busyness – there is something going on every night this week, except for tonight. Between karate, the Welcome Back Picnic, Meet The Teacher Night, and yoga teacher training, my evenings are all filled up. Plus, we have a very special day coming up – Jake is turning eleven!

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That’s one of my favourite photos, ever. And hey, I’m a brunette! And I have yet to develop those deep horizontal forehead lines. Please bear with me while I admire my youth for a moment, along with my super-cute Patriots fan.

So it was a busy, fun weekend, marred only by one little incident. As you know, I’ve been Kondo-ing my house, and all the bags and boxes of things to donate have been sitting in our pantry/ storage area. I gave a few boxes of my favourite things (older Lululemon, pretty sweaters, a dress) to a friend, the children’s outgrown winter coats, snowpants, hats and mitts are all going to the school for newcomers, and I had about twenty large bags and boxes that were slated for donation. My husband has been asking me every day WHEN those bags and boxes would be gone, to which I answered austerely, Saturday. Saturday they would all be gone.

A local charity, which regularly calls me for clothing/ toy/ household items had arranged to pick everything up on Saturday. I stipulated that it would be a large pickup, and they said that would be no problem, as long as I had the donations out by 8:00 am Saturday morning. For days I had been slowly bringing bags and boxes up every time I went downstairs, in preparation. Here’s a sample of what my front entry looked like, and this didn’t even include all of them:

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So when I got home on Saturday afternoon and the bags were still sitting on my front step, my husband was all sorts of unhappy. We waited…and waited…and waited…until finally, we reached a state of acceptance: the bags were not going to be picked up that day. One of my friends texted me to see if we’d had a pickup, because she was waiting for one as well.

Insert slight frowny face here.

Rain was in the forecast, and my husband was unwilling to have the tripping hazards back in our house, and so they are currently sitting in his truck, waiting to find a new home. In The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, Marie Kondo talks about wishing our possessions a happy journey as they find their way to new owners. In my case, the journey seems to be stalled. I hope my old sheets and the Ally McBeal soundtrack aren’t feeling sad that they are in limbo right now. Don’t worry, guys. Someone is going to love you again soon.

New (School) Year, New Me

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I have that autumnal Back To School Energy right now, that feeling that it’s A New Year, And A New You, and I’m brimming with goals and things to do and filling my days up with Productive Activities And Work-Related Things. Either it’s a coping mechanism for the house being dead quiet all day and my birds flying the nest, or it’s just a natural part of my yearly cycle; whichever it is, it’s a good feeling to Cross Things Off The Lists.

I am almost done Kondo-ing the entire house! I only have the kids’ schoolwork and artwork bins to take care of – things that probably should wait until AFTER the first week of school, because EMOTIONS – and I probably should take care of the storage room filled with old paint cans and, apparently, shoe boxes. Well, the paint cans can go to the firehall, and I think we can all agree that this will be a very pleasant task indeed, although not as pleasant as when the kids were small and the firefighters would kindly let them sit in the truck and give them fire safety colouring books. There’s a big, big difference in being an early-thirties mom with two adorable little boys, and being a forty-one year old woman lugging paint cans by herself. I mean, they probably aren’t going to give me the tour or let me sit in the truck.

That reminds me, I really should clean out the schoolwork bins sooner rather than later, because when Jake was in preschool I chaperoned the field trip to the firehall. I rarely volunteered for field trips, and so that probably indicates my feelings about the firehall. Anyway, the firefighters challenged two of the parents to a race, to see who could put on the firefighter’s outfit the fastest. Is it called an outfit? I don’t know. You know what I mean – the boots, overall pants, coat, helmet and everything. I was chosen to be one of those parents. Somewhere in one of those bins is a photo the preschool teacher sent me, of me in the firefighter outfit with Jake.

I should probably mention that I won the race. It was against the lone father who decided to chaperone. IN YOUR FACE, STEVE.

(His name may or may not have been Steve. It’s actually killing me that I can’t remember his name.)

My husband has been pretty busy these days, lots of regular stuff plus doing little things around the house like repainting the bathroom after filling giant holes in the wall. The contractors installed towel racks but didn’t use wall studs, and after four years one finally gave way, leaving gaping holes in the drywall. Luckily my husband is a handy kind of guy, but it still took a lot of work and a couple of trips to Rona and Home Depot to get new towel hooks. All of which is to say, I decided that I would take the car in to get an oil change, which is something – BLUE JOB – that he would normally do.

I know, I know, it’s totally retro of me to refer to vehicle maintenance as a Blue Job, but that’s the way it is in this house. I am totally cool with it.

Some of you may remember what happened the last time I took the car for an oil change, but this time, I thought, would be different. For one thing, there’s no nail bar at this dealership. For another, this dealership doesn’t require appointments but instead prides itself on quick oil changes. Or, express lubes.

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It sounds so dirty!

Anyway, my husband had informed me that there would be no charge, something about included with extended warranty, blah blah blah car stuff blah blah. When I got there, I confirmed this with the fellow who checked me in, and after Looking It Up In The System, he said that indeed, there would be no charge. Yay! I went to the waiting room to stare at the tropical fish tank, read Do Your OM Thing, and admire the chutzpah of a woman wearing the absolutely most colourful floor-length caftan I had ever seen.

You can probably guess the punchline here. When the lady at the service desk called me over, she charged me, and informed me that our two remaining free oil changes would not be free after all, for reasons which remain mysterious. I never know what to do in situations like this. I should probably be more assertive, and squeaky-wheel-ish, but I guess I’m not. When it comes to vehicle maintenance, I have absolutely no confidence in my ability to deal with things. I would have called my husband at work, but I knew he was on a conference call. So I paid it, went home, and texted my husband.

A livid phone call to the service manager, which I was not party to, has resulted in the admittance that the woman at the counter had made a mistake, a credit at the dealership, and much annoyance on my part. Why. WHY does dealing with vehicle stuff have to be so fraught for me? Why do I have no confidence in myself when it comes to cars? When am I going to figure out how to open the hood of my minivan? These are all very good questions and perhaps, in my quest for Kondo-ing everything, New Year, New Me, and reorganizing my life, I should work on this. Personal growth, the automobile edition.

Spoiled children and first seven jobs

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In my last post, I promised a photo of me looking disapproving at the amusement park, and today was supposed to be that day. Except that the sky is grey, again, and threatening to thunderstorm, AGAIN, and so I am just looking disapproving in my kitchen:

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The thought of packing up snacks, bug spray, and the children, and then driving twenty-five minutes, only to get rained on or electrocuted is disheartening to say the least, and so it looks like another somewhat indoorsy day.

I read a piece in the New Yorker called Spoiled Rotten, in which an anthropologist studied families in Los Angeles and in an Amazonian tribe, to see the difference in the role children played in the family structure. Predictably, the children in LA were complete spoiled brats who refused to tie their own shoes or fetch their own silverware from the drawer, whereas the Amazonian children were significantly contributing to the household, and society in general. In the natural order of things, of course, the LA children turn into thirtysomethings whose moms are still doing their laundry while they make YouTube videos in the basement, and the Amazonian children turn into functioning adults who go out in the world to seek their fortune, just like fairy tale heroes of yore.

It really made me think, being that it was a think-piece and all. Of course, for narrative purposes, the author would have chosen to write about the absolutely worst LA children and the most self-sufficient Amazonian tribe in order to get the starkest contrasts. However. It had me wondering if my kids could be doing more, if I expect too little of them.

Don’t get me wrong, I feel like I expect a lot. I expect excellent behaviour wherever we go. I expect them to get good grades and work very hard year-long, including summer worksheets and writing projects. I expect them to look people in the eye when they are speaking, to shake hands when meeting someone for the first time – and to put some meat into those handshakes, no dead fish hands please – I expect them to introduce themselves and say “Nice to meet you.” I expect them to make their beds, put away laundry, help with yard work and household chores, set the table, clear the table, load the dishwasher, and feed the dog. They often help chop vegetables and they help my husband put up and take down exterior decorations for Christmas and Halloween, Jake knows how to change a tire and jack up the car and Mark helps with the pre-winter maintenance of the air conditioner and shovels the sidewalk.

So they aren’t like the LA kids in the essay, and – PLEASE GOD – they won’t be living in my basement in 20 years. But there are a lot of things that I knew how to do at their age that they don’t. For example, I used to babysit a lot, and I would cook lunch for my little charges all the time, mostly Kraft Dinner or Zoodles, but I knew how to do it. Only yesterday did I show the boys how to turn on the stove. They have never cleaned a bathroom and their ability to sweep the floor leaves much to be desired. Also, much to be picked up by Roomba.

Speaking of Roomba, he continues to be the naughty little pet that we all love. We love his industry, and we laugh when he bumps into a side table and ends up with a piece of paper jauntily riding atop his little body. Roomba is wearing a hat! we say joyfully. A few times Roomba somehow got tangled up in the toilet paper, leading to a giant shredded mess all over the basement. Oh, Roomba! we shake our heads at his well-meaning but disastrous attempt. Just a few days ago, the boys ran upstairs in a state of excitement. Roomba, they said, had tried to eat the laces on my husband’s trainers, and had dragged the shoe all over the basement.

I feel like this could be the start of a very exciting reality show, or maybe even a sitcom. It would be at least as entertaining as any of the ones currently on air. The Adventures of Roomba! Roomba would surely be a contributing member of society, not like those spoiled children in LA.

Speaking of (semi) spoiled children, I must now send them to the Co-Op by themselves to buy a loaf of bread since we have, inexplicably, ran out. Never mind that we all were buying cigarettes for our parents at the corner store at age seven, and the six-year-old Amazonian children are catching and cleaning all the shellfish for the tribe to have for dinner, I am PROUD that my children can go to the Co-Op by themselves, armed only with a fiver, my Co-Op number, and a reusable bag. And then – AND THEN – they can take that damn loaf of bread and make sandwiches from it for their lunches because I am raising my children to be competent adults, and also they don’t eat Zoodles or Kraft Dinner.

Oh! But I had forgotten what I had been actually planning to write this post about, and no, it wasn’t actually the New Yorker piece. What can I say, I digress easily. There has been a meme going around about Your First Seven Jobs and I thought it would be fun if you could play along too. What were yours? Here are mine:

  1. Babysitter (this should be obvious from the entire post)
  2. Page at the public library, where I shelved books and impressed the interviewers with my knowledge of the Dewey Decimal System and my volunteer work as a candy striper at a nursing home.
  3. Pizza Hut employee, where I did all jobs from bussing tables to answering phones to making pizza to being a cashier. It was a fun job in that I had a lot of friends there, but it was also a terrible job because people LOVE to scream at the teenage employees when their pizza does not arrive in a timely fashion.
  4. Salesgirl at a ladies’ clothing store, where I discovered I did not want to sell anything, ever again.
  5. Waitress at Moxies’ – another fun job where I also discovered that working in customer service is very hard. This job made me empathetic every single time I had a meal out that went awry for any reason.
  6. Beer sample girl. If you want a job where you get hit on by disgusting, much older alcoholics, and everyone treats you like a brainless idiot, this is the job for you! I finally quit in a fit of rage when the company got a contract with Busch, and I would have been required to wear a Busch bathing suit to hand out samples. In a freezing cold liquor store. NO THANK YOU, YOU MAY KEEP YOUR SEVEN DOLLARS AN HOUR.
  7. Summer student at a petroleum company. This was my first taste of corporate life, and I got to use my linear programming skills, so it was great. It ended up leading to my first “real” job that didn’t involve food, customer service, or bathing suits.

Please play along! What were your first seven jobs? All of these jobs took place within the span of a decade, which seems amazing for some reason.

Life moves pretty fast, if you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.

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Not all news is bad, people. Today I learned that you can make crispy pan-fried chickpeas on the stove top! Just like amazing, addictive, roasted chickpeas, but without turning on the oven! This is an incredible breakthrough in chickpea technology and I, for one, am going to try it out as soon as possible.

This week has been very fun for the boys; they have been enjoying karate camp immensely. Every day they wake up excited for what’s in store, and then every afternoon I pick them up and they are filthy, exhausted, and very happy. Meanwhile, Barkley and I have reverted to our usual school-year routine. When everyone is home Barkley finds it hard to relax: there is always someone around and who knows what adventures the day will bring? But when it’s just me and him, well. We go for a walk and then he sleeps the day away, waking only when he hears food being prepared or when he decides he’s had enough of his dog bed and goes outside to sleep in the sun.

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The corner of the deck also works for napping.

Passed-out dog aside, there are so many interesting and beautiful things in the world, if you just keep your eyes open. In the words of Ferris Bueller,

Pardon my French, but Cameron is so tight that if you stuck a lump of coal up his ass, in two weeks you’d have a diamond.

Whoops, wrong quote.

Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.

Here are some of the things I’ve seen when I stopped and looked around.

Cherry’s Got Back

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We can’t understand why our enrollment numbers are down.

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A Perfect Avocado: Next I’m Going To Find A Unicorn

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If I Eat Any More Strawberries I Will Have To Make Friends Called Lemon Meringue and Huckleberry Pie

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One Of These Things Is Not Like The Others, One Of These Things Just Isn’t The Same

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I’m Not Talking About Moving In, And I Don’t Want To Change Your Life, But There’s A Warm Wind Blowing, The Stars Are Out, And

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So stop what you’re doing, look around, and see the amazing things in the world. xo

All I do is win, win, win, no matter what.

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The sun has come out! The sun has come out! It was a wee bit too late to save our Sunday afternoon barbeque for fourteen people, but better late than never. On Sunday my husband and I looked at the sky with nervous hope; about twenty minutes before our guests arrived, the sky turned black, the wind turned icy, and the rain started pouring and didn’t stop. That was a bit disappointing but I shall repeat: the sun has come out!

The boys are at karate camp this week, so I’m extra glad for the sunny weather. I can’t imagine how miserable the camp would be if the weather had been what it was like last week. Mind you, last year there was one day that was twelve degrees and raining and they still went swimming at the heated outdoor pool so I guess the show must go on. Swimming isn’t happening this year, though, as was evident when we pulled into the parking lot and saw a giant digger and dump truck, and where the pool had been previously was merely a pile of rubble. There’s always next year! In any case, if yesterday is any indication, they will be having an EPIC week full of karate and water fights and obstacle courses.

I am austerely taking this opportunity to get a lot of work done. It’s amazing how much one can get done without having near-constant conversations about The Simpsons, Overwatch, and – alarmingly – Grand Theft Auto. Mom, there’s a guy on GTA who does yoga! Ah, yes, thanks for letting me know about the criminals and how they spend their time when they are not stealing cars or shooting people.

Grand Theft Auto is just one in a string of examples of things I never thought I would allow, but here we are. Although “allow” is probably the wrong word for it; it’s more like I was railroaded into this “decision.”

The other day I bought a pair of athletic socks, and this is actually a much bigger deal than it appears. I hate, hate, hate spending money on socks, for some reason, but I especially hate spending money on athletic socks. I don’t know why. I don’t know what my issue is but it probably would take a team of therapists to get things straight. In any case, I realized that the two pairs of athletic socks that I own are on their last legs (feet?). One pair I purchased for spin class, last attended in 2001, and the other pair I purchased for golf. My last golf game was somewhere in the first half of 2003.

I probably needed a new pair of socks, is what I’m trying to get at.

We all know my love of all things lululemon, and so I purchased a pair of socks from there. They are pink, to match my trainers, and they have all kinds of claims like “micro-cushioning” and “sweat-wicking” and plus did I mention they are pink? Anyway, they were a bit pricey but I figured that by the time I bought a new pair, somewhere in the vicinity of 2030, I would have gotten my money’s worth from them. Per-unit usage and cost-benefit analysis and all that. “Micro-cushioning” isn’t cheap, you know.

Anyway, I took the socks from the packaging and I was faced with one of lululemon’s signature inspirational sayings. Except that it was less inspirational, and more depressing. It said that women, on average, walk five kilometers more than men. FIVE KILOMETERS. I thought of all the women in the world, walking for hours to find clean water and whatnot, and I thought that was probably the least inspirational thing I could have read on my sock packaging. Because honestly? I’m not sure that Fitbit-wearing women in North America are walking five kilometers more than their male counterparts. I mean, I haven’t seen the data or anything, but that doesn’t seem credible, which makes the “on average” thing that much more depressing.

This is why I don’t have a Fitbit. Well, not exactly, it’s not because I would become depressed thinking about the plight of women in disadvantaged situations, although every time I think about it I do. The real reason I don’t have a Fitbit is because I would turn into David Sedaris. I have somewhat of a highly competitive nature and would probably spend my days trying to kill it on the Fitbit. All work, childcare, and sanity would go out the window as I would spend my days walking briskly to get more steps. This is the reason that my husband will no longer play Monopoly with me, and also the reason I secretly fumed at my sister-in-law’s brother for winning Shopkins Bingo at my niece’s birthday party. It’s bad enough that I have a step counter on my phone; if I had a Fitbit I’d probably railroad my husband into getting one too, and then see if I could walk five kilometers more than him on a daily basis. Actually, I’d probably make it six for good measure and to get back at him for the Grand Theft Auto thing.

Well, it’s better for my marriage, sanity, and everything else to not have a Fitbit, and meanwhile, I am enjoying my new socks very much. If I was walking an extra five (or six) kilometers a day, I’d probably have to spring for another pair, and that is just a bridge too far.