Category Archives: Housewifery

I Am Strong, I Am Invincible, I Am Never Taking The Car In For Servicing Again

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There are some chores, or “care tasks,” that only I do around the house. For example, I and I alone obtain groceries and make dinner Every Single Day, clean the hard-water marks off the shower doors, and take the Dove soap box from the bathroom countertop and place it in the recycling when a new bar is put into the shower, no matter who puts the new bar into the shower, even though every single person walks by the recycling bin many times a day. Sometimes when I feel resentful about these little chores, I remember that there are many things that happen around the house with no intervention on my part. I don’t think that I have changed a lightbulb since the 90s, for example. The dishwasher is almost always emptied by one of my sons, sometimes very late at night when they nosing around the kitchen for a snack, but hey, I don’t have to do it. The lawn gets mowed and the sidewalks get shoveled, the gutters are cleaned, and toilet paper rolls are always replaced and, mysteriously, the old cardboard roll is recycled at least half the time, rather than left to sit on the bathroom countertop like its friend the Dove soap box.

The biggest task that I do not ever deal with, however, is vehicular maintenance. I have a mental block when it comes to cars and it is only recently that a light can come on in the car and I do NOT start breathing rapidly and blinking away tears. Between my handy younger son and my husband, the snow and all-season tires are put on, taken off, and rotated when needed, and all the maintenance is taken care of. I don’t even know how to open the hood of the car, let alone check my oil, and I do not want to learn.

About a month ago my husband took my car out and said in an alarmed way that it was overdue for an oil change. At the dealership where we bought the car in 2013, we get free oil changes for…life? I don’t know. My husband has been under a lot of stress with his job; this is nothing new, he has been under incredible stress with his job since 2018, but it has been significantly ramped up in the last few months, which is how he missed his internal alarm that somehow knows when all the cars need to get oil changes.

Well. I am woman! I am strong! I am invincible! I decided that I would call the dealership to see if we needed an appointment for an oil change, or if I could just drive through, like in the pre-Covid days. I spoke with a very nice person who looked up my car history and said that I was actually due for maintenance, and that they were booking into December, and so I scheduled an appointment for last Tuesday, December 6 at 9:00 am. I hung up feeling very proud of myself until my husband asked do we really need maintenance or were you upsold. Well. How would I know. HOW WOULD I KNOW. My feelings of self-satisfaction were immediately eclipsed by feelings of rage and resentment that this was even a question for me AFTER I CALLED THE DEALERSHIP ALL BY MYSELF BECAUSE I AM WOMAN HEAR ME ROAR.

The car WAS due for maintenance, by the way.

Here’s a funny thing about Calgary weather, for those of you who don’t know: it is extremely volatile. Temperatures can rise and fall twenty degrees in a twenty-four hour period. We can go from mild to painfully cold and back again in no time at all. It just so happened to be a very volatile week, temperature-wise, and Tuesday just happened to be the day that was marked by Extreme Cold, Snow, and Blowing Snow. Basically, a blizzard.

My younger son needed to be at school early, as his gym class was going curling, and so I dropped him off at 8:05 in time to get the bus. It is generally a twenty-minute drive to the dealership, but conditions were bad, and I thought that even if I got to the dealership before nine, I could just drop the car early. My husband thought that the appointment would be a quick one, and that I should take a book with me in case I just wanted to stay there for an hour. That sounded great to me; an uninterrupted hour of reading, while drinking probably bad coffee? Lovely.

My twenty-minute drive turned into fifty minutes of white-knuckle driving on roads that were either black ice or with lanes completely obscured by snow. There was so much morning traffic, the sun was barely coming up, and the snow was blowing, making visibility very low. By the time I got to the dealership, it was just before nine, and I was completely frazzled. I was also appreciative of the very handsome, bearded young man who checked my car in to its appointment; it is unusual for me to encounter such a person, let alone in the morning. I asked him approximately how long it would take, thinking that if it was only an hour I’d be happy to alternate looking at him and reading my book, but he said it would be three hours and he would order me an Uber.

This is where I should note that this was my first Uber ride ever, and I have joined the modern age at last. I also knew from listening to Were You Raised By Wolves that if someone else orders an Uber for you, then even the tip is taken care of, so I was doubly excited. My Uber driver was very friendly, and we ended up in a long and involved conversation about the merits of Calgary weather versus that of Winnipeg, where he originally hailed from, as well as crime rates, housing prices, and gangs. The conversation got so involved that he missed my exit, which, you guys, maybe I need to talk less? I am aware that I am the architect of my own problems, like my ninety-minute dental appointments and, apparently, Uber drivers missing turnoffs. With the conditions, it was not easy to adjust for the wrong turn, but eventually I did make it home, close to ten o’clock.

I quickly put on all the layers to walk Rex, thinking I only had a couple of hours to do that and then shower before I would have to head out again. I zoomed around, and then waited. And waited. Three hours became four, and then five, at which point I called the dealership and they said it was still in the shop. By this time my older son was home and offered to drive me when I needed it, rather than taking an Uber. Possibly he worried that if I took another Uber, I would end up chatting too much and would never make it to the dealership. I don’t know. I waited.

Finally, nearly seven hours after dropping off the car, my son came into the living room, texting. Dad says it’s time for us to go now. Wait, what. The dealership did not call me, but instead called my husband, to tell him that the car needed brake pads along with something else, you know what, I have no idea what it was. It was probably better that they called him but still I felt slighted. What happened to being woman and hearing me roar? Then, my husband just texted my SON to tell him to take me to the dealership, and no one thought to text ME. Well, anyway, after a day of waiting around, I was happy to finally have some closure, and we went for another hair-raising drive on icy, snow-covered roads with little visibility, and now it was getting dark, too.

By the time we got there, it was well after four o’clock, and I was hoping to get home before the sun went down completely. I found my car in the lot, only to discover that it had been in the very warm shop and then taken out into the minus 23 degree weather, which meant that the windows were all completely frosted over ON THE INSIDE. Have you ever tried to scrape windows from the inside, with a long-handled scraper that is curved FOR USE ON THE OUTSIDE? It was not easy. Between my near-useless scraping, trying not to take out my own eye with the end of the snow brush, and the defrost on high, I finally had enough visibility to get back on the road, fifteen minutes later. By this point, the sunset had happened, and I was driving in the dark, in the blowing snow, on ice and in rush-hour traffic.

The sole upside was that by the time I was near home, my son was almost done wrestling practice, so I swung by the school to pick him up. While I waited, I stared out the window, completely exhausted, and vowed to never do another car maintenance thing ever again. I can roar in other ways. Maybe I’ll change a lightbulb.

Weekly Reading

Phosphorescence. After a prolonged illness and several surgeries, the author of this incredibly interesting and well-researched book started to consider phosphorescence, or the things that make the world light up. Including ourselves, from within. She discusses modern lives and the lack of nature, how paying attention to life brings joy, and introduces the concept of freudenfruede, the idea that others’ successes bring us personal happiness – the opposite of schadenfreude. As Moira from Schitts’ Creek says, when one of us shines, we all shine. Also, note for Erin (HI ERIN) there is a Yiddish word, nachas, which indicates pride in someone else’s accomplishments, usually our children. I really liked that part; there is enough for all of us, success isn’t part of a finite pie, and we can derive joy from others’ happiness. We are not in a zero-sum game, here.

One thing I did not like in this book was the author’s discussion about complaining about small problems in our lives, and how we should never do it. I get it. When you are near-death, or are experiencing a devastating illness and day-to-day agonizing pain, I am sure you would welcome all the little daily irritants as just proof that you’re alive. Nevertheless I don’t think it’s healthy to say that no one should complain ever because that seems like a recipe for ulcers and mental illness. Of course, this is coming from a person who just wrote 1500 words about taking her car in for servicing. STILL. A paper cut isn’t a broken leg, but it still hurts, and we can acknowledge that. Taking a car in for servicing during a blizzard isn’t mourning the loss of a loved one, but we can still talk about it.

Other than that, the book really was lovely. As a memoir, well, I’d say only about a third at most can be considered memoir, but it’s a fascinating look at faith, grace, justice, and the pursuit of silence. 

This Time Tomorrow.
If you know how I feel about time travel as a literary device and concept (I loathe it) you might be surprised that I picked this book up at all, as the premise is a woman travelling from her 40th birthday to her 16th, and back again. I really like the author so I read it. I still don’t like time travel but I did enjoy this book despite that. It’s thought provoking in that the trajectory of our lives can change so easily. I often think, if I had done this instead of that, would I still be here? It’s interesting to think of all the little paths that we choose and don’t choose, and how they create our lives.

Saturday was our two month Rex-aversary, and it’s hard to remember what it was like without him! Well, my reading glasses didn’t constantly get wagged off the coffee table, I guess that was what it was like. I hope you all have a cozy week – with no vehicular issues! – with lots of treats and other lovely things. xo

I Moustache You A Question

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I had my hair cut this week – and, as a complete sidebar, it was the best cut I have ever had in my life and I have never before been so happy with my hair, in all of my 47 years of life – and the salon owner was there, as he usually is. I don’t normally chat with him much but I noticed he was sporting a thick moustache. It was then that I realized that, apart from the inhabitants of the Boyhouse, I do not see many men on a daily basis.

Pre-pandemic I would have men in my yoga classes, I worked with men, I would see men in various events and meetings, and every November a large number of them would suddenly have moustaches, and I would wonder to myself did he always have that moustache, or is this a Movember thing?

Many years ago, my sons were in a karate school, and one day when I was waiting for them to be dismissed I recognized a man waiting for his son; we had been friends in university but I hadn’t seen him since. I said hi and introduced myself, and we chatted for not ten seconds before he pointed to his face and said “Excuse the moustache, I’m doing this Movember thing.”

Before we get too far into things, I want you to know, dear reader, that I am not anti-moustache. In fact, if I let things go in the hair removal department, I would certainly be sporting a handlebar myself. I think many men suit a moustache, particularly men of a certain generation: I’m thinking specifically of Tom Selleck and Sam Elliott. But moustaches in general are not my favourite, and I am working hard to keep this opinion to myself.

My younger son, for reasons known only to him, has decided to grow a moustache for the month of November. Possibly beyond November. We don’t know. Only time will tell. The last time such a shaving-mutiny happened in my house was at the very beginning of the pandemic when the boys, at that time aged 16 and 14 1/2, decided they would not shave until the pandemic was over. Well. At the time they probably thought it would be a month or maybe six weeks, and in fact, my younger son thankfully did shave around May 2020. My older son held on until the fall, when he saw a photo of himself and was horrified.

This time is different. There are many guys at the high school who have full beards, and while my son is not one of them, he does have quite a dark, relatively thick moustache, for a 17-year-old. I don’t love it but it’s his face, it’s just facial hair, and our children are their own people with their own body autonomy and ability to make their own choices. Right? I think of when I was 17; if someone had told me they didn’t like my army boots with babydoll dresses, or that some day I might regret the long, spiral permed hair with giant bangs, or that Revlon’s Love That Red lipstick was a bit much for math class at 9 in the morning, I would have wanted to tell them to go fuck themselves. So I support my son’s facial hair choice, even if I prefer his face clean-shaven.

Many, many years ago, I remember a woman on Twitter who went by the moniker PhD In Parenting, which is a pretty bold statement, in my mind. Personally, I think of myself more as a High School Graduate But In The Remedial Stream In Parenting, so this is not expert advice, but I think the key to parenting at any age, but especially teens, is to treat our kids in a way that we would also want to be treated. I often think of that poem “Your children are not your children,” because they need to make choices and decisions and live their lives in a way that might not always jive with my way.

So far it’s worked for me. I acknowledge that I am very, very fortunate in that all our personalities get along in this house, and that we have not had any major issues. This is, I think, more luck of the draw than parenting, but sometimes I get praised in a way that I don’t think I deserve.

My younger son and his moustache have been seeing a podiatrist for about six weeks now, and every time we go there it’s like a Celebration Of The Wonder Who Is My Son. It’s quite over the top and I love it. This reaction from the staff is possibly because he appears to be the only patient under 65 in the office, and hence is a bit of a novelty, but he is truly a very kind and polite person. The receptionist and nurse fawn all over him, and when he does something simple like ask them how they are doing, they gush about his manners and congratulate me on raising such an incredible young man.

I accept this praise and congratulations wholeheartedly, but I honestly think parenting is only part of the story. It’s an important part, to be sure, but so much of the way a person presents themselves to the world is on them. So much of a person is just the way they ARE, and that leads to a philosophy I strongly adhere to in both parenting and in life: we need to meet people where they are and accept them for who they are. We need to accept them even when they are different from us, even when they have our own traits that we don’t like, and even when they decide that moustaches are the way to go.

Weekly Reading

The Beauty of Living Twice. Two things: 1) Sharon Stone has led an incredibly interesting and meaningful life, 2) she is a very intelligent woman but intelligence doesn’t always translate to “good writer.” I think this book could have benefitted from a ghostwriter. Her journey is fascinating but I was very put off by the choppy writing style. I didn’t realize she had suffered a major stroke – and, apparently, massive medical incompetence to the point of malpractice – and nearly died. A lot of this book is about her healing journey, her activism, and her embrace of Buddhism. The writing kind of wrecked the story for me, sadly, because I think it’s a good one. She overcame poverty and childhood sexual and physical abuse, as well as her health issues and “being too old” to get work in Hollywood, post-stroke.

How To Keep House While Drowning. I heard an interview with this author, and I knew I wanted to read her book. She was due to have her second baby and, given that she suffered postpartum depression with her first, she set up a whole support network to help in the weeks after giving birth. She arranged for meal delivery, help with housework, for her older child to go to preschool four days a week, the works. She had the baby in February 2020. I don’t need to tell you how that affected her postpartum support.

Remember in the early days of the pandemic when we were all scrubbing our baseboards and purging our closets and using powdered Tide to “strip” the laundry? Remember all those cleaning hacks? This book is not that. This book is a very gentle, very kind guide to creating a functional living space and caring for that space, and yourself, when you feel like you are literally drowning. This is a support book for people who might feel like they just can’t get the energy to brush their hair, let alone polish their sinks. This book is written for the neurodivergent – the author herself has ADHD – and for people who are really, really struggling with executive functioning and day-to-day life, but I think that anyone can benefit from reading it. At the very least, you will come away with the idea of “moral neutrality,” which means that housework or lack thereof does not dictate what kind of a person you are. You are not a superior person if you fold your laundry and you are not inferior if you cannot wash the dishes more than once every three days. Those things are morally neutral. This book creates a feeling of kindness and compassion for ourselves and for others, and uses the words “care tasks” in place of “chores,” which has a much nicer connotation. There is also a very important discussion about environmental choices, and how most environmentalism serves able-bodied people of privilege, but doesn’t consider those who are disabled in any way. Most of all, this book gives permission to take care of yourself and your living space – in whatever form that takes – without moral judgement. It’s a quick and easy read and I highly recommend it.

Catastrophic Happiness. How did I miss this when it came out SIX YEARS AGO! I was devouring Newman’s We All Want Impossible Things when I saw that this book of essays about parenting children in the pre-teen, post-baby era existed and I never read it! Colour me embarrassed. Well, this gave me a lovely nostalgic feeling and fans will just love it. I did! It also made me breathe a sigh of relief that tantrums, childhood illnesses, and stress about am I doing this right are in the rearview mirror for me.

My husband finished all the outdoor decorations just in time before another harsh cold front descended, and the four of us put up the tree and indoor decorations, all while wearing our WWE Christmas sweaters, speaking of meeting people where they are and showing interest in teens’ own niche interests. Longtime readers may recall that at the time of our sweater acquisition the only female wrestler-themed sweater available was six sizes larger than the one I typically wear, which makes it pretty cozy. Could I have purchased a MALE wrestler-themed sweater that would have been closer to my size? I could have. But I am a firm Supporter Of Women, even for something this ridiculous. In other news, I have two new gnome decorations for the tree – one from my mom – and the house feels very hygge and festive as Old Man Winter descends once again with frigid temperatures and snow. I hope you are cozy and hygge, wherever you are. xo

Very Random November Observations

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Everybody Dance Now

The other day Gonna Make You Sweat came on while I was working out, and I realized that I cannot hear that song without immediately picturing the dance scene in Old School. That movie is stupid and problematic, and neither the story nor the timeline make any sense, and yet I will never not find it funny. Back in the day when I worked on a trade floor, my work group were all guys, and one of them lent me his Old School DVD, which led to us all quoting from it all the live-long day. Not an hour went by without someone saying “It has three speeds,” or “What my friend is trying to say is that love is blind,” or “HE’S GONNA DO ONE!” or “Once it hits your lips it’s so good,” “Denver. The Sunshine State,” or my personal favourite, “EARMUFFS!” I realize that none of these statements would make any sense to anyone who hadn’t watched the movie ten times, but imagine, if you will, that each of these statements were considered by us to be a satisfactory answer to almost any request or comment. Nicole, are the prices in yet? Bring your green hat, let’s go. (Translation: yes, the prices are in, and I’m running the numbers right now.)

There is a scene in the movie where Frank goes streaking, by himself, and that made me think of my late father-in-law, whose greatest regret in life was that he didn’t go streaking in the 70s, when it was semi-popular to do so. Remember the song The Streak? The 70s were a magical time. Regrets, we all have them. I have one in particular.

Flash Flash Flash

Remember when flash mobs were a thing? I wish I had been part of one. I regret never being in one because I don’t think flash mobs exist anymore, and even if they did, how would I get myself involved? In any case, my enthusiasm for dancing far exceeds my talent for dancing. I am like one of the twins in the Charlie Brown Christmas, bad hair and all.

Maybe one day! Maybe one day I will have the opportunity to dance in a flash mob, and if the universe is listening, I will dance to anything but Everybody Dance Now would be amazing.

Those Are The Fax, Ma’am

I don’t know what made me think of it, but I realized that, like flash mobs, fax machines are a thing of the past. Isn’t it strange and kind of sad to think of all these completely obsolete items, probably residing in landfills? I mean, who would use a fax machine these days? I asked my husband about it and he said he thought his office still had them, but no one uses them. RIP fax machines.

Speaking of things made obsolete by the internet, remember Adult Video Stores? Or the Adult Video Section in regular video stores, that was cordoned off by a curtain? I mean, since video stores no longer exist, I assume that neither of those things exist as well, but did something else take their place? I have, it should be admitted, never set foot inside an Adult Video Store but now I’m wondering if they just became Adult Stores, the kind of places that sell – I assume – different lubes or costumes or what have you. But then again, all those things are available on the internet and one wouldn’t have to risk running into That Guy From Church while perusing the Naughty Nurse costumes or flavoured lubricant or something really awesome that I don’t even know about*.

Lettuce Pray

I’m going to address the elephant in the room: the lettuce shortage! My friend Hannah (HI HANNAH) mentioned it to me early last week, and I was completely surprised. The week before, I hadn’t noticed anything amiss in the produce section. WELL. Things change, roll with the punches; I went to Superstore on Wednesday and while they did indeed have lettuce, it was insanely priced. Iceberg was $5/ head, which, as Hannah said, is a lot to pay for crunchy water. Romaine was $8 for a three-pack of hearts. I ended up buying two bunches of kale for our Sunday night dinner; I always make a salad to go with that particular meal, and kale Caesar is a very popular choice in our house. I mentioned the shortage to my Thursday morning yoga class, and one of the ladies said that when she was young, they never had salad in the winter, only potatoes, turnips, and canned vegetables. I mentioned frozen vegetables and how great they are to reduce food waste, and she said that frozen vegetables were brand new when she was a child and they never had them. This probably indicates to you the demographic of my students.

Although I don’t tend to notice the price on produce that much, a few weeks ago cauliflower was something like $7/ head. This past week, Superstore had them on limited special:

Whatever you do, don’t go over the limit!!! That’s my two cents, anyway.

Girls, Girls, Girls

I am very sad to say that Pippa the ornamental pepper plant has died. I was weirdly devastated by this. Apparently ornamental peppers are very easy to grow, as long as you live in a warm, humid climate, which is the opposite of the climate in which I reside. I kept looking sadly at her rapidly dropping leaves and wrinkly fruits, and then took matters into my own hands. Pippa ended up in the compost, and I ended up in the garden centre, and how I didn’t come home with a van full of gnomes, I will never know. Wow, the garden centre has a lot of Christmas gnomes. Anyway, what I did end up bringing home were two lovely plants that will hopefully not die in my chilly, dry house. Meet Eva and Stella!

Is my life goal of becoming a Crazy Plant Lady hampered by the Death of Pippa? I hope not. Actually, given the probably outsized nature of my sadness about Pippa, it probably escalates me firmly into Crazy Plant Lady Territory. Particularly since I refer to the plants, including Noelle the Christmas Cactus, as The Girls.

Weekly Reading

We All Want Impossible Things. Oh. You guys. I have been reading Catherine Newman since 2004, back in her Babycenter days, and, as I have surely mentioned, her writing was one of the inspirations to starting this blog. Her writing speaks to me so much, and I almost feel like I have one of those parasocial relationships with her. Anyway, this is her first novel, and I absolutely devoured it and didn’t want it to end. It is a novel based on her actual experience, of her best friend dying in hospice of cancer. The way she writes about hospice is beautiful and heartbreaking and also weirdly hilarious. It’s Signature Catherine Newman, that mix of wrenching and hilarity.

I listened to an interview of her on a podcast – I am not going to say which one because I DEEPLY dislike the podcast, but I made an exception for her – and she said that because this was her first novel, she read a book about how to write a novel, and I found that incredibly reassuring and inspirational. I mean. There is hope for all aspiring writers! And this book is about hope, and grief, and finding beauty in the most painful situation possible. There is also a scene in which she is plucking chin hair for her incapacitated friend, and I would like to tell my dear friends who in the terrible event that they are similarly incapacitated, I will offer my chin-hair-plucking-services. May that day never come, but I found that to be The Testament in Ultimate Friendship.

Startup. Speaking of parasocial relationships, I kind of feel like I have one with Doree Shafrir, who cohosts my current favourite podcast, Forever 35 (“a podcast about the things we do to take care of ourselves” – ladies, you are speaking my language). This is a novel about three women, whose lives become intertwined in the tech startup world. It’s a statement on toxic masculinity in tech culture, and I am here for it. It’s so smart and readable! The characters and their issues are so real; I dove into this book and did not want to come up for air.

So many random things to talk about! I have many more topics to touch on but that will have to wait for another day. Have a beautiful week, friends. Happy Thanksgiving week to all my American beauties! xo

*if you understand that reference, you have watched a lot of Old School. Not to worry, you’re in the Trust Tree with me.

Psychological Long Covid

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Well, it has been a very busy and festive week in the Boyhouse! The biggest news, of course, was that we celebrated a 17th birthday!

There was a parent meeting for the birthday boy’s Phys Ed camping trip at the end of the month, notable because I still find it novel that we are having parent meetings in person. The camping trip itself is Very Backcountry, which should be interesting, as I inferred from the meeting that very few of my son’s fellow students have been camping at all, let alone in the backcountry. Where can I charge my phone was a question asked in his class, which is amusing since there is no electricity and in fact no signal at all where they are going. I mean, they are going to have to treat their water before drinking it, this is the level of Backcountry. It sounds like the seventh circle of hell to me, but he’s excited. He camps annually with his dad and brother but it’s never this extreme. I hope no one gets giardiasis.

Back in the fall of 2019, he started spending two lunch hours a week learning all the boring ins and outs of sailing; he did fundraising and worked really hard to go on the Grade Nine Sailing Trip, which was something he had looked forward to all through junior high and which he felt would be the Pinnacle of His Life, So Far. Of course, it was cancelled, and to say that was a disappointment would be an enormous understatement. All of which is to say I’m very happy for him and his hellish camping trip; I wouldn’t say that things are Pre-2020 Normal around here, just over two and a half years from the first lockdown, but I’m no longer feeling constantly anxious that activities are going to get cancelled at the last minute. I no longer refuse to think more than a week ahead of time.

I was feeling a bit weird and anxious on my last grocery trip, however. Superstore has rearranged all – ALL – of its aisles, which is incredibly disorienting. Instead of efficiently popping down Aisle Five, say, to grab a box of pasta, I found myself slowly wandering through each and every aisle just trying to find the pasta, as the signage detailing what was contained in each aisle were not consistently updated. Nothing was in the least bit intuitive: the condiments were beside the toilet paper, the cereal was tucked into the Natural Foods section, which was separate from the hot cereal that was next to the garbage bags. It took me a moment to realize why this was happening, and that moment came when I realized I needed to go down the chip aisle, something I normally avoid, to grab snacks for my son’s birthday party.

The whole aisle was like that, just filled with big boxes containing fifty single-serving Old Dutch products, almost exclusively plain chips. It was clear then, that Superstore is just filling space and that they amalgamated all their aisles to make it look fuller.

Who is buying all this water? No one. So I suppose it’s great to give the illusion of full shelves. It was unnerving, to say the least.

I don’t want to alarm anyone, but there wasn’t much in the baking supplies department. There was flour, but they had arranged it to seem like there was much more than there was; there was probably a third of the stock that they normally have. And, of course, still no sriracha, and I have no idea when that will be back in stock.

This is where I will shamefully update you on my Just One Backup promise. A few weeks ago I saw this:

While I would like to say I thought Oh, lemon juice is plentiful again, isn’t that interesting, I did not react with such equanimity. Friends, I bought a bottle to go with my other six in backup. Then, that very same day, I went to Costco where they had Boom Chicka Pop on sale for two dollars off per bag.

I bought three bags.

Other than that I have been doing really well, I swear. I emptied the freezer almost down to nothing before buying a few things, I’m working my way through the jars of salsa and nut butters, and the kids ate every last eighth of a container of homemade ice cream before I started making more. I wonder if there is a Long Covid, but for our psychological health? I think I must have some kind of Psychological Long Covid that causes a hoarding instinct whenever I perceive a shortage of certain key items. You can bet that when sriracha comes back, I will be unable to keep to my Just One Backup rule. In the meantime, I am stretching out the 1/4 of a bottle that we have, hoping it will last as long as possible.

Weekly Reading

This week contains a hit and a miss!

Bookends. I had never heard of this podcaster; I picked up the book on the promise of her showing “how books can help us through tough times,” as it says on the cover. I love books and so I assumed I would love this. I WAS SO VERY WRONG. For one thing, there is absolutely no discussion on how different books helped the author through tough times, instead she merely lists the books she was reading at the end of each chapter with no discussion or context whatsoever. As an example, she writes about the very tragic death of her best friend, who lost her life in the Twin Towers on 9/11, and then at the end of the chapter she says the title of the book that she was reading, with absolutely no parallels drawn. If you want to just write a memoir, fine, but if you’re advertising it as something that shows the meaning and inspiration that comes from reading, then you should probably write something about the meaning and inspiration of that book, not just the title.

The author is an incredibly privileged woman with enormous inherited wealth, and boy does she make that clear. This might be the most humble-braggy, name-dropping book I have ever read, and I read Will Smith’s memoir, so that is saying something. Sure, I would probably also be very proud that my dad created his own Fortune 500 company, and that my mom’s second wedding was featured in Town and Country, but in the absence of any other context, it just comes across as obnoxious. There is a paragraph about the author working out on the elliptical machine in the gym of the very fancy Hotel Bel-Air, and John Legend was working out beside her. End of sentence. Not to get all Chekov’s gun on the woman, but if you’re going to mention John Legend working out beside you, there should be an anecdote about it, or at least a reason that it is mentioned, not just a statement of fact, otherwise it’s just ridiculous name-dropping.

Even in the more relatable moments, like with parenting struggles, I found myself rolling my eyes about them. It is HARD to parent small children but whenever she talks about something like bedtime or dinnertime, and then mentions her two employed nannies, well, it’s hard to feel too sympathetic. I’m sure parenting twin toddlers is incredibly difficult BUT such paragraphs are followed by a description of her super-rich mother sending her to a weekend spa to catch up on sleep. I mean. Life is stressful for everyone, but I feel much less compassion for a person who has to run with the stroller to the expensive Manhattan toddler activities or when someone is late to the very expensive private school parents’ night, than I might to a woman who is stressed to the maximum just putting food on the table for her children, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. I had to remind myself to be compassionate – she did lose many people in tragic and horrific ways, and she did struggle with anxiety and depression. But her writing made it so hard to be compassionate. Anyway. I wanted to read it because of how it was advertised, all about books. I was extremely disappointed. Tl;dr, if you’re looking for a book about literature, this isn’t it.

Whew! That was a lot of words about a book I didn’t care for at all.

Writers and Lovers. I really enjoyed this gorgeously written book about a woman trying to live a creative life, trying to write a novel, all the while desperately needing to make a living and get herself out from under massive debt. It was particularly interesting to read right after Bookends. Yes, one is a memoir and one is a novel, but I could not help but be struck by the incredible differences between the memoir author and the protagonist of Writers and Lovers.

It’s obvious, of course, but being independently wealthy makes such a difference in being able to make it as a writer. In Writers and Lovers, the protagonist has to wake up very early to carve out writing time, and then work double shifts at a restaurant to pay her bills; she is absolutely crippled by debt and living in a garage, quite literally a starving artist. Compare that to Owens in Bookends, who is the recipient of enormous inherited wealth, such that, as she states, she never actually HAS to work in her life. She lives in a four-story brownstone in Manhattan, and was also a legacy student for both Yale AND Harvard Business School. Some people have everything literally handed to them and others, like in Writers and Lovers, have to hustle every minute of their lives, and have to try to still flex their creative muscles while their physical muscles are exhausted. It was a very interesting juxtaposition.

Speaking of exhausted muscles, it looks to be another busy week; I started back at teaching last week, and am getting to know a few new students, along with my old faithfuls. I hope you all have a wonderful week! xo

Dancing In September

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Remember the sign that advertised taking a “reliable” car on vacation?

The sign is, if not punctuation-wise, at least thematically correct. The seasons (“season’s”) ARE changing; the afternoon temperatures are lovely and pleasant, but there is a definite crisp in the air, crunchy leaves are starting to litter the neighbourhood, I have swapped my summery tea towels for those with a fall leaf, owl, or apple motif, and we are eating as many plums, peaches, and nectarines as is physically possible. I’ve been busy in the garden, and it’s almost time to cut and dry all the herbs.

Look at my haul! It was exciting but I am never planting carrots again, mark my words. They are so much work for so little gain; I think my biggest carrot is maybe three inches long. Tasty, yes, but not worth the effort. Next year: more kale, more lettuce, same amount of zucchini and tomatoes. I did get a total of two little cucumbers, which was very exciting, but again, perhaps more work than results.

Anyway, the air is crisp and after months of bare feet and sandals I am wearing socks, and reminding myself to put on a jacket when I leave the house. It’s also Cute Scarf Season!

September always feels like a Fresh Start time of year, just as much as January does. I wonder if it will always be that way for me. In any case, I was infused – INFUSED – with energy last week, and decided to deep clean the kitchen. To be clear, my kitchen is always generally clean, but there were little things that it felt like only I could see: slightly grubby cupboard doors, a few fingerprints on the fridge, some build-up of grime here and there. I spent two hours scrubbing, even going through not one, but two old toothbrushes, to really get into the corners and crevices. It was so satisfying and I was thrilled with the results, even if no one else could really tell. Here’s the before and after:

So it really is apparent to no one but me, but believe me, it was SO satisfying to scrub the tiny edges on the cupboard doors and the sink corners and around the windowsill, and I have been just standing in the kitchen admiring my work.

This would be a much more dramatic photo if I had a “before.”

One thing that is dramatically different is our Vitamix. If you have a Vitamix, or any other blender with a plastic container, then you have probably experienced The Cloud, caused by mineral buildup:

Prior to the summer I was scrubbing the Vitamix with baking soda paste every week, to deodorize it after making salad dressing that contained garlic. No one wants a garlic aftertaste in their smoothies, after all, but as a side benefit The Cloud was minimal. This summer all the dressings I have made were just “mix in a mason jar” rather than “blend,” and so the Vitamix was just washed in a regular, non-scrubbing way, and The Cloud was getting out of control, as you can see. Not today, Satan. Not today. I made a baking soda paste and scrubbed in all the little crevices, then I soaked it for hours in vinegar and water, and voila:

Now THAT was a satisfying job.

It was during my deep clean that I learned of the Queen’s death. I was, and am, quite sad about it; I have been very interested in the Royal Family since the announcement of Lady Di’s engagement, back in 1980. The Queen and I shared a birthday, which always made me feel bonded to her. The Queen and I, celebrating our birthdays together, yet apart. I feel sure she loved cake as much as I do.

What an incredible life of service she led; she dedicated her whole life to her country and worked up until the day she died. Who among us could say such a thing? I hope she’s frolicking with horses and snuggling corgis, in the heaven version of Scotland.

Weekly Reading

A Town Called Solace. This was an enjoyable read about a town in Northern Ontario in the 70s, written from three points of view. A girl goes missing, a stranger moves into town, and a woman at the end of her life ponders a life-altering incident thirty years previous. Well done and satisfying; it didn’t blow me away but it was a diverting, solid story. 

Bomb Shelter. So a few weeks ago, I read I Miss You When I Blink, and while I enjoyed it, it didn’t really resonate with me in a meaningful way. Lisa (HI LISA) mentioned that the author had a brand-new book of essays out, which deals with processing emotions about having teenagers on the cusp of moving out, and her son being diagnosed with epilepsy. WELL. This hit home, let me say that. It hit home. Every essay had me deep breathing and thinking YES, THIS. It is such a complex thing; we spend so much time preparing our children to eventually not need us, because that is the goal in parenting, and then they don’t need us, and oof. But sometimes they do still need us? Life is an exquisite tapestry of emotions and feelings. Anyway, it is an excellent book and it’s 100% geared towards the life stage I am currently in, AND there are a couple of essays about having teenagers at home during the Covid pandemic. If that wasn’t enough, there is an essay about birthdays, and never before have I read my own feelings about birthdays, so exactly, in someone else’s words.

All The Queen’s Men. I picked this up on a whim – I liked the cover! – a few weeks ago, and it has sat on my side table, apparently waiting for just the right moment for me to pick it up. I suppose the Queen’s passing was just that moment. In any case, it felt like the perfect time to read a murder mystery/ detective story starring our very own, dearly departed, QEII, taking place in – where else? – Buckingham Palace! This was a very fun little book.

So it has been an energetic kind of week; everyone has been out of the house except me. This coming week I start teaching again, my younger son starts wrestling, I have a parent meeting for an upcoming Phys Ed camping trip, AND we have a seventeenth birthday in the house! CAKE!!!! I’ll leave you with a photo of me seventeen years ago this week, and with the wish that you all have a wonderful week. And maybe some cake? xo

Should I Just Burn The House Down Or…

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It’s a tough day in the NFL, my husband said conversationally a few weeks ago. I thought that meant someone died, but no, it was the day the draft picks got cut from 80 down to 53. My husband watches the NFL draft every year – the sound when someone is drafted is actually the ringtone on his phone – which means I vicariously watch the NFL draft every year. I do like seeing the absolute joy when a player is drafted, particularly from the family members watching, and, even more specifically, the happiness on his mother’s face. The years of work and sacrifice and wondering if it will ever pay off; then when a player’s name is called you can see the relief and pure joy. Now imagine that same mother, just a few months later, when her son gets cut. Even if the player survives the cut, such a career is tenuous at best. I always think of a player’s mother, when I see one get carried off the field with what my husband will inform me is a career-ending injury, sometimes before the season even begins.

Parenting is hard, is what I’m saying.

So it’s been a very roller-coaster week around here, and I’m not going to get into all the ups and downs, or bore you with my subsequent existential crisis, but I will say that Thursday was my last first day of school ever, and I came home to a completely empty house, for the first time without a sad Barkley to commiserate with.

Well, onward. Let’s rewind two weeks to our Mexico trip and how the boys fared on their own.

I was a bit nervous to leave the boys to their own devices for five days. What if there is an emergency? I kept saying, but when my husband asked me what kind of emergency I was pondering, I just couldn’t articulate. I don’t know, someone gets gravely ill or the house floods or the furnace explodes or something? But the fact is that a) we have left them overnight before with zero issues, b) they are both very responsible and have pride in the house, c) they are both fairly competent in the kitchen, and d) my older son is 18, so technically an adult. I had two rules. Rule Number One: No parties! Rule Number Two: If you do have a party, erase the evidence and make it look like you didn’t.

I mean, we have to be practical here.

The boys did have friends over, and I know all their friends and they are all good kids. I wasn’t worried; as long as no one barfed in my house or got alcohol poisoning, everything was fine by me. Let’s not be naïve! I’m of the belief – and this may be controversial, and it really depends on your own personal situation – that the European way of introducing alcohol as something that is not forbidden, but should be consumed in mindful moderation is what’s best for my family. I also don’t want the boys sneaking around; I know some of their friends hide booze from their parents, but I wanted my kids to tell me if they were having a drink. If you want a drink, have a drink, but don’t sneak around and for god’s sake, don’t barf or drive or do anything stupid. Open communication! It’s something that has worked for us; my older son is legal drinking age now, but we’ve been doing this for both boys for a few years. Again, this is something that should be looked at on an individual basis but for us, it’s worked. I think flat-out forbidding things makes them that much more desirable, which leads to bad decisions.

In any case, I knew that they had a few friends over early in the week and a few drinks were consumed. I know this not only because they told me but because there was cheap beer leftover in the downstairs fridge (Mountain Crest, who are these people), and my husband’s very expensive five-year-old bottle of Patron was opened, even though we have many half-empty bottles of cheap vodka in our liquor cabinet BUT WHATEVER. Side note: kids, if you are going to take from your parents’ liquor cabinet, don’t choose the very most expensive bottle. And then don’t tell us you MIXED IT WITH DR PEPPER. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD THESE PEOPLE ARE MONSTERS. Anyway, I texted my sons while we were getting ready to come home, and was surprised that my younger son didn’t text me back until late in the morning. He’s an early riser generally but he said that was up late because he needed to “take care of some things late last night.” I was sure they didn’t have friends over at that particular evening, since my older son had a job interview early the next morning, so I figured he was just cleaning things up from two nights previous. We got home to a perfectly clean house, and I just shrugged it off. I don’t need to know every single detail, the house was clean, who cares.

The day after we got home, I decided to make a loaf of banana bread. I reached into the drawer under the oven where I keep all my baking pans. I noticed something suspicious. I moved the pans and confirmed that it was not my imagination. I started screaming my younger son’s name over and over, moving over to the cupboard underneath the sink. He came running out, probably thinking I was dying, which I was in a way. By the time he got to the kitchen I was taking everything out of the cupboard under the sink, screaming incoherently.

Me: That thing you had to take care of, what was it? WHAT WAS IT?

Younger Son: It’s okay, Mom. I took care of it. You don’t want to know.

Me: THERE IS MOUSE POOP EVERYWHERE, WAS IT A MOUSE.

YS: Um, yes. But I didn’t see any poop! I didn’t know about that.

Me: THEN HOW DID YOU KNOW THERE WAS A MOUSE?

YS: I saw it.

Me, now hysterical: WHERE WAS IT?

YS: Um, in the hallway.

It is a miracle I didn’t black out right there. I mean, I feel a bit dizzy just writing that. Reader, it is impossible to convey my reaction and the depths of my feelings, but when I relayed this information to my mother on the phone later, she let out a low-pitched sound like aieeeeeeeeeee and that pretty much sums it up. My son assured me that he found the traps and caught the mouse! It’s all okay! But how did he know there weren’t many mice, and if they were in the hallway, what is to say they aren’t everywhere right now. What if they are in my dressers, what if they are in my bed. At this point my husband, who was working from home and had been on a call, came upstairs to see me spiralling into insanity, hysterically disinfecting everything in sight and wondering whether boiling all the baking pans would suffice or if I should just burn down the house and start over.

Five traps later and things seem to be under control, mouse-wise. But for how long? I ran into one of my neighbours down the street, who casually mentioned, with no prompting from me, that they were having mouse problems. They mentioned a certain trap they had obtained and that in the last week they had caught over thirty mice in their house and garage. MY NERVES. THIRTY. If it comes to that I will have no mind left, none at all. As it is my poor fragile sanity is hanging on by a thread.

Whew, let us change the subject to something infinitely more pleasant: my garden. The flowers have been gorgeous; the roses are still blooming, the daylilies are beautiful, and we’ve had lots of tomatoes and zucchini. I thought I would have more zucchini, given I have seven plants, but perhaps I overplanted. Maybe there is just too much competition for the soil. Lessons for next year, I guess.

Exhale. In any case, the crazy week ended on a high note, as I spent a couple of nights at my parents’ house on the lake. It was a great way to end this very beautiful summer.

Weekly Reading

The Lies That Bind. Okay, so the first 2/3 of this book, I was thinking this is a cute little romance! It takes place in the months before and after 9/11; I was 26 in 2001 and so the events and the cultural details really resonated (remember Fodor’s guides?). Then it TOOK A TURN. Then it got really wild, like a weird train wreck that you have to keep reading but the whole time you think wait, what? What? Did that just happen? I’m not recommending it but I’m not NOT recommending it either. It just…was not at all what I expected. Reading it, I felt like that meme:

Literally, me as I was reading this.

The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. I hardly know how to describe this gorgeous piece of writing. The author spent twelve years creating new words for the very specific emotions we all experience. It’s brilliant and profound, and also makes me feel very, very seen. What a unique and creative work!

Here we are; the long weekend is over. We are officially in September and fall mode! I guess it’s back to reality on all fronts. Happy September to you all! xo

Just One Backup

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This week, the first after getting home from vacation, has been so satisfying. I’ve been getting Back Into Routine, crossing things off the to-do list, and gardening. My neighbour very kindly checked the house and watered the garden while I was gone, but of course there was much to be done after two weeks away. I have harvested one zucchini, and there are many, many more tiny ones on the plants, which grew so big that Salvadore was completely hidden; I had to move him to a different bed in order to enjoy his gnomeiness. I have two little peppers on my plants, and I had my first of many pea and tomato harvests.

I like to leave the house nice and clean when we leave for vacation as it makes reentry so much nicer; I make especial efforts to ensure the garbage and compost bins are empty and that the fridge only contains long-dated items. Unfortunately, and inexplicably, the jug of milk was something I forgot to deal with before leaving, and there was what can only be described as a science project in the three inches of milk left in the fridge. Ew. Chunky.

On that note, let’s get back to The Big Project. Previously on The Big Project, I had cleaned out my clothing closet and made a few rules for future shopping. This is, I feel, the easy part. It’s the rest of the house that will require some serious effort and also, is kind of boring. I like clothes! I am a bit daunted by other household items.

The next step in The Big Project, that I haven’t yet taken, is to go through my kitchen and donate my excess containers – the kids really do not need tiny snack containers at this stage of our lives – and to really assess the pantry situation.

And what a situation it is.

I have been working my way towards having Just One Backup of staple food and cleaning products, although I do make an exception for things I tend to need multiples of: canned beans and chickpeas, for example, for weeks in which I would need more than one can, or dish soap, which I appear to go through at an alarming rate. I have successfully gotten down to one backup of each of coffee and the various oils, vinegars, and sauces I use regularly, one bag each of flour, sugar, and rice, and one container of vitamins for each person in the house (we all have different brands). I still have a few extra nut butters and jars of vegan mayonnaise and salsa, as well as sundried tomatoes and, weirdly, mustard, but I’m sure we will get through them in due time. Tissues and toilet paper I purchase in large multipacks, and I try to have just one of those in backup.

Small digression: I was visiting with my husband’s aunt – who lives alone – a few weeks ago, and she told me that in the early stages of the pandemic she would purchase a large package of toilet paper every time she saw one available, not unlike me with twenty-five pound bags of flour. At one point she looked at her stockpile of toilet paper and thought oops. That stockpile of toilet paper lasted her a year and a half. I think we can all understand this. For reasons unknown to me, I have enough boxes of ziploc bags to last until I have headed for The Home or shuffled off this mortal coil, whichever comes first. I rarely use ziploc bags but somehow have a number of Costco three-packs in my pantry, in a variety of sizes, which must have been a Pandemic Purchase, but I cannot for the life of me recall my thinking on this matter. I may just give them away on our community Buy Nothing page. Either that, or I’ll leave them for my possible future grandchildren to discover upon my demise. Oh look, here’s Grandma’s wedding dress and…seven hundred ziploc bags. Huh. Will ziploc bags even exist fifty years from now? Who can say.

No matter. I have been working hard to not purchase things of which I already have backups (or, in some cases, several backups), and mostly, I have done well. I am trying to get back to my pre-pandemic consumption patterns and it is a Journey.

However, I have confessions to make. Friends, I am sorry to tell you that my Just One Backup vow has failed miserably in three notable areas: lemon juice, popcorn, and dried fruit. The last item, I give a pass – the dried fruit I love (strawberries and something that is cheerfully called Fruit Medley) is only available a couple times a year at Costco, and so I stock up when I can. This is my very valid excuse for having ten bags in my pantry at this time; it will last me for months, hopefully until the next time they come available.

As I mentioned briefly a little while ago, there was a strange blip in the lemon juice world, or at least, in my lemon juice world. Suddenly, there was no lemon juice anywhere. My brain immediately went from let’s just pick up one backup to PANIC PANIC PANIC. Let us refer to the lessons from the Minnesota Starvation Experiment as a precedent for the weird obsessions we get when something is not available to us. When I found store brand lemon juice, I bought it. When I found tiny little environmentally-disastrous plastic squeeze lemons, I bought them. My mom saw lemon juice at her grocery store and bought me two bottles. I now have seven bottles of lemon juice in my pantry and a few weeks ago it was back, available at Costco. Even with seven bottles in backup, I had a really hard time NOT buying the two-pack at Costco, and I know many of you can empathize with this. I especially feel bereft as it has not been available at Superstore this whole past month, and I noticed it was not there last week when I was at Costco. What if I can never buy it again, what have I done seems to be my thinking.

The other item that has been very difficult to buy recently is popcorn. Popcorn! Boom Chicka Pop has been largely unavailable for a few months now, so I have snapped up substitute bags here and there when I could. I am sorry to say that on my last trip to Superstore there was neither Skinny Pop nor Lesser Evil available, proving that I have indeed cursed us all by supporting ridiculously-named companies that apply moral values to food products. I currently have twelve (12!) bags of popcorn of various flavours and brands in my pantry, so it’s probably good that it’s currently unavailable. I mean, we all love popcorn but twelve bags is pretty excessive. WE JUST NEED TO WORK OUR WAY THROUGH WHAT WE HAVE, PEOPLE.

You may notice I haven’t mentioned the elephant in the room – sriracha. The sriracha shortage is a little unsettling, but not as unsettling as the environmental reason for the shortage. In any case, two of us here really like sriracha, and I have half a large bottle in the fridge with NO backup, but I think with careful rationing we should easily be able to make it into September, when it is supposed to become available again. We have two bottles of chili garlic sauce, and that should be a decent substitute, should we require one.

So I do need to go through the Very Full Pantry to see if there’s anything to be donated – ziploc bags! – and I vow not to purchase anything else until I am down to the last backup (but what if lemon juice and popcorn become instantly available, WHAT THEN), but I do have a food-related success story to share. I have cleaned out my freezer! I have discarded all freezer-burned items or items of questionable origin! I also have a dead freezer.

About a month ago I came home from the lake and my husband greeted me with the following: Nicole, you have to go look at the freezer. It won’t stop beeping and the temperature is rising. People, my freezer, my ten-year-old freezer, DIED. Without warning. As you might imagine, it was very full, and so I jumped into action. Fortunately we have a bar fridge-sized freezer from our early-marriage-child-free days, and after plugging it in we ascertained that it still works. I rearranged everything in the two fridge freezers and between those and the tiny freezer I managed to save most things, the exceptions being anything that I couldn’t recall purchasing or that was fuzzy with frost.

This is where I’ll mention that my mother-in-law still has the chest freezer she got as a newlywed in 1962, and it still works, although it probably uses more power than anything else in the house combined. STILL. Ten years, and I guess that old freezer is going to end up in the landfill? I don’t know what will happen to it when the New Freezer Delivery Guys take it away. I hope it will go for parts or something, but who would know. WHO WOULD KNOW.

Nonetheless, I’m counting this as a win. When my new freezer arrives, I am going to put nothing in it that cannot be consumed within a few months, mark my words. It’s a chance for a Fresh Start and I am not going to throw that away.

Weekly Reading

Children Playing Before A Statue Of Hercules. This collection, curated by my much-loved David Sedaris, is comprised of his favourite short stories and the proceeds of which go to an educational charity in NYC, which made me glad that I received this as a Christmas gift, rather than borrowing it from the library. If you love short stories like I do, you will not be disappointed. It is really excellent and it contains a few authors that I had never heard of, let alone read. One of my own favourite authors, Alice Munro, is featured; the story chosen isn’t my number one favourite, but it’s so good. Granted, as Sedaris says in the introduction, how can you choose just ONE Alice Munro story? Anyway, I loved this; every story is unique but they are all linked by the theme of class structures and societal constraints due to them.

Thick. This was such a powerful and important collection of essays about being a black woman in America. The author is an esteemed academic and her brilliance comes through in her writing, which is very thoughtful and readable, in addition to being very well researched. An important read for anyone, to be sure, but particularly for a very privileged white woman, like myself. I will be thinking about these essays for a long time to come, particularly one about her experience with prenatal and maternal “health care” that ended in a breathtakingly tragic way.

I am hoping to start on my cull of excess containers (and ziploc bags!) and organization of the pantry this week; will I, though? That remains to be seen! I hope you are having a lovely August so far. xo