Category Archives: I am really 90

Another thing to delegate to the Blue Job Category

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1998 was twenty years ago

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Yesterday I heard Total Eclipse of the Heart twice: once on the way home from yoga, and once during dinnertime. It reminded me of one of the greatest movie scenes ever; the wedding dance from Old School. I cannot hear that song without mentally substituting the lyrics. I also heard 1999 twice yesterday, but that did not fill me with the same level of joy. Here’s my controversial confession: I do not really enjoy the music of Prince. I don’t NOT enjoy it; I certainly would sing along if When Doves Cry came on the radio, but I do not seek it out.

Another controversial confession: I really, really dislike the music of Tom Petty. And for my money, Beast of Burden is not only the best Rolling Stones song ever written, but I don’t even think there is a close second.

Well, I did not set out today to write about the music of late performers and defunct bands; moving on.

The main music – and I use that word very loosely – I have been treated to lately is that of screaming magpies. Magpies have, evidently, made a nest nearby and every single time I leave my house they are swooping around me, screaming loudly. Barkley seems to be equally targeted, never mind that in a million years he could not reach a nest that is ostensibly thirty feet off the ground. A part of me thinks aw, they are just trying to protect their babies, but after several days of low-flying aggressive magpie action, my thoughts turn to goddammit, no one WANTS your horrible babies, go away. I saw a pair of magpies aggressively chasing away squirrels, though, so there is an upside to this. At least the magpies, as irritating as they may be, are not in the market to eat my bulbs or dig up my flowers.

By the way, my tulips never did bloom, not a single one. They all just lay there in their weirdly flattened foliage, sadly sinking back into the earth from whence they came.

This morning I learned that Sex and the City debuted twenty years ago this year, TWENTY YEARS, PEOPLE. Remember when women would identify with the main characters, as in “You’re such a Charlotte.” Well. Time passages and and all that. A Sex and the City episode was the catalyst for the worst fight my husband and I ever had in our entire relationship, to this day I cannot think about “Your girl is lovely, Hubble,” without thinking of my fury in our tiny apartment on the 30th floor, without being able to even slam a door. At the time it was intense, but now, nearly twenty years later, it seems very lame, that we had a fight about Carrie and Mr. Big.

Nowadays, the only source of marital tension is my One Year Shopping Challenge, which my husband hates with a passion. Just go buy yourself some damn clothes! he has said on numerous occasions. A few weeks ago I was having coffee with a friend (HI TWYLA) and she complimented me on my raincoat, a plaid Lululemon that I bought when the kids were in preschool. Thanks, it’s really old, I said and she shook her head. Are we still doing that, then? The no-buying thing? she asked with sympathy. Yes we are. Less than eight weeks to go and my god, I simultaneously cannot believe I have done it and also I cannot wait for it to be done.

One thing about this challenge is that I have been able to identify some true needs in my wardrobe. Well, “needs” might be a strong word; as my mom always says, I’m not sure the word NEED comes into play here. Wants, then. For starters, on my trip to Mexico I noted that several of my trusty old bikinis no longer fit properly, as in, if I dive too quickly into the water there is going to be an accidental skinny dipping situation. I do still have a couple that can get me through until August 1, so things aren’t really desperate. Still. A new bikini or two would be nice.

I’m also noting that a few of my yoga clothes, while still in good shape, are beginning to look pretty faded and worn, which isn’t too surprising since most of my pieces are over five years old and have withstood a lot of wear and laundering. Some of my tanks and pants are a decade old, some even older. So really, I think I can probably treat myself to a few new pieces. I do find myself in yoga clothes daily, often two different outfits a day, one for practicing in and one for teaching.

Other than that, I’m not too tempted to shop these days, since I do not enjoy the current styles. I already wore them, back in the 90s. Overalls, high waisted pants, crop tops, bodysuits, and ONE PIECE JUMPSUITS. Think about using a public washroom while wearing a jumpsuit, just think about it for a moment. I’ve done all of those styles, and I’m not interested in doing them again, particularly the jumpsuits. Well, and the rest of them. I shall leave the youth styles to the youth and continue to live in my yoga clothes topped with flowy sweaters, like the future Golden Girl that I am. All I need are brightly coloured necklace-and-earring sets and some florals and I’ll be ready to go.

Speaking of colours, I seem to be so desperate to end this shopping challenge that when my husband pointed out some bright orange Lululemon crops to me, I actually thought those look nice. I have never worn such a colour in my entire life and I most likely never will, due to my fear that it would match my hair too closely, but it is illustrative of my desperation.

Also? Speaking of Golden Girls…remember slips? Do women still wear slips? I remember being made to wear slips, particularly to church, back in my childhood. Slips, as I remember, were a guard against a) clinging dresses, b) anything even marginally transparent, and c) immodesty in general. It seems to me that they would be very outmoded now, but I’m curious – does anyone still wear them, or did they go the way of the housedress? When I think of slips, I think of my beloved late grandma, who would also encourage wearing a pin or brooch at one’s neckline to ensure that one was not showing too much of the chest region. I wonder what she would think of my work wear.

Lube, Oil, and Filter

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Something happened on vacation that was both eye-opening and a little unsettling: I was universally referred to as “senora.” Now, I don’t truly believe that an almost-43-year-old-woman SHOULD be referred to as “senorita” but it would be nice, is all I’m saying.

As a side note, the hostess for breakfast said brightly to me, “Hola, Senora Nicole!” and I was very taken aback since a) I did not tell her my name, b) the reservation for the resort was under my husband’s name and c) there were hundreds of people staying there, how did she know I was me? In fact, I asked her how she knew my name, and she said “It is your beautiful smile, Senora.” Which is lovely but still didn’t explain anything. The only thing I could think of was that she was at the karaoke party the night before and, well, I had a few numbers. If that is true, then a) my performances were memorable, and b) holy crap she must have worked a very long day as karaoke started at nine pm, and breakfast started at seven am.

Anyway, karaoke as an entertainment medium deserves its own post.

As I get older, I’m struck by how much more maintenance our bodies need; things that would have horrified me twenty years ago are now just part of my life and routine. I’m not even talking about things like facial depilation or constant root touch-ups, I’m talking about how, even after having had varicose veins stripped I have all new ones developing and have to wear medical-grade stockings on the plane so as to not die from a rogue blood clot, or, less dramatically, to not have sore and swollen legs after every flight.

People, you do not know glamour until you try to don or remove medical grade support hose in a public washroom. On the way to Mexico I wisely wore my sexy beige thigh-high stockings (pictured above) so when we landed in the 34 degree heat, I could remove them fairly easily while waiting for our luggage, “easily” being a relative term. On the way home, I had my full-length, pantyhose-style stockings to wear, but I did not want to die of heatstroke on the way to the airport. How hard could it be, I reasoned, to put them on in the airport washroom? The answer is: very hard. I’m sure the other passengers were wondering what exactly was happening in that stall on the left as I accidentally kicked the door, tipped over into wall, and inadvertently pushed my skirt – which I had removed to stand on to protect my feet from bathroom germs – out of the stall and into the middle of the bathroom. I emerged semi-victorious, with my pantyhose ending just a few inches from my bra line, wearing yoga pants to retrieve my skirt, noting that the other women were looking away rather quickly.

In the two weeks before our trip, I had three appointments set up, and all of them reminded me that while I feel very much like I am of the “Perennials,” I am indeed middle-aged. Although, I’m hoping to live a lot longer than 86, so maybe not quite middle-aged. In any case, these appointments were important and necessary, and please consider this your reminder to get them booked. For your reading pleasure, I have ranked them in order of agony, with 1 being the least and 3 being the greatest.

Mammogram

I know many women find mammograms painful and scary, and I would say that having the worst case scenario running through your head is the worst part. The first time I had one done, I was getting a lump investigated and not only did I have the mammogram but I also had an ultrasound on the lump, and I bit my lip the entire time to keep from crying. Now I get them done annually, and I find them to be not a big deal at all. There’s always the emotional “what if” factor, but in terms of physical comfort, I don’t have a problem with it at all. Perhaps it is my sad, deflated breasts, I don’t know. I do know that my doctor informed me that my breasts are dense. Dense! Let’s not belittle them. They’re just a little slow but otherwise fine. 

I have had great luck with mammogram technicians, who all seem young and perky and like they are choreographing the weirdest dance sequence ever. Okay now let’s lift! Lift here, yes, now turn away, your head too, okay, okay, now stay stay stay, oops, let’s lift again, and turn. Perfect! Stay! Yes! I have also – and here’s a hot tip for you – realized that if you have long hair, wear it up when you are getting a mammogram. Otherwise it can get in the way and things get even weirder in terms of choreography.

Another benefit is that you get to wear these saucy medical gowns!

Speaking as someone who has on more than one occasion – including very recently – put a medical gown on the wrong way, I appreciated the photos. But I did think it was a little odd; would people really not tie their gowns closed if they knew it was a single-sex change room? Is it only because it’s co-ed that we are supposed to not walk around with our breasts/ junk exposed? I mean, isn’t not flashing someone just a condition of living in a society? Well. If there is a sign – which was not there during my last appointment – there must be a reason.

However, I had some serious wardrobe malfunctions anyway. The gowns are in two sizes, depending on the colour, and the pink one they gave me is the larger size, which meant that even when I tied it as tightly as I could, the walk to the exam room led to a flapping open of the too-big gown, and some inadvertent exposure of the girls. At least it was just me and the technician, and so I was not called out for flouting the “close your gown” rules in front of elderly men or the like.

Pelvic Exam

I have had a history of doctors who couldn’t find my cervix and believe me when I say that is a very uncomfortable position to be in. I’m sure it’s there! I would joke, wincing with pain. After a very painful pelvic exam and pap that had to be REPEATED because the lab didn’t have enough “material to work with,” as it were, my doctor wrote a few notes down on my file and told me what to remind him of for the future.

I followed those directions and this past test was not terribly unpleasant, although I did feel awkward, while on the examining table, blurting out Don’t forget I need the LARGE speculum! The green one! Green for go!

The large speculum. My feminine mystique takes a bit of a beating.

Dental Scaling

By far my least favourite, I have to steel myself just to make the appointment for dental cleanings and checkups. For one thing, it takes so LONG. I suppose I could cut down on coffee consumption, but life needs to be worth living, and my god, think of the children. I have excellent dental hygiene – I brush several times a day and floss daily, I use a water pik, I buy extra whitening toothpaste – and yet, the sixty minutes of scaling feels like it says otherwise. In fact, the hygienist told me that my favourite floss, the one that I use daily and love, is “fairly ineffective but better than nothing.” For the record, it is that easy-glide dental tape, because I cannot stand the feeling of strands of floss between my teeth. To me it is akin to chewing tin foil. Shudder shudder forever.

You’ll pry my easy-glide dental tape out of my cold dead hands, I tell you. Remember that study that said that flossing was ineffective anyway? I thought about it but obviously did not refer to it to my lovely and skilled hygienist because a) I didn’t want her to think I was lying about flossing daily as it is important to me, apparently, to be well-regarded by the health care professionals in my life, b) I don’t want to walk around with food in my teeth so I won’t stop flossing, studies be damned, and c) I don’t want to seem like THAT person who quotes random and possibly inaccurate things they read on the internet. So, I took the regular non-easy-glide floss samples without comment, not wanting to flout the hygienist’s advice. At the very least, they can be donated to a shelter, and hopefully the recipient will not also view it as akin to a mouthful of foil.

The world is a magical sphere.

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Yesterday was Pi Day and I spent much of it thinking of the magic of mathematics and, by extension, the world. Just think about this – for every single circle in the world, every single one of them, if you divide the circumference by the diameter, you get pi. YOU GET PI EVERY TIME. Isn’t that just incredible? Life is beautiful, made up of so many magical moments, and we should never let a day go by without appreciating them. In eager anticipation of pi day, I made a strawberry daiquiri pie for Sunday dessert; this recipe, but I omitted the avocado and cut the coconut milk to one cup, and then I poured my homemade magic shell on top and let me tell you, it was a glorious celebration of the circle.

Speaking of glorious things and mathematical magic, my husband sent me what must be one of the sexiest texts a girl can get: he informed me that he will soon be able to collect PC Points at Esso. You know that feeling when someone just GETS you? That’s the feeling I had when I read that. For, dear reader, I have become completely obsessed with collecting PC Points and redeeming PC Points and making up my grocery list with PC Points in mind. One day I swept into the yoga studio and excitedly told the girl at the desk my main accomplishment that morning: getting 10,600 points IN ONE SHOP BUYING ONLY THINGS I NEEDED AND NOTHING FRIVOLOUS. She was duly impressed. It’s gotten to the point where I eagerly anticipate Thursday mornings, when I can load my new offers onto my app. More importantly, I have figured out the basic algorithm and can make my list with that in mind. For example, I can predict with 90% accuracy when a certain offer is going to pop up, and I shop accordingly.

Is anyone still reading this?

In case there is any confusion, I am not being paid by Loblaw’s or anything, this isn’t in any way sponsored, it’s just that whenever I’m not teaching yoga I’m grocery shopping or cooking. This is literally true. Having young teen boys who eat pretty much constantly, and being a person who likes to make everything from scratch, my life is entirely revolving around my yoga classes and going to the grocery store, which may explain why my main source of unhappiness in the world is due to grocery carts gone awry.

Slight digression: my younger son pointed out that we had quite a few blueberry-pomegranate juices in the pantry, commenting that they “must have been on sale!” For years I have been slowly turning into a female replica of my father, and now it appears that I am simultaneously turning into my mother.

Back to the point: life is beautiful, math is beautiful, and I’m trying very hard to just take the heavy snowfall event that is going on right now in stride. The snow had just started its slow melting process and now everything is back to square one; this is not atypical for Calgary, but it does feel like winter will never end and spring will never come and we will be stuck with snow drifts and treacherous roads until the end of time.

The first person to complain about the “heat” when it gets to be 25 degrees in Calgary is going to get stabbed.

Well, perhaps not literally stabbed. Maybe just stabbed with an angry glare, like the Care Bear Stare but with much more vitriol.

My childhood Cheer Bear! This is, generally, my spirit animal, except when thinking about snowfall warnings and grocery carts.

Last weekend I found myself at the mall – not to worry, I’m still on my One Year Shopping Challenge, unbelievably enough, with four and a half months to go and I have bought nary an item – but I wanted some compression socks for running. I did enjoy peeking at the window displays and looking at the young girls wandering around, young girls being my fashion barometer. It’s one thing to see items remembered from childhood back in style, but it is, frankly, quite another to see items worn in one’s twenties back in style. It reminds me of the fleeting nature of time; the nineties were actually NOT JUST YESTERDAY, PEOPLE. Crop tops are the thing now, and while I loved them in my step-aerobics youth, I do not feel a woman of my age can really wear them without looking, as they say, like mutton dressed as lamb. What a gross and deplorable saying, and yet, it can accurately describe the feeling I have when I mentally try on today’s styles. Pants with very high waists, distressed and ripped jeans, cropped tops, and the like – these were things I wore in university. I finished grad school twenty years ago this year, TWENTY YEARS. So it only makes sense that they are now on point again but still.

Well, my wardrobe these days basically consists of yoga wear, topped with a cozy sweater and finished off with warm boots. I rarely wear a bra anymore due to the handy shelf bras in yoga tanks, which is starting to feel like a slippery slope. But even my much-loved lululemon is reflecting the styles of the nineties. For one thing, they now sell what is called a Belt Bag but is, in actuality, a fanny pack. The day I wear a fanny pack is the day I die, but there you go. Also for sale: the scrunchie. The SCRUNCHIE. I did love a good scrunchie back in the day, but I don’t think it’s mine to revisit. It reminds me of the Sex and the City episode where Carrie criticizes her boyfriend for writing a novel featuring a woman wearing a scrunchie, which seems like a very specific detail for a man to write about.

Ack! I just browsed a fashion site and came across a photo of a young woman wearing a floral dress with ankle boots, which was half my wardrobe, back the nineties. I guess I’ll just go back to researching my wrinkle creams and I’ll tell you about my amazing vegetarian glucosamine supplements another day. xo

Nicole’s Favourite Things: The Growing Old Gracefully Edition

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This morning I went downstairs to switch the laundry, and by the time I came back upstairs – three minutes, maximum – it was snowing again. Clearly, it has been a long, cold, snowy winter when the dusting of snow feels like a complete personal betrayal by the local meteorologists. This wasn’t in the forecast! I thought indignantly. What are they DOING to us? Oh, it’s been consistently so cold for so long – mornings in the windchill-factor-in-the-minus-twenties and afternoons in the minus-teens – that I cannot even envision a time in the future that will not be cold and snowy. And there are months left to go before winter can be, definitively, over. Meanwhile I have friends in the States who are discussing their crocuses and having to put on the air-conditioning, and I feel like saying something mean about their government before bursting into tears, which is a very lame and unproductive reaction because if there is one thing no one can control, it’s the weather, and complaining about it is futile. Also, it’s boring and depressing. So let’s move on!

What I really wanted to talk about today is the idea of Growing Old Gracefully. My friend Jeannette (HI JEANNETTE) put the thought into my head. There is a fine line, I think, between Growing Old Gracefully and Giving Up The Ghost. There is also a line, maybe a thicker one, between Growing Old Gracefully and Pulling Out All The Stops. I hope I am growing old(er) gracefully; I recognize there are some things that will never change, unless I Pull Out All The Stops and get botox or some kind of surgery, my face is on a One-Way Street To Wrinkletown. And that’s okay, but I would like to look a little bit less Crypt Keeper, and so I think a good moisturizer and eye cream are key.

I am also – as you know – not ready to embrace my Old Grey Mare Hair, yes, I know it’s in vogue and yes, I realize I could save a lot of time and money if I just let things go au naturel. I am not ready and frankly, I may never be. I have girlfriends who have gone the highlights-to-gradually-go-grey route, and while I think they look amazing – seriously, you should see my gorgeous friend Amy (HI AMY) – it’s just not for me. I spent almost four decades being a brunette, and now I am embracing my feisty redhead years. This era may last until I am in my grave. Or urn.

I really love beauty products and makeup, and I think it’s very important to be putting my best face forward. I don’t leave the house without makeup or without doing my hair, albeit sometimes the makeup is minimal and the hair is in a simple bun. I want to be clear that I do this for ME first and foremost. I feel my best when I look my best, and even when I’m just hanging out at home doing housework, I still like to ensure that my scrubby yoga pants are coordinated with my sweatshirt. I know not everyone will agree with me here, but I don’t feel like myself without making some effort to look nice.

I know that this is controversial as well, but I also – this is secondary but important – like to look good for my husband. It’s definitely not in vogue to say, as a woman, that you enjoy looking good to a man, but it is the truth for me. I like that my husband finds me attractive, but there is something else here too: he puts in an effort to look attractive for me as well. This is not to say that my husband has a specific SAY in the way I look – I wouldn’t, for example, cut my hair into a funky style if he thought it was a good idea. I also discount his opinion about clothes that I like and he doesn’t, as in this top:

I think this top is very cute and flowy, but he hates – HATES – it. He’s not alone; my friend Jen (HI JEN) thought it looked a little Halloween-ish, and my friend Liv (HI LIV) sweetly said that she doesn’t love it. But I do and will continue to wear it, husband’s preference aside.

This is a long, roundabout way of saying that I realized today that I haven’t written a Nicole’s Favourite Things in a long time, and I have many favourite things I would like to share with you, particularly since many of these things are inexpensive drugstore purchases that are, frankly, amazing. Just a little reminder that this is not sponsored, I have not been paid to review these products, and I bought them all myself at full (or store sale) price. Without further ado!

Nicole’s Favourite Things: The Growing Old Gracefully Edition

My Hair Therapist

June will mark my sixteenth anniversary with my beloved Hair Therapist, and since I will have been married sixteen years next month, I think this is significant. She is a magician. As an example, please witness my latest “before:”

And the “after.” God, I love that woman. I also love car lighting.

She has me hooked on this Loma Fortifying Repairative Tonic that I massage into my hair before blow-drying. It only takes a drop, and it makes a huge difference in the health and texture of my hair.

Even Tone Moisturizers

One of the greatest marketing moves ever, in my humble opinion, was that of the Neutrogena shampoo. Remember how they would say that your hair gets used to shampoo and if you switch it up every once in a while by using Neutrogena shampoo your regular product will work better than ever. How brilliant is that? You don’t have to switch from the stuff you love, just use ours every two weeks and your experience will be better. Well, you have to admire that kind of marketing. I ran across this Neutrogena Rapid Tone Repair at the drugstore (okay, it was in the beauty section of Superstore) and I thought I would give it a try. I will tell you this: it’s amazing. For anyone who has an uneven skin tone, blotchiness, old scars, this is like a miracle cream. It’s also supposed to work on wrinkles which may be the case, but I’ve really mostly noticed it on my skin tone. This is a night cream; they have a day version but I’m waiting until I use up the Garnier Clearly Brighter before making the switch. I’ve been using the Garnier product for a while and it’s okay, but it sure hasn’t given results like the Neutrogena one has.

Eye Cream

If you have been reading this blog for any length of time, you will know that I have been searching for a good eye cream FOREVER. I have used Kiehl’s, Clinique, Dr. Brandt, and even, yes, Rodan and Field’s. I have not been overly happy with any of them; the difference is minor in my eye bags, and often by mid-day the creams have made my eye makeup run so I look even worse. I picked up Garnier Ultra-Lift Miracle Sleeping Cream on a whim; it wasn’t very expensive in comparison to the other things I’ve tried, and also it’s meant as a night cream. I was a little skeptical BECAUSE it was a night cream, but I tell you, people, this actually works. I look significantly less exhausted, even though I get the exact same amount of sleep every night. This is me this morning, in my harsh bathroom lighting. When I took this I would have been up almost six hours, after getting approximately six-and-a-half hours sleep.

Do I still have eye bags and wrinkles? Yes! But they are so much better than they used to be.

Side note: do you love that necklace? My sweet thirteen-year-old bought it for me when he was on his Quebec trip. He really couldn’t have chosen better, I don’t think. Bonus favourite thing!

BB Cream

I love BB cream and my go-to is either Smashbox Photo Ready or Garnier, which I’ve discussed in detail. However, when I go to the gym, I get really sweaty and my makeup runs, which I hate. Enter this new BB cream – it’s expensive, relatively speaking, so I only wear it on gym days – Garnier BB Light, which somehow, through magic and/or science, matches your skin tone. It doesn’t run even when I (brag alert) run 6.405 km in 40 minutes and get so sweaty the treadmill has drips on it.

Sweaty, yes, but the makeup is still there!

I had much more to talk about today – food that makes you glow and age well, nail products, the very best thing I’ve ever done for my hair health – but it will have to wait for another day! Until then, let me know if you have any products you swear by and what your feelings are about Growing Old Gracefully. I’d love to hear from you! xo

Once, Twice, Three Times An (Old) Lady

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It is Groundhog Day, so is it okay to say that this week has been Crazytown Bananapants, even though I started out my last post in that exact way? Yes? Okay.

Something happened yesterday that got me thinking; what I wanted to write about today is not the topic that I am about to embark on, so my Theory of Behavioural Economics As It Applies To Shopping Carts will have to wait until next time. There’s a teaser for you! I just like to keep things fresh, and my readers on the edge. Next time, I promise.

What I want to talk about today is Aging.

I’m going to come out and say it: aging does not bother me. For one thing, I would rather age than be dead, which is the only other option. Also, I think life becomes more interesting, colourful, and nuanced with experience and age. Sure, my roots may be grey for two out of five weeks, sure, I might feel like the Crypt Keeper some mornings, but in general, I think with age comes not only wisdom, but interesting experiences.

Side note: my friend (HI DENISE) told me that I’m actually very lucky to be so grey, because “granny grey” is the hottest new colour trend. I looked at her with extreme skepticism, but it turns out that she’s right. I should have known, she’s actually one of the most fashionable people I know, you should see her shoes, for the love of god. My hair therapist informed me that many, many girls and women are opting for granny grey, and honestly, who knew I was so in vogue? Certainly not me. But I am not ready for that step. It’s one thing to be a sweet young thing with stylish granny grey hair, it’s quite another for me. This is not unlike wearing knee-length, round collared, floral-print dresses; if you are of a certain age it might look cute and hip, but if I tried that, I would look like my own grandma wearing a housedress and would only require a pair of sensible shoes to complete the ensemble. Maybe a strategically-placed pin so as to ensure no possibility of cleavage would be revealed. And a slip.

Do women still wear slips? I remember it being a little risque, at least in my family circle, to not wear a slip. Does anyone wear a slip anymore? Do they even sell slips anymore, now that Sears is no longer in business? I have so many questions.

Another side note: I had brunch with a group of women that I hadn’t seen in eight years. Eight years! (HI LADIES) The years have been exceptionally kind to them; not one of them looked any different from what they looked like eight years ago. All of them retained their youthful, unlined faces. In particular, one of the women who shall remain nameless for the purposes of privacy but who knows who she is (HI) is turning fifty this year and she does not look a day – NOT ONE DAY – over thirty-five, with her dewy, glowing complexion. This is in comparison to me, one step away from becoming an apple doll. Jealousy is an ugly thing and yet, I cannot help but be envious, and to stock up on retinol.

Ah, vanity.

But something happened yesterday that made me feel older; older than not really knowing who anyone is who is featured in People magazine or on awards shows, older than having a discussion about arthritis with some of my students, older than realizing I am now dependent on my daily dose of special vegetarian glucosamine, older even than when I realized my friends looked the same as they did eight years ago and I, most assuredly, do not.

I got called “young lady.”

Now, it’s not like I don’t get called “young lady” often – after all, I spend a lot of time at the Co-Op, and older gentlemen often refer to me as such. But there is something very different about being called “young lady” by an octogenarian who is thanking me for moving my cart so he can reach the high-fibre bran cereal, and a fellow who is much, much younger than me.

Frankly, it made me feel like I was in the nursing home and a nice intern referred to me in that jokey way that people do when it comes to the elderly, as a “sweet young lady.” Or maybe in a would you like to be wheeled over to the arts and crafts room, young lady? We’re making macrame owls! kind of way.

Don’t get me wrong, I was not in any way offended by the greeting. I would never be offended by a kind and heartfelt greeting, which is what it was. And anyway, what’s the difference between that and being called “miss” when you’re clearly a “ma’am?” Or being called Senorita when you are obviously a Senora? Technically, there is no difference, and YET THERE IS. I cannot put my finger on it but the difference is as gaping as a plunging neckline in need of a pin, or maybe a nice brooch.

Spooky stuff!

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Happy Halloween! After years of elementary school rules wherein costumes were only allowed after lunch on October 31, we have entered the realm of junior high. Every day this week has a theme – yesterday was Pajama Day, for example, and Thursday is Twin Day – and today, happily and appropriately enough, is Costume Day.

What could possibly go wrong? On the weekend the eighth grader had quite a lot of homework, including making his own water filtration system to be brought to school on Tuesday. Tuesday, Halloween. “Mom, where do we keep our activated charcoal?” is a question I never thought I’d be answering, but here we are. Fortunately my husband has a charcoal grill, and although I’m unsure if it will be effective, the filtration system now has smashed up pieces of charcoal in it. Just getting the system there in one piece while wearing a headless horseman costume and carrying all the usual school paraphernalia seemed like an enormous undertaking, fraught with all sorts of issues, but it is now 1:00 pm and I haven’t been alerted to any major issues, so I suppose all is well.

I just had a feeling of sympathy for all the teachers today, and tomorrow. Let’s have a positive thought for them, bless those brave souls.

Speaking of scary, it is supposed to rain tonight and the snow is starting tomorrow, so I am thankful that I am the home base candy person. My husband is only going out around our block, though, and then the kids are meeting their friends, so it appears a new era is upon us. I’m just glad we have a white stormtrooper to be the reflective person in the group, and am trying not to be too nervous about it. DRIVE SLOW, HOMIES.

Scary movies and sleepovers involving horror flicks were a big part of growing up in my generation, it seems. I have never liked horror movies at all, and I must have blocked them mostly out because while I remember watching some of the Nightmare on Elm Street ilk, I don’t remember any details of them. I do, however, remember two television shows from my youth that scared the bejesus out of me, and neither were Halloween or horror related.

First, when I was very little, I remember watching a show about a bear that stalked people and, presumably, killed them. I’m fuzzy on the details; I was pretty young. It would have been set in “settler times” because the cast was dressed in Little House on the Prairie-like clothing and the houses were small cabins in the woods. I remember only one scene, and it terrified me for life: the people being stalked were in the safety of their cabin, when the camera panned onto the door. Underneath the door, a claw slid through. It was so creepy then, and it’s creepy now, and I have no idea whatsoever this program was or why I watched it. I guess there was nothing else on – but that doesn’t explain it, really, since I was never much of a TV-watcher. Anyone?

The second terrifying television program WAS Little House on the Prairie. Ma had – somehow – gotten a cut on her leg, which became infected and practically gangrenous. She was alone in the house for a few days, and became feverish with this infection. She picked up her Bible and read a passage about cutting off and casting away a limb which is causing problems, since it was better than having the entire body go to hell. Obviously Ma was crazed with fever and pain to not realize the symbolism of this verse, and she actually got out her big old carving knife in preparation to saw her own leg off. I know it ended with Ma NOT becoming the One Legged Woman Of Walnut Grove, but I don’t remember how exactly because I ended up becoming far too invested in the story and freaking out entirely. I think, probably, Pa came home and Ma had already passed out from pain before she could do the unsedated old-timey amputation.

Other terrifying childhood memories include a visit from the firefighters about fire safety, with a warning that “everyone will be involved in a fire sometime in their lives,” leading six-year-old me to believe that the house would instantly combust and I would burn to death in my bed, leading to nightmares for years, getting lost at a large Canada Day festival and ending up in the cold, grey, concrete Lost Children Room with a CLOWN, and watching Bruce Banner change into the Incredible Hulk with my older brother, who would always tell me that the worst was over and I could look, now, WHEN THE WORST WAS MOST DEFINITELY NOT OVER.

And now it’s your turn – what spooked you, when you were a kid? Tell all, it will be like therapy, but much less expensive. xo

Dressing like a gypsy fortune-teller – one of the more popular costumes back in 1981.

This year’s festive carvings – can you tell which one is mine?