Category Archives: I love my friends

Tent Poles Of Life

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Last week I listened to a podcast on the case against convenience and efficiency in our modern life, and it was fascinating. Who DOES benefit from people being more “efficient” with their time? If we can get lunch delivered right to our offices, is that really better than walking to go pick it up? Who benefits? It’s not us, the people working through lunch. There is always a cost to convenience, and someone is paying. Sometimes it’s all of us, from an environmental standpoint, sometimes it is a workforce in poor conditions, sometimes it is through loss of personal security and identity. It has been many years since I have worked in an office, but this still resonated with me deeply, particularly the comment that we are all trying to save time, but what are we saving time for?

It’s a good question. Some longtime friends visited us this week, and we were talking about their upcoming retirements. I’m not sure if I can claim that I am retired since I’ve worked only part-time at most since March 2004, but my husband thinks that the key to a happy retirement is to become time-inefficient. This doesn’t mean that he’s lazy or unproductive, but instead it means that he doesn’t rush to cram everything into every possible moment of the day. His workouts are no longer a rushed hour before leaving for the office, but a whole-morning affair, complete with stretching and meditation. Yard work is no longer crammed into the few weekend hours that weather would allow, which is a good thing, since we have so much more yard here than we did in Calgary. Life is more relaxed and happier, particularly since there are no longer insane demands on him, like meetings at 10:00 on Easter morning, as an example.

How we spend our days is how we spend our lives, which is a sentiment I both love and also feel uncomfortable with, given that I spent at least five hours grocery shopping, driving to and from grocery stores, and putting away all the groceries this week. Is my life just groceries now? I suppose there are worse ways to spend my one wild and precious life.

One fun thing I spent time doing this week was make a double batch of cupcakes for my friend Sammi’s birthday (HI SAMMI). There was a big party for her, which was delightful. Happy birthday to my beautiful Sammi!

Speaking of friends and ways we spend our time, my friend Elisabeth (HI ELISABETH) is hosting her semi-annual walking club. It’s my time to shine! I am the QUEEN of the daily walk; I haven’t missed one since March 2020, and before that, I walked probably 99% of the days since Barkley came into our lives in September 2008. If my day is a tent, metaphorically speaking, then my daily walk is one of the tent poles adding structure to my life. It’s a time for moving meditation and podcast listening, gentle exercise and fresh air, enjoying being outside and the beauties of nature, such as this sight from last week.

Free candy! Hold me back!

Another tent pole in my daily life, for half the year at least, is the garden. At the party on Saturday, a friend’s husband asked me how my summer was. Great! I gardened all the time! I answered, garnering a puzzled and somewhat pitying look. Well, I love it, but garden season is coming to a close and I’m going to have to figure out what I did for all those hours in previous offseasons. Oh right, I wrote a book.

As will be obvious from my Favourite Things post last week, an important tent pole is my daily shower, makeup, and hair routine, together with, at the end of the day, my makeup removal, cream application, and dental hygiene routine. These are both very vital parts of my day, as in I cannot imagine my day without them. How would I function?

I saw something several months ago that I have thought of nearly every day since. A fairly well-known Canadian writer had posted a photo of herself in a t-shirt with something witty on it, and that was the point of the post. However. I cannot remember at all what the t-shirt said because the side note of the photo was that the writer was wearing two day old makeup. I cannot get over this. I have to remind myself that the world is a vast tapestry and we are not identical robots. Still. It’s hard for me to fathom not showering daily, let alone going TWO days shower-less, short of extreme illness, surgery recovery, or camping. It is harder still to imagine going two days without washing one’s face. What would her pillowcase look like? What does her skin look like? How does one have eye makeup on for two days without it devolving into raccoon eyes? WHAT KIND OF MAGIC MAKEUP IS THIS?

Well. As I said, we are all different and have different priorities and ways in which we choose to spend our time. I am comfortable with the tent poles that give structure to my days, and therefore, my life. Well, mostly. I would prefer to spend less time vacuuming the floor, which is a tedious tent pole of my day, but that’s the tradeoff for having this guy in my life.

Weekly Reading

Reading is, of course, an important part of my day, and I finished two very good books this week.

Big Little Lies. I first read this in 2017, but decided to reread in preparation for the newly released Big Little Truths, for which I am in the library queue. The queue is pretty long, so hopefully I won’t forget everything by the time my turn comes. Anyway. Rereading this catapulted me back into the days when my kids were in elementary school: the fundraising for Smart Boards, the mom cliques, the playground gossip. This is such a propulsive, funny, and very thoughtful read about a very serious subject: domestic abuse. Moriarty is an excellent writer, and I have a little six-degree connection – a woman in our Morocco tour group taught math to her daughter! I felt starstruck just knowing that! Also, Rex would like you to know that he’s not telling any lies, big or little.

Tunnel 29. Big thanks to blog reader Allison R (HI ALLISON R) for telling me about this excellent nonfiction book that reads like a novel! It details the creation of a tunnel underneath the Berlin Wall through which 29 people escaped East Berlin, but more than that, it is a picture of post-war Germany, the division of the country, and the very grim living situation of East German people, particularly those in East Berlin. I had no idea about the Stasi – the spy network – that infiltrated every part of East German life. This was a very fascinating book and one I’d recommend if you are interested in German and Soviet history. I clearly remember the Berlin Wall coming down, I was a teenager, and this brings so much more context to that event than I have ever had. 

If I were more on the ball, I would have been singing Earth, Wind, and Fire’s September this time last week, but alas. Perhaps I’ll change it to the 28th night of September, just for today. How has your September been? I hope you have a beautiful week, friends! xo

Random Semi-Related Things

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I Always Feel Like Somebody’s Watching Me

After a very busy and productive August, the garden is starting to take its annual September Slow Down. Every single day last month, I spent hours in the garden harvesting berries and vegetables, weeding, and deadheading. I was especially proud of myself for my management of what I like to call The Annual Zucchini Situation; I had been picking them when they’ve been of medium size, I’ve been using them up or successfully pawning them off on my very sweet friends, and no one in my house has mutinied due to the zucchini-in-everything Augusts of the past. A few weeks ago I was in the garden, thinking about this in a very smug way, and as we all know, karma does not enjoy smugness as a character trait. I immediately tripped over a massive zucchini that had apparently appeared out of nowhere.

I can only imagine it had been watching me for weeks from its hiding place under a large leaf.

Raspberry Beret

In addition to an actual ocean of tomatoes, I have been enjoying a tidal wave of raspberries. There is no need to figure out what to do with all of them, because as soon as I pick a bowl, it magically disappears. But a few weeks ago I had a bigger than normal raspberry harvest, and I also had an unaccountable gap in my weekly meal plan. I decided to do something I haven’t done in years, since before we moved here in 2023, which was to make breakfast for dinner. I thought I’d use the raspberries, along with my farm market peaches and nectarines, for a fruit salad to go along with my Famed Cinnamon Waffles.

The Landslide’ll Bring You Down

My cinnamon waffles were Famed only in my sons’ circle of friends. During their teen years, the boys had early dismissal on Fridays, and most of the time on those days my house would be suddenly filled with famished teen boys. I always made them cinnamon waffles because it was such a massive recipe, and then I would bask in the glory of being the Mom With The Best Waffles Ever. There is nothing, nothing so satisfying as cooking for teenage boys. No one is so ravenously appreciative.

Filled with nostalgia, I pulled out my waffle maker and went to grab the recipe for Nicole’s Famed Cinnamon Waffles, which were not Nicole’s at all, but merely a recipe in the little booklet that came with the waffle maker. And that is when I discovered that the little waffle maker recipe book was MISSING.

To my surprise, I immediately spiralled into the same kind of sadness that I had experienced back in 2023, when my bookmark collection was forever lost in the moving process. I assumed that the waffle recipe book had followed suit, and all was ashes. I was sad all over again, thinking of all those Friday afternoons when the mudroom was piled with gigantic dirty shoes and the dining room table was sticky with syrup, when Barkley braved the noise of ten teen boys in the house in the hopes of some dropped waffles, when said boys exited the dining room all saying That was AWESOME, Nicole, thank you! Never again would that happen for me, mostly because I don’t live there anymore, I don’t have teenagers, and Barkley is, sadly, long gone. Also because I would be unable to replicate the recipe. I was surprised at my sudden and intense reaction. Just feel your feelings, I said to myself sadly. The lack of the Famed Cinnamon Waffle Recipe felt devastating. Not as devastating as the bookmarks – I didn’t cry myself into a dehydrated state – but sad nonetheless.

Guess Who’s Back? Back Again?

As I wallowed in sadness, I realized that, current fashion trends notwithstanding, we are not in the Nineties anymore. We live in the Age of Information! And not all of it is Mis-or-Disinformation! I bustled over to my trusty laptop and searched up Cuisinart Waffle Maker Recipe Book and lo. There it was, the Famed Cinnamon Waffle recipe. What a time to be alive. I immediately printed it off and filed it in my recipe book, to ward off any future breakfast item-related sadness spirals.

1/8 of the waffle recipe

I Get By With A Little Help From My Friends

The happy ending to the waffle recipe sadness spiral reminded me how wonderful the world is, and not just because we can access any kind of information at any time. It reminded me of how all of you, dear readers, rallied when my bookmarks were lost. I was going through such a massive transition in my life, and the bookmarks felt symbolic in the saddest way. No one, not one person, said they’re just bookmarks, get over yourself. Instead, friends from near and far provided me with bookmarks. My friend Sammi drove over to my house with a selection immediately on hearing the news, I received bookmarks from Washington State to Marco Island, from the US Midwest to California, from Alberta to Saskatchewan to Ontario, from Barcelona and Portugal. My son made me bookmarks featuring Rex, Salvadore the gnome, and Gerbera daisies for Christmas. My sweet friend Gigi (HI GIGI) cross-stitched personalized flowered bookmarks for me. I keep my collection in a tin that my longtime friend Elise (HI ELISE) sent me, and every time I start a new book, I happily choose one and think of what a gift it is to have such people in my life.

I will never forget how supported and loved I felt and still feel. Thank you, friends.

All You Need Is Love

Speaking of fun and exciting things in the mail, I received this from my friend Engie (HI ENGIE).

I literally screamed with delight when I opened it. Gnomes, love, AND math? I’m in heaven. Receiving fun mail reminded me that we are now into September, and it’s not too soon to start thinking about holiday cards. Are you a Holiday Card Person? If so, let’s exchange cards! (EXCHANGE is the key word here). Merely fill out this google form, and I will send you my address. If you are already on my list, no need to fill out the form, unless your address has changed. Now, I think that’s enough randomness – let’s get on to this week’s very mixed reading.

Weekly Reading

I had a DNF this week: Heated Rivalry. You all know I love a closed door romance, and whoa nelly, that was not this. It was way too spicy for me and I DNF’d at about the 12% mark, after the third graphic anal sex scene had me Kegeling like nobody’s business.

Her One Regret. From the author of The Nine Lives of Rose Napolitano – a book about a woman coerced into having a baby – comes this book about the biggest taboo in motherhood; namely, regretting becoming one. It is touted as a mix between a thriller and a manifesto, and indeed, it does get at some uncomfortable truths about early motherhood like exhaustion, resentment, change of identity, and overwhelm due to the stunning responsibility that is caring for a tiny helpless person. I will say that it’s pretty repetitive and overly convoluted, and every man in this book is as flat and one-dimensional as can be – they are all complete dicks. The “thriller” part was less than thrilling, in fact when the big reveal occurred I thought “Huh. Okay.” and moved on with my life. It does highlight that society views mothers that leave their families VERY different than they do fathers that leave, but mostly I felt it was kind of overwritten and a bit dull.

Inheritance. What makes a father a father? How does your biological ancestry affect who you are as a person? This memoir explores such questions after the author discovers, through an ancestry DNA test, that her long-deceased father was not her biological father due to a very sketchy infertility “treatment.” I will say that the author’s journey to peace with this very disturbing discovery is quite interesting and eventually lovely, but something did not sit well with me throughout this reading. I am in no way disparaging or questioning her lived experience. I am sure it’s extremely disorienting to discover that your father isn’t who you thought he was, and in the author’s case, this had larger implications. Her father’s family was a prominent Orthodox Jewish one, and on her discovery, she felt as though she had lost her identity and was subsequently traumatized. “It’s traumatic because I’m fifty-four years old and I found out the father I adored, the father who raised me, was not my biological father. That the family I thought I came from is not my biological family. That my ancestors are not my biological ancestors.” I understand this, however, I take a bit of issue with it. I would say that a father who adored you and raised you IS your father, end of story. I suppose I feel touchy about this because my beloved Grandma Fern was my step-grandma. We were not related by blood, but she was still my grandma. She cherished me exactly the same as she did her biological grandchildren. In the author’s case, a (sketchy) sperm donation does not make a father, in my mind. Anyway, this was a very interesting and kind of wild read about the nature of infertility treatments in the early 60s. I also learned a lot about Orthodox Judaism. This was definitely worth the read, and had me thinking a lot about the nature of families. I think there is just so much more to family than blood.

Walking With Beth. During the Covid pandemic, the 71 year-old author and her 101-year-old friend Beth deepen their friendship with regular walks and talks, and this book is a record of their conversations. Both women are from very prominent Canadian families, and so their recollections of their younger years were quite interesting to me, not to mention all they’d seen throughout their lives. Beth was born in 1920, at the end of the 1918 influenza pandemic, so it’s interesting that the two bonded 100 years later. This book introduced me to the concept of Anam Cara, “soul-friend,” of whom I am fortunate to have a few. “This friendship…was an act of recognition and belonging. When you had an anam cara, your friendship cut across all convention, morality, and category. You were joined in an ancient and eternal way with the friend of your soul. This art of belonging awakened and fostered a deep and special companionship.” This is a beautiful story of aging and friendship, and I LOVED the description of Beth’s outfits. Talk about goals! Thanks to Elisabeth and Pearl (HI ELISABETH HI PEARL) for mentioning this book.

Hello to September! We are going on a little road trip this week, and I have the feeling we will be seeing lots of fall foliage. In the meantime, take care, friends. xo

I Just Called To Say I Love You

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I had the most delightful, friend-filled week. It started with a visit from my friend Suzanne (HI SUZANNE). Suzanne is a very talented writer and a dear friend, and being able to see her in person, as opposed to on a screen, was wonderful. I can’t believe you’re HERE, I kept saying, and I couldn’t. It felt too good to be true! And for those of you who follow and read her beautiful words, let me tell you something: this woman is a class act, she is absolutely gorgeous inside and out. I adore her! Then Suzanne left and before I could become bereft, my friend Tara (HI TARA) arrived. Tara and I have been the best of friends since the first day of grade nine, and we have gone through all the big life stages together. There is something just so special about that. She’s the sister I never had.

The visits were perfect, marred only by the thick blanket of smoke that billowed in on Monday, when Suzanne arrived, and didn’t billow out until Friday night, after Tara left, albeit briefly. It has billowed back in, as there are some pretty serious fires fairly close to us right now. The air became so bad that my sons, both of whom work outdoors, texted me photos of them wearing masks, along with some wry Covid-era commentary. I told them they were a couple of sheeple before stepping into the shower to scrub the smoke smell out of my hair and skin, the yellowish rinse water swirling at my feet.

For most of the pandemic, I found myself reciting the Serenity Prayer like a mantra, and I do that now with forest fire season.

I was so honoured that my friends came so far to see little old me – through the smoke no less! – and as I was thinking of my luckiness, I came across this newsletter talking about the five-year stranger phenomenon. It was the first time I had heard this theory, but I’m well aware of the concept that friendships can fade when our lives cease to physically or mentally overlap, or when we change and grow. I have always subscribed to the theory that people come into your life for a reason, season, or lifetime, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t feel a pang when a friendship fades.

It’s so easy to keep in touch these days, and maybe it is too easy. It’s easy to feel like we really know a person while looking at their social media highlight reel, but relationships with any depth require more effort than that. However, the fact is that I love these highlight reels, I love seeing updates from people who would otherwise have faded from my life. I feel sure I would have lost touch with the girl I volunteered with at the nursing home when we were fifteen, and now I am celebrating her extensive travel and upcoming nuptials. I’ve become friends with former yoga students and people I have met while travelling, reconnected with people from grad school, and have become close with a cousin (HI KAREN) through our shared love of books and dogs, all due to social media. I love that I have these tools to communicate, but I admit that sometimes they can take the place of true heart-to-heart connection, the kind of intimacy and closeness we all need from our friends. I also admit that they can sometimes reveal unsettling information about a person, information that I was happier not having, from pandemics to politics and everything in-between. Because these relationships are often surface level, I can compartmentalize, but I would still rather not know if someone is using the term sheeple unironically.

My husband has a friend who loathes texting, so much so that he will return any text with a phone call. The more I think about this, the more I like it. Not that I’m going to do this – it’s a little much to make a constant stream of phone calls all day long in response to, say, someone’s Connections results – but I do like hearing my friends’ voices. Whereas I used to worry that a phone call would interrupt their day, I now think well, they can NOT answer if it’s a bother. And sometimes it IS a bother, and they don’t answer, and that’s okay. They can listen to my I just called to say I love you voice mails, and call back when and if they are so inclined.

Many years ago, I adopted a mindset reframe that I had read about: instead of saying I don’t have time for X, I say X is not a priority for me, and then I see how I feel about that. If I feel aghast, and I reassure myself that no, no, no, X really IS a priority, then I make the time. If I feel it is a true statement, then I just let it go. Not everything can be prioritized! A big priority for me is to show up for my friends. Sometimes it’s not physically possible; one of my best friends lives in Halifax (HI HANNAH), which is just about as far away as you can get without leaving the country or falling into the ocean. But we must have the serenity to accept the things we cannot change, and be grateful for modern technology that allows us to still communicate about everything from tulip murderers to the weird guy who talks angrily on Facetime with no headphones at the gym.

It’s not the new year, but I have a resolution to make more phone calls, send more cards and messages, and physically be there whenever possible. Have the courage to change the things you can, and the wisdom to know that placing a phone call on speaker in a public place is both an act of aggression and an invitation for me to eavesdrop on every word.

Weekly Reading

Kin. This book literally took my breath away several times. I will admit I went into it a bit apprehensively, being the only person I know who didn’t enjoy this author’s acclaimed An American Marriage. But wow, this book! It is a dual perspective between two “cradle friends,” motherless girls who grew up together but whose lives took two very different paths as adults. It’s a story about the deepest kind of friendship, the kind of friendship that is more than family, the kind of friendship in which each person is truly known. It’s immersive and evocative, heartbreaking and hopeful, viscerally beautiful and moving. I loved this so very much.

The Big M. For us ladies of a certain age comes this collection of essays about THE CHANGE. It’s an inspiring and empowering collection about the physical, mental, and emotional changes that come during perimenopause and the menopause transition. Some of the essays were absolutely great, some less so, but all in all a good collection.

It looks to be a smokey week around here, with fire fighters working around the clock. Meanwhile, I will just be practicing serenity and peering at the sky, optimistically thinking I might see a patch of blue. Have a lovely week, friends. Stay safe. xo

Nicole’s Favourite Things: The Mine, His, Ours Edition

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Our houseguests have gone home and it occurred to me, not for the first time, that our friendship is rare, in the world of Couple Friends: all four of us get along, as they say, like a house on fire. Not only that, but our kids all get along. Our older kids were born on the exact same day, only two hours apart, and even though those two had that special bond, they both have fun with the other two as well. In other words, all eight of us get along in any and all permutations and combinations, and I think that is very special. These are Our Friends, as opposed to friends who “belong” more to one partner than the other.

I don’t believe that when you get married, you have to share everything, even friends. There are things that are shared and there are things that are individual, and this extends to household items. The houseplants are mine, the leaf blower is my husband’s. The Peloton is mine, the squat rack is his. We share the Vitamix but each have our own coffee maker; mine is a standard drip pot, his is a fancy espresso machine that I refuse to learn how to work. The grills are his and the stand mixer is mine, the puzzle board is shared property. The televisions and sound systems are his, the piano is mine. The camper is his, but I think he wishes it was ours. Alas for him.

Nicole’s Favourite Things: The Mine, His, Ours Edition

Ours: Wine Tastings

If you visit me, there is a 100% chance that I will take you for a wine tasting. It is my number one activity to do with houseguests, and there is a special, personal reason for it that goes beyond my love of wine: my husband’s family used to own the vineyard and winery that is now Tantalus. My husband’s grandfather worked to own the land, and my husband himself planted a number of the old Riesling plants that are still producing fruit. The backstory might be his, but I count this as ours since our son now works for this very vineyard. And also, again, I love wine.

Mine: The Veggie Garden

I mentally split up our yard as well as the interior of our house. The large perennial border is ours, but the lawn is definitely his. The veggie garden, on the other hand, is mine. It’s early in the season yet, but everything is coming up nicely. I have already harvested the arugula, and the kale will not be far behind.

Anyone else hear the ominous music playing? IT BEGINS.

Every year, I kind of forget the vast volume of greens we get. It’s a good problem to have! Arugula salad for all!

His: The Iris Garden

I think of our flower planters as ours, but also a little bit mine, while the iris garden is definitely his. There were several old irises and tulips growing above the rock wall that lines our carport when we moved here, and my husband has spent a lot of time restoring the overgrown bed, weeding and dividing and planting. May is the month it really shines!

Mine: Gnomes

This is an obvious one; the gnomes are clearly mine. This year I decided to hide them all within the gardens, and seeing them poke out between the plants makes me smile. It’s the kind of thing I would have loved as a child, hidden gnomes, and it brings me so much delight.

Mine: Special Sunscreen

When we travel, my husband does not pack shampoo because, as he says, hotels always provide it. This is true, but also, I will never not take my own hair care products. Who knows what kind of products they have? Who knows what state my hair will be in, using some random product? What if they only have 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner? Relatedly, he uses the same sunscreen on his face that he uses on his body and there, as with using hotel shampoo, I draw a very thick and bold line. I am very choosy about the sunscreen I will use on my face, and my current favourite is one that my friend Suzanne alerted me to: Neutrogena Face Serum Sunscreen. (HI SUZANNE)

It doesn’t leave a residue, it absorbs quickly, and it works under makeup. What more do I want from a sunscreen, other than SPF protection?

The makeup table that the sunscreen is pictured on is something else that is mine, and mine alone, although the ensuite is ours.

Outfit of the Month

I don’t think I have ever in my entire life considered my husband’s opinion when I buy clothes or get dressed. I just assume that if I like my outfit, he will too, but even if he didn’t, it would have no effect on my sartorial choices. As my beloved Aunty C says, I dress for me.

To that end, this month’s outfit involves a black tee from the Gap, Skechers shoes, the world’s most comfortable pants from Lululemon, and a silk scarf from Cambodia. I wore this for a girl’s lunch out, but I think this is a perfect travel outfit. I’ve had those pants for years and they are versatile, light, and stretchy. What more do I want out of pants?

Of course, this blog is mine, and mine alone. Perhaps my husband would have a different view on things, but he doesn’t have a blog! I’m pretty sure he agrees on the iris garden, makeup table, and gnomes though. What are your favourite things this month, friends? Tell me everything. xo

The Sand Mandalas of Everyday Life

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Ever since he retired, my husband accompanies me to Costco almost every time I go. It’s like a standing, extremely non-sexy day date. We keep the magic alive, what can I say. Follow me for more marriage advice!

It IS nice to have the company, and to also have a witness to the absolute chaos that is shopping at the only Costco in a 200 kilometre radius. We were there a few weeks ago, and I learned an important lesson: the week before Mother’s Day rivals that of the one before Christmas. Evidently this has to do with the garden centre, and not because everyone is obtaining massive ingredients to put on a feast of sorts. Whatever the reason, both the parking lot and the warehouse could only be described as insane, with lineups to the cashiers snaking all the way down to the end of the store. Every aisle was crammed with people, and my husband suggested that we turn around and go home.

THERE’S NO TURNING BACK NOW.

I had a significantly large list to get through, and it would not improve by NOT shopping. Also, even with all evidence to the contrary, I had a weirdly optimistic feeling. There was a shopping cart with two wheels jammed into the meridian near our car, and we had rescued it rather than taking one from the carrel. I cannot save all the abandoned carts that litter the parking lots, but I saved that one. Also, who DOES that? It’s so much more work to jam half the cart onto the meridian than it is to just wheel it over to the carrel that is twenty steps away.

In any case, my optimistic feeling panned out. The shopping experience was somewhat hellish, to be sure. As we were finishing up, I told my husband I would just grab a few things from the produce section and meet him in the lineup. I started walking, holding my tomatoes, cucumbers, and sweet potatoes, and then I kept walking. And walking. Where was he? The lineup had magically disappeared and he was preparing to put our items on the conveyor belt.

And that is called Cart Karma, and is why we rescue shopping carts.

In my not-so-recent Ask Me Anything, my friend Diane (HI DIANE) asked What are three things you consider yourself an expert on? As I’ve gotten older, I feel like I am less and less an expert on anything, and more of a lifelong learner, although I do consider myself pretty knowledgeable in the area of karma, both cart and regular.

Sometimes I think of my life as one giant sand mandala, the kind that Buddhist monks make and then destroy as a way of practicing non-attachment and impermanence, except instead of a beautiful divine palace, my sand mandala is a pantry full of groceries. It’s a thing of beauty. I love the feeling of having a stocked fridge and pantry, so full of fresh ingredients, destined to become delicious meals. But nothing lasts forever, and I know that in mere days the stock will deplete, only to lead to me heading to Superstore and Costco with grim determination to create the mandala again. Impermanence!

I also think I am an expert when it comes to the sand mandala that is actual dinner. For over two decades now, I have honed my skills in this area. I make a weekly menu plan, I grocery shop, and then I execute. I know dinner is a struggle for many families, so I don’t want to flex too much, but I enjoy cooking and everyone in this house enjoys eating my cooking.

But dinner truly is a beautiful sand mandala. There is a lot of preparation involved, and although I am the kind of cook who literally throws things together with only a that seems good thought, and definitely no recipe, it still is a labour, the product of which gets destroyed upon setting it on the table.

The ultimate sand mandala at this time of year, though, is weeding the garden. Can a person be an expert on weeding? I don’t know, but if so, I am one. I spend time almost every day weeding, with the understanding that the next day, I will be out there weeding again. There’s no end to the weeds, and although that can feel a bit Sisyphus-ish, it’s also very Zen. Impermanence, non-attachment, etcetera.

Malcolm Gladwell popularized the notion that it takes 10000 hours to become an expert on something, and if that is the case, then most of us are experts on things we didn’t plan or want to be. Like, am I now an expert on laundry? Washing dishes? Vacuuming the floor because someone fuzzy likes to go on adventures in the vineyard and tracks in acres of dry grass and other vegetation remnants?

It’s best to practice non-attachment in those areas as well. Clean laundry, dishes, and floors are all impermanent and, like Newman said about the mail, they never stop. But the brief time where the laundry is clean and folded, dishes are all put away, and the floor is gleaming, well. It’s beautiful, and it – like everything else – will not last.

Weekly Reading

My reading count this week is bonkers, and almost entirely due to the fact that I read a total of three books on Mother’s Day alone. What can I say, other than yoga and walking the dog, I did nothing but read that day. I also had two DNF’s that I expected to love and did not: Still Life and Mornings In Jenin. You win some, you lose some.

Pick a Colour. This was an interesting little book, told from the point of view of a nail salon owner, who used to be a boxer. It’s a commentary on social status, power dynamics, and the road not taken. 

A Winter Book. My friend Laura (HI LAURA) suggested this book of short stories by a famed Finnish children’s author. These are auto-fiction, and span from the author’s childhood to her old age. My favourites were the episalatory variety, but all contain vast nature descriptions of the Finnish landscape, both within Helsinki and on the isolated island where she spent a lot of time.

The Bobbsey Twins and the Tagalong Giraffe. The book that spurred a lifelong desire to go on safari in Africa! I read this when I was seven, and for the past forty-four years I’ve been longing to go to Africa to see the animals. And I will be, soon! Now, will my adventure involve an orphaned baby giraffe named Crackers who I will accompany to a new herd of giraffes? Who can say? I hope so! 

The Things We Never Say. If you know me at all, you know how much I love Elizabeth Strout. She is an auto-buy author for me; I love everything she has ever written, and this, her latest, is no exception. It is an incredibly moving story of a high school history teacher who learns a secret that changes how he views his own life and the world at large. As he teaches the American Civil War to his students, he is faced with a country divided, and he learns that everyone has things they never say to anyone. It is a statement on loneliness, and how a person can be dreadfully alone even when surrounded by people. Strout’s writing is, as always, beautiful and precise and I loved reading every word of this.

Kokoro. It would be difficult to overstate how much this book moved me, how much it resonated with me, how seen I felt while reading it. I wanted to note down every phrase that was meaningful to me, but I quickly realized I would be soon transcribing the entire book. This book of Japanese wisdom for living a life of meaning and fulfilment, particularly for people in midlife, is incredible in every way. I think I had an out-of-body experience reading this. I think the lessons are for everyone, but particularly for those of us in our “back nine eras.” Thank you again to my friend Laura (HI LAURA) for bringing this book to my attention, and I will be immediately looking up everything this author has written.

I cannot BELIEVE I forgot to mention one of my favourite Canadian groups, in last week’s post: Blue Rodeo! Here I am with JIM CUDDY, at a 2008 Plates of Gold Olympics fundraiser. If I look starstruck, it’s because I was. Also in the photo was my husband’s colleague’s wife and Kelly Hrudy, both cut out to make it look like it’s just me and Jim Cuddy. I also got to meet Sale and Pelletier, which will mean a lot for you pairs skating fans out there.

We have had houseguests for an extended long weekend, and it feels just like a holiday. I’ve been flexing my dinner-making muscles, as well as my wine-drinking ones. I’d like to extend my sand mandala metaphor to include the latter, but I cannot think of how to do it. xo

Crazy Plant Lady

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Early in January of this year, I found myself looking thoughtfully at a Costco display of two-packs of jade plants. I was soon joined by my husband who, since retirement, likes to accompany me on my semi-monthly Costco trips. He asked suspiciously why I was looking at the plants, adding, not unreasonably, that we really didn’t have space for any more in the house.

I had something in mind that I had been pondering about for months, but there is something you must know about my husband: he is a Man of Action. I tell him nothing until I am ready for Things To Move, if you know what I am saying. Some examples of things that I spoke about casually and that materialized fairly rapidly are the Peloton and our home gym, a trip to Morocco, more closet space, a new house, every small appliance in our kitchen, and garden beds. I had only to say I really like raised garden beds and then, like a cartoon character leaving a pile of dust in its wake, my husband was out sawing and hammering and shovelling soil into the resulting six beds that he made with his own hands, erecting fencing material around it to keep out the deer.

So I didn’t immediately tell him what I was thinking, which was that Noelle, my beloved but non-blooming Christmas cactus, was at the end of her life, along with her sister and shelf-mate, Stella the star plant, who never really recovered from her move here in 2023. Some of you may be thinking so what, plants die but you are not seeing the depths of my feelings on this subject. Noelle is symbolic of many things: my friendship with Denise, who gifted her to me when she moved out of the country (HI DENISE), my relationship with my younger son, who is the same age as Noelle, and my entire life prior to moving here. You might be thinking that this is a lot to put on a houseplant, and you might be right.

In any case, I knew. I knew the way you know about a good melon, but in this case it was the way you know that a part of you has changed forever and life must, as it does, go on.

And so I bought the two-pack of jade plants, after telling my husband that It Was Time. To his credit, he did not express the glee I’m sure he felt at not having to see the slowly-dying plants every day. He asked me several times if I was sure, was I ABSOLUTELY SURE that I was ready, and I was. He took them out to the shed, never to be seen again.

Shortly after, my younger son came home from work, to find me silent and trembling in the kitchen, chopping vegetables in a deeply sorrowful way. Tears sprang to my eyes and my voice cracked as I told him the fate of Noelle and Stella. He nodded very seriously and then said, so gently, the way you might speak to a very sad child, Those new plants look nice. Are they twins or just sisters? Twins, I shakily told him. Do they have names? Jane and Jennifer, I said. Those are nice names, he said, while I burst into tears at the thought of Noelle and Stella, alone at the bottom of the compost.

The twins are beautiful, as are the rest of my plants, of which I have probably pathologically intense attachment to.

Alice, the aloe, was given to me as a mere sprig from Aunty C (HI AUNTY C) and has since grown into a happy monster. She resides on the kitchen windowsill beside Eva, the snake plant.

The other, much larger, snake plant is Sabrina, who enjoys her spot by the piano, and the gnomes who live with her.

Christy, the unknown plant given to me at Christmas from my friend Darlene (HI DARLENE) was covered with tiny white flowers when she arrived. A few months later, she shed her flowers and started to establish a lot of new growth, so much so that I think she’s going to need a new pot.

Beside her is Pippa, the pepperpot plant, who is a recent and much-loved addition to our home. My friend Tara (HI TARA) brought her as a hostess gift only a couple of weeks ago.

Finally, Anna the amaryllis was given to me by my friend Sandi (HI SANDI). After she bloomed I cut her back, and now she’s all leafy again. I’m going to try to get her to rebloom next year and will hopefully not have some kind of breakdown if she dies.

There is no Becoming. I Have Become a Crazy Plant Lady. I refer to the plants collectively as The Girls, unless I’m talking to one of my sons, in which case I refer to them as Your Sisters. Even for me, this seems unhinged, yet I am not willing to make any changes to make myself seem more sane. There are worse things than being a Crazy Plant Lady, and, in any case, gardening season has begun and I have started planting a few rows of seeds in the aforementioned handmade garden beds. In other words, Crazy Plant Lady is taking her show outside.

Weekly Reading

I devoured this book that follows an Australian woman living in London over a ten year period. If you know me, you know that “the extraordinariness of ordinary life” is my favourite kind of book, and that is this – relationships and motherhood and finding oneself across the political backdrop of the UK from 2013-2023. There is a truly incredible cast of characters, and the book is hilariously funny and also incredibly moving, all at the same time. I doubled over crying laughing a few times, only to have my breath taken away by the emotional depth a few pages later. I loved this so much.

“It’s not a whorehouse. It’s a whorehome.” 

Workhorse. I am mixed. The author worked at Vogue for seven years in the early 2000s, which is exactly the time period of this book about an absolutely atrocious slob of a young woman with zero moral compass and questionable personal hygiene who – despite those things and also her complete inability to converse like a normal, non-cringey person – lands and keeps a job at a high-prestige magazine (i.e., Vogue). On the plus side, there are a lot of juicy inside-baseball details about magazine culture during that time, in which I am genuinely interested. On the minus, OMG this is long. It is WAY too long. At 552 pages, it could have been cut in half and been a snappy, exciting book. The plot is good! The ending is good! If it was cut back, it would be very good! As it is, it is a “tell, not show” book, a writing style which I do not admire, and it is all a little on the nose. Also, in addition to the immense, unneeded length, there are a lot of weird little editing misses: girls referred to by their hair colour, which changed from one paragraph to the next, someone graduating from Columbia when the paragraph before says that person went to UPenn, that kind of thing. Disbelief must be suspended as the main character not only does not look the part (i.e., not only is she a cheaply-dressed hot mess, she is a size six, which in Vogue world is just not acceptable), but she lies on her resume and although there is a hint that there might be repercussions, that thread never gets picked up. No matter. If you’re into juicy details about early 2000s magazine culture, and if you want to settle in with a doorstop of a book, this is for you! Like I said, the plot IS good and I liked the ending.

Wherever You Go, There They Are. This was published in 2017, and as I read it I recalled that the 2010s were a really hot time for books of essays written by B-and-C list celebrities. You don’t see them much anymore, or at least, I don’t. Probably they all have podcasts instead. Anyway, many of these essays were a big dull to me, but there was an absolutely killer one about MLMs, which is another thing that was hit in the 2010s and I don’t see much of these days. Thankfully! I haven’t had a “hey girl” message on Facebook from an old schoolmate for a long while. I admit I picked up this book about the author’s dysfunctional family thinking “I’ll see you and I’ll raise you” but no. She wins.

Have a beautiful week, friends! xo

Fear of Flying, and Rats

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I was walking with Rex along the greenway, looking around me at the scenery. Rex stopped to sniff and I took that opportunity to really embrace the zen of the moment, noticing the swelling buds on the tree, the rushing of the creek, the beauty and glory of nature. After a moment, I realized we had been standing there for longer than a normal sniff. I glanced down at Rex to see him smelling a large dead rat.

How the rat shuffled off this mortal coil was a mystery, as it did not seem injured in any way, other than being dead, and how it came to be lying in the middle of a very wide walkway was also a significant unknown. Prior to my reverie about the wonder of the natural world, I had been listening to a podcast episode about the book 1984. The hosts had just gotten to the part about Winston and the cage full of rats, and I did wonder, absently, if I had somehow caused this dead rat to materialize with my own thoughts. Am I manifesting dead animals now? Am I moving them onto the walking path with my mind?

In addition to the horror and the question about manifestation, I also had gratitude, as I hurried Rex away, for two things: a) that Rex isn’t Barkley, who would have surely eaten the rat, and b) that this didn’t happen earlier in the week, when we had a leash mishap.

On Monday – Rex’s fifth birthday – we had an incident which was much less psychologically traumatizing, but significantly more painful physically. We were walking along when I saw approaching us a gentleman I have seen many times before, accompanied by his very reactive dog. Rex is generally either friendly or disinterested when we encounter another dog, unless that dog is reactive, at which point he becomes Giant Angry Rex.

So I brought him in close to me. I use a waist leash, so I can really put my body weight into controlling 102 fuzzy pounds. I started speaking softly to him as we started to pass, and probably it would have been fine had the other dog not suddenly lunged towards us, snarling and snapping. Rex lunged back and at that moment, the clasp of his leash broke, and the sudden release caused me to catapult backwards, not unlike a cartoon character. I landed, full force, on my right sitz bone, halfway down the slope off of the walking path.

It was kind of a disaster. The man called out Sorry! Are you okay? but couldn’t help me, because his dog was going bananas, and now Rex was loose. Fortunately, the man hurried away and Rex realized I was down for the count. He sat beside me, Lassie-like, until I could get back on my feet. If I had landed slightly differently, I likely would have fractured my tailbone, but as it was, I just bruised myself. It reminded me of the strength-training adage thick thighs save lives in terms of staving off osteoporosis, but in this case it was juicy booty to the rescue. Since it happened so quickly, I didn’t try to break my fall, which was fortunate, as in breaking my fall I would have probably broken, or at least sprained, my wrist.

Another issue now arose. The clasp, which was probably slowly wearing out over time, was completely broken on Rex’s leash, and now we were halfway through a 5km loop. I couldn’t really have him unleashed, so I had to jerry-rig his leash around his harness and hope for the best. If he had pulled – or encountered any kind of dead animal, rat or similar – my tenuous hold on him would probably have, like hell, broken loose.

Of course I immediately purchased a new leash the moment we got home.

Between a flare of plantar fasciitis in my right foot and an extremely sore right sitz bone, it’s been a bit of a painful week. The seated part of my yoga practice has been tricky, to say the least! But it’s a vindication for strength training, which I hate, but do grudgingly for my bone health. I guess I’ll keep at it, grimly lifting and lunging and doing all those boring things, just in case I end up flying through the air again.

Weekly Reading

After rereading The Age of Innocence, I realized that I had never read The House of Mirth! I think it is the best Wharton – it follows Lily Bart, a woman whose face is truly her fortune, and who keeps trying to punch above her weight, socially-speaking. It’s a brilliant illustration of the plight of the woman without independent means, and how marriage was, ultimately, an economic decision. I really loved this dramatic depiction of the downfalls associated with not marrying wealth while young and beautiful, and how Lily’s worth was, ultimately, tied up in her appearance and social standing.

I went to get the mail this weekend, and what awaited me there could have knocked me over with a tiny feather quill.

My dear friend Michelle (HI MICHELLE) had sent me her Jane Austen figurine! And because such a lady cannot travel unaccompanied, she was escorted by these two fellows:

I don’t actually feel worthy of such generosity, but I will take care of her – and the gnomes – with all my heart. Thank you, Michelle! What a lovely, unexpected joy!

I can hardly believe that we are at the end of March – I hope it’s lamb-like for all of you. Take care, friends. xo