Category Archives: My failing sanity

Maybe She’s Born With It, Maybe It’s Maybelline; 111 Weeks In

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Very frequently, of late, I have looked into the mirror and noticed what I thought was mascara smudged under my eyes. Each and every time, I try to remove the smudged mascara only to realize that it is not smudged mascara at all: it is just my skin, and that is how it looks now. Since this happens almost daily, you would think that I wouldn’t be surprised by this, but you would be wrong. I am surprised, every time.

My undereye circles are a bit more pronounced this week; I have been just a little short on sleep for several nights in a row. It turns out that those fifteen or twenty minutes each night start to add up, and I’ve been feeling just a little bit tired.

There was a parent meeting for my son’s club wrestling, and it was in person. I was so startled by this turn of events, I hardly knew what to do. I was waiting for information on a zoom link, and when the information came that the meeting would be in person, at the university, you would think that someone would have told me that I was slated to perform an interpretive dance in front of an audience of 1000. What do I do, where do I go, what do I wear, how is this going to work? It was fine, of course, although it has been over two years since I have been in a room with thirty other people. It has also been almost 25 years since I was at that part of the university, and it was very fun to walk by the fitness centre and the racquet centre, places I used to spend considerable amounts of time at, and that have – not surprisingly – changed a great deal.

There are lots of changes afoot. The people that bought the house next door, and are renovating it completely, are so nice and I am so looking forward to having them as my neighbours, not just because I think they will be a lovely addition to our neighbourhood, but also because that will mean that their renovations will be complete.

I see the gentleman a few times a week, on the occasions that I happen to be outside when he’s checking on the progress of the renovation. We always have a quick chat and he always says, in the most amiable way, “I hope the noise isn’t bothering you too much!” to which I respond, perkily, “No, no, it doesn’t bother me at all!” And that’s true! Mostly.

I am a person who can easily absorb loud noises and just go on with life; it’s almost like the sounds of hammering and beeping and what have you becomes white noise to me, with the exception of the afternoon that they jackhammered out the front steps and walkway. When that happened, my whole house shook intermittently for two hours, and my nerves, people. I kept repeating my favourite coping line, stolen from Allison (HI ALLISON) a decade ago: there will be a time after this. There will be a time after the jackhammering.

But mostly, it’s been just fine. I don’t have any babies or small children for whom the noise might disturb their sleep schedules, and the dog is almost completely deaf, so he is unbothered. The only problem came last weekend, when it appeared that the workers were on some kind of deadline, perhaps to coordinate trades for the week ahead. For five days straight they worked until 10pm.

For normal people, I am sure that wouldn’t be an issue, and if you were standing on the street, you probably wouldn’t have noticed, but the side of the house they were working on was the one nearest my bedroom, and 10pm is over an hour past my bedtime. I lay awake, hearing the hammering of…pipes? I don’t really know what they were doing. There will be a time after this. This is temporary. It took me a long while after they finished work to fall asleep, and I repeated my sleep mantra, which is My body is resting, even if I don’t sleep I am still resting my body. I generally find that soothing enough to fall asleep without becoming stressed out and anxious that I’m not sleeping enough.

The construction is temporary, the neighbours are not, right? I like all our neighbours; I cannot stress enough how important it is to me that the neighbours and I get along. There is absolutely nothing to be gained by a feud between neighbours; I will do anything to keep the peace, including never saying anything about workmen being noisy right up until the bylaw deadline. After all, over the past 22 years our neighbours have been wonderful, and that includes the times when we have had swarms of children in our yard, jumping on the trampoline and screaming, and also my son’s daily drum practice. I feel grateful to have had such fantastic people of all ages and personalities living nearby, and I just know our new neighbours are going to be lovely.

And the more work they do on the house, late in the day, the faster the renovation will be done. Right? Right. In any case, I got a little more sleep last night, downgrading my undereye circles from Raccoon to Lightly Smudged Mascara.

Pandemic Reading

The Ex-Boyfriend Yard Sale. When a broke actress finds herself in major credit card debt, she tries to think of ways to raise money: what if she sold the items given to her by ex-boyfriends? The idea of valuing such items turned into a one-woman stage show, and then, obviously, this book. She enlisted the help of mathematicians and economic theorists to create a formula for valuing gifts from exes, and the value the exes brought to her life. The economic theory and math was fun to read, and for me, it made this book a worthwhile read. However.

Listen, we have all had our share of bad relationships and made our share of bad decisions. What would it be to read a memoir in which no bad choices were made and everything was just fine. AND YET. I found myself constantly frustrated with and disappointed in the author. MAKE BETTER CHOICES, MY GOD. If a man has sex with you for three years, and yet refuses to be called your boyfriend, that is not just a red flag, it is an entire skyscraper ensconced in red velvet. If a man tells you he doesn’t want to be in a relationship with you, don’t keep trying to be in a relationship. Even if he does “give you six orgasms” or an orgasm that “lasts three minutes” every time you have sex (which, what?). There is a part where she tells him everything she wants in their relationship, and people, this is THREE PAGES LONG and lists everything from “spending every holiday together, just the two of us” to “never letting our sexual desire fade” (understandable, given the six-orgasms-per-sexual-encounter), to “buying a sectional for snuggling.” After this three page monologue, the guy says that he doesn’t want any of those things, and he cannot give her any of those things, AND YET SHE PERSISTS IN TRYING TO HAVE A RELATIONSHIP WITH HIM. Girl, this is a booty call. He is not spousal material. The whole time I was reading this, I kept thinking, girl, no. Just no. Stop calling him. I don’t know, maybe I’m just getting too old to read these kinds of memoirs.

Whoa, that was a long review. I have feelings, I guess. Moving on.

The Story Hour. I enjoyed this book about the relationship between two women; one from India, the other her psychiatrist. Midway through I thought I knew where it was going, but it turns out I didn’t at all. I like that. The major theme was the mistakes that we make, how we atone for them, and can we forgive others’ mistakes as well as our own. Thrity Umrigar is a real talent; her ability to craft characters that are multi-dimensional is breathtaking. It also made me think about the judgements we make about people, and how there is always so much more to their stories than what we see.

It’s been a more social week than usual; lots of visits with friends, so I’m feeling happy coming into May. May! Already! Every month it feels shocking to change the calendar. Happy May to you, my friends. xo

Grumbles, Groceries, Good Things; One Hundred and Five Weeks In

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WHY DO WE STILL CHANGE THE CLOCKS TWICE A YEAR

I have been tracking my sleep on my Garmin watch since the New Year, and although I have no idea HOW my watch knows how much I sleep and how much of that sleep is deep or light or REM, it seems pretty accurate. I generally average between seven and seven and a half hours each night during the week, with more on Friday and Saturday.

This year, Springing Forward coincided with the celebration of my parents’ golden anniversary. That means, in addition to staying up late visiting and drinking wine, the clocks moved forward AND I ended up having massive wine-fueled hot flashes. Here is my Saturday Night Sleep Report:

So I was pretty fuzzy going into the week, and the time change always makes me feel just slightly off for at least four or five days. I would rage about it for a while but a) it looks like there is a US bill to get rid of the time change, and b) if this happens in the States I am hopeful it will happen in Canada. PLEASE GOD LET THIS HAPPEN IN MY LIFETIME.

I Am Not An Anti-Dentite

I had a dental cleaning scheduled for this week, and the dental office sent me the following reminders: five emails, eight texts, and three phone calls, two to my cell and one to my landline. I felt like this was an excessive number of reminders, particularly since I responded to and confirmed at least one of the very many reminders.

It brought to mind the days when my older son was going through orthodontic treatment, and the office would send a text, an email, and a phone call, and that never stopped even though at every single appointment – for twenty-six months – I would ask them to please just give me ONE reminder. ONE. They would make a note, and then nothing would change. After this barrage of reminders from the dentist, I longed for the orthodontic days.

Well, not really, but I was feeling pretty irritated by the time my appointment came around; that morning, I had a text and an email saying “see you soon!” and honestly, I felt like cancelling the whole thing, or maybe burning down the entire office. I was so grumpy about it that my husband commented on said grumpiness. “Why are you so mad about this? Things like this don’t usually bother you.” True.

I couldn’t stop complaining about going to the DENTIST and how I HATE the dentist and argh, I’m going to the DENTIST. I didn’t really understand my own crabbiness, except that it was maybe a Bridge Too Far, what with time change and all. I mean, I do not have a fear of the dentist, as many people do. I have never had a difficult dental procedure. Tooth scaling, while unpleasant, isn’t even painful for me. So why was I so worked up?

The answer came when I got to the office and the receptionist informed me that my “usual” hygienist was unable to see me, so would it be okay if I saw a different hygienist? I shrugged agreeably and said I didn’t even know who my usual was, and I was sure that whoever they put me with would be just fine.

People, the woman who cleaned my teeth was a literal angel of a hygienist. Never have I had such a pleasant dental experience. It was then that I realized that I never learned or retained the names of my past hygienists, which is highly out of character for me. I am a person who gets very attached to people in my life. I mean, I have favourite cashiers at the grocery store and I know all their names. The fact that I seem to block out the names of my dental hygienists speaks volumes, and then I remembered that at my last appointment, the hygienist talked incessantly about her unvaccinated family members, and any time she asked me a question, she would unpleasantly laugh and tell a follow up story about her kids and their superior athletic abilities. She told me I drank way too much coffee, which, while true, isn’t a nice thing to hear.

On the other hand, my new hygienist talked to me about fuzzy dog breeds, told me a lovely story about her own dog and her dog’s best friend, and that her daughter left her job as a legal assistant to become an ultrasound technician. She was incredibly gentle with my teeth and told me that I was doing an excellent job maintaining my oral health. I felt like hugging her at the end of our appointment.

When I told my husband about it, he realized that she is the hygienist that he sees, and that he has been trying to get me to go to for two years, but I kept saying that it doesn’t matter who the hygienist is. He didn’t actually say I told you so but point taken.

Walking Down The Aisles

I am back to my regular, first-thing-in-the-morning grocery shopping, and my faith in humanity has somewhat been restored, as it is too early in the day for Costco shoppers to leave their carts wherever they may be. I’m sure it’s still happening, but I’m not there to see it, and a tree falls in the forest.

My goodness, there are a lot of empty shelves right now. I am not in a panic; there is plenty of food, plenty. Everything is fine.

But also, there seems to be an oatmeal shortage? Regular rolled oats are very sparse on the shelves, and there seems to be only one variety of instant oatmeal. One of my sons likes to have instant oatmeal once or twice a week, and his favourite flavour has been unavailable for many weeks. There is a ton of sugary cereals like Froot Loops and that strange Timbits cereal, but very little of the hippie, high-fibre brands I like. Although, I did find Kashi Cinnamon Wheat Squares, which have been unavailable for well over a year. Mini-Wheats are also scarce, which, again, is not a big deal but something I noticed.

I walked down the frozen aisle to get some fruit, and I noticed that there were whole sections, usually devoted to pizza, that were completely empty. In the produce department, I have noticed that grapes are either completely unavailable or are really gross and wrinkly looking, although that could certainly be a seasonal thing.

My favourite Boom Chicka Pop Light Kettle Corn has been unavailable for over a month, but a few weeks ago I picked up a bag of Skinny Pop Kettle Corn, because god forbid I go without kettle corn. This is where the story twists: IT IS AMAZING. It BLOWS Boom Chicka Pop right out of the water, RIGHT OUT. As Ma Ingalls always said, There Is No Great Loss Without Some Small Gain, but let me tell you, if it hadn’t been for the Boom Chicka Pop shortage, I would have never tried something with such a ridiculous name as Skinny Pop, and now I cannot go back. I have since bought several bags and I may be hoarding, just a little.

Speaking of ridiculous names, I came across this at Superstore:

I didn’t buy it out of principle. I didn’t want to buy into the culture that food is somehow evil if you are enjoying it but this is less evil than other foods. NO. No sir, I will not do it. This may sound rich coming from a person who just admitted to hoarding something called Skinny Pop, but even I have my limits. I marched righteously past the display, thinking angry thoughts about society and putting value judgements on the food that we eat.

Except, strawberry white chocolate popcorn. STRAWBERRY WHITE CHOCOLATE POPCORN. I can’t stop thinking about it! I wonder if it’s delicious. Regrets, I have them.

One Slipped Past The Goalie

The biggest grumble is that, after two years, we succumbed to the plague. My younger son’s best friend texted to say he’d tested positive for Covid; my son – who had zero symptoms and never did develop any – took a test and it was positive. The rest of us were negative at that time, but the next day it was pretty clear the negatives had become positives. My husband had a headache, sore throat, and fatigue, my other son had a sore throat, and I was so tired I could barely pull myself out of bed, even having slept an extra two hours. I continued to be exhausted all day, even taking an afternoon nap. My energy level, normally approaching that of Jack Russell terrier, was downgraded to Barkley:

By about day three we all felt “approaching normal,” and more bored than anything. That’s the grumble – the good thing is that none of us were very sick at all – no one even had a cough or sneeeze, I had JUST gotten groceries so we had plenty of food in the house, and we were all able to just take it easy. I attribute our extremely “nothing” cases to the efficacy of vaccines; if this had happened a year ago, I think things would have been very different. As it is, meh. One slipped past the goalie and we are all just fine.

Pandemic Reading

Five Tuesdays In Winter. Wow, did I love this collection of short stories! They were wrenching, heartwarming, and beautiful, and also incredibly varied in terms of character and setting. I want to read all her work now, and have put myself in the queue for her other books.

We Are Not Like Them. This book is written from two points of view, by two different authors, which is interesting. It deals with a white woman married to a police officer who is involved in the shooting of an unarmed, innocent, 14 year old Black kid, and a Black newscaster who is covering the story. The complication is that the two women are lifelong friends. This is a very important story with very important information. I’m glad I read it. But, the book itself? Meh. The characters are cliched and one-dimensional, and the writing itself is pretty flat. It is, in every way, a Book Club Book. It’s very readable, don’t get me wrong, but if you’re looking for a beautifully written book with complex, nuanced characters, this isn’t it.

With Love From London. My goodness, what a sweet, cozy, charming little book about a woman who inherits a bookshop in London, from her estranged mother. Everything ends exactly as you’d want it to, it’s a Hallmark movie in book firm, but better. So satisfying and lovely!

Mitzi Bytes. This book deals with a woman who has an anonymous blog, that gets found out – and the people she has been writing about are NOT HAPPY. It was fun to read about the early days of blogging – remember the Mommy Wars, and how there was actual debate about no-nut policies in schools – and there is also quite a bit of “why do we blog” discussion. If you were a part of those early days, and remember the stardom of some bloggers, you’ll really enjoy this trip down memory lane. It’s a fun read! I obviously do not have an anonymous blog, but this book is also a bit of a cautionary tale about what we write about: my personal view is that I assume everyone I know could possibly read this blog, so I never write anything I would be ashamed to say in person. YES, THAT INCLUDES DISCUSSION ABOUT MY BRAS, TAMPONS, AND CHIN HAIR. But mostly, that means that I don’t say anything about other people that I wouldn’t say to their faces.

Everything is back to semi-normal around here; we are out of isolation today, everyone is feeling well. And it’s Spring Break! Which means…absolutely nothing, although we did have a trip to Mexico planned that we cancelled back in January when all our travelling friends were getting stranded here, there, and everywhere. Two weeks ago I was bitterly regretting cancelling, but now I’m rejoicing, because at least we didn’t have to do a last-minute-scramble-to-cancel! Isn’t it nice when things work out for the best? Take care of yourselves. xo

Losing My Religion; One Hundred and Three Weeks In

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A brief timeline of Covid-related happenings over the past six months, if you will indulge me:

Fall: After “Open for Summer” which had all restrictions dropped, massive Covid outbreaks, ICUs are full, masks once again mandated, and vaccines required to go to restaurants, fitness classes, and entertainment venues.

Mid-December: Gathering restrictions for (largely unvaccinated) children under 18 dropped entirely. Gathering restrictions for adults continue, but there is no differentiation between vaccinated and unvaccinated.

Christmas-New Year’s: The biggest Covid outbreak yet, demand for testing far exceeds supply, PCR tests become impossible to get except for health-care workers and hospital patients, rapid test supply completely runs out and people line up the block, Soviet-bread-line-style, at pharmacies for a chance to get one.

January: The people I know who have Covid exceed the people I know who don’t have Covid. Back to school is delayed, diploma exams cancelled, Fuck Lydia.

Mid-January: School reopens, and medical masks and rapid test kits are distributed to every student, with the understanding that they are all supposed to test themselves twice weekly. Parents are warned that school could go online “at any time.”

February 14: NO MORE MASK MANDATES FOR CHILDREN UNDER 18, INCLUDING IN SCHOOL SETTINGS. This occurred exactly one week after the last delivery of masks and test kits. My kids have reported that “no one” goes without a mask at their school of 2300, including themselves.

March 1: All restrictions dropped completely, it’s a free-for-all.

My friend Janet (HI JANET) asked if I would stop my week counting now that restrictions were dropped, and my response was no. This is not our first rodeo. Let’s see how this plays out, and in the meantime, we are coming up to the two year mark.

My older son is graduating in a few months, and it is also my parents’ 50th anniversary in a couple of weeks, so I had the need for a lot of photo frames, one of which was a kind of odd size. I had run into a photographer friend who assured me that all could be found at Michael’s, which is how I found myself at Michael’s, last Tuesday morning.

Here’s the thing: I deeply admire crafty people. I follow a few very beautiful crafty blogs, which are purely pleasure and contain nothing that I would be able to do. I have incredibly crafty friends who paint and cross-stitch and knit and crochet and even spin their own wool. My mother-in-law knits everything from dolls to slippers, often making up her own patterns. My mother crochets and sews; she made clothes for us when we were kids, as well as our Halloween costumes and my kids’ Halloween costumes, even when my older son decided he wanted to be an eagle one year, and a pattern for an eagle could not be found.

I, on the other hand, once ripped a gaping hole in my pants when I tried to sew a button on; I almost failed the sewing portion of junior high Home Ec, where I spent three years ripping seams out until my projects were filled with holes.

What I’m saying is that I feel very out of place in Michael’s. As soon as I step through their doors I feel immediately overwhelmed, and the chorus from Creep starts to go through my head. What the hell am I doing here? I don’t belong here. As I stood near a display of Easter items – could I make my own wreath? No. – women dashed around me, grabbing fake flowers and pastel coloured eggs. I felt like an alien who had just been dropped onto the planet and was unsure of the customs or language of the people around me. Where. Are. Frames.

My legs eventually became ambulatory again, and I did find the frames, albeit not before getting distracted by a huge display of baking supplies. Ooooh, there are so many sprinkles. I got what I needed and then, because Costco was next door, I decided to just stop in there rather than rush over post-Superstore on grocery day, which is Wednesday.

And now I will say that I have been in a bubble for many months, as my routine is this: go to Superstore for opening at 8:00, after that head to Costco for opening at 9:00. It’s rushed but civilized, and it’s exhausting but fine.

Costco at 9:00 is very, very different from Costco at 11:13.

It was pandemonium! Pandemonium! There were people everywhere, including one woman who was clearly in a rush, as she kept sweeping past all of us patiently making our way down the aisles, bumping our carts aggressively and sighing as though the state of the union was dependent on her getting out of Costco quickly with her giant detergent and frozen fries. Plus, since the mask mandate was lifted, at least a third of the customers and staff were maskless, and I am just not used to seeing that many faces. Sample tables were open and there were people jammed around them, trying to get a piece of ham or a pickle. My usual quiet, gentle Costco experience was no longer. As I wheeled my cart towards the parking lot, silently admiring the fellow behind me whose cart held nothing whatever except two jugs of milk, the song in my head abruptly switched away from Creep.

That’s me in the aisle, that’s me in the parking lot, losing my religion.

I have not said anything for many months about people not returning their carts, probably because I have been there right at store opening, which is too early in the day to give people a chance to prove that they are terrible. But my god! People are terrible. As Gigi said (HI GIGI), people are VILE and have no conscience. I mean, look. The cart carrel is RIGHT THERE. It is TWO parking spots away. WHY.

Seriously, WHY. I know there are people out there who say ridiculous things like people are hired to collect the carts and those people need jobs, and to the people who say that I say, fuck you. I mean, people are also hired to clean public washrooms but we are not peeing all over the floor and throwing our toilet paper and paper towels everywhere just so those people can have job security. The people are hired to collect the carts FROM THE GODDAMN CARRELS AND LEAVING CARTS HERE THERE AND EVERYWHERE IS NOT HELPING THEM DO THEIR JOBS OR SOMEHOW INCREASING THEIR JOB SECURITY. IT IS JUST BEING A LAZY ASSHOLE.

Well. I am going back to my first-thing-in-the-morning bubble, because as we all know, we cannot control what other people do, we can only control our reactions, and as such, I will just go into my own personal rage corner, this blog. Also, when I see this kind of mayhem like I did this week, I rescue one of those poor abandoned carts that just want to go to their HOME, the carrel, to take into the store for my own use. Small steps lead to marathons, and small gestures can change the world. Even in the Costco parking lot.

Why doesn’t Costco retrofit their carts so that a coin is needed for their use? It would certainly solve the problem. Why am I not in charge of these things?

Pandemic Reading

Life and Other Near-Death Experiences. This was a light book about a heavy topic: cancer. I had recently read the sequel to this book, without knowing it was a sequel. Whoops! It would have made more sense to read it in the correct order. I liked this book fine, I didn’t love it, but it was fine.

My Monticello. I am mixed on this book, which is made up of short stories and a novella. I loved the short stories and thought they were so smart and moving. The novella was a great concept, but it just dragged for me; I could NOT get into it. I would say all in all that this was a very original and interesting book – lots of fascinating facts about Thomas Jefferson and his Black descendants – but the novella was a bit too dystopian for my personal taste.

This book is bananas. BANANAS. It is dark and juicy and hilarious and horrifying and terribly sad, all at the same time. The details are so good! Some are hilarious – “(the waitress) tells us the specials in such a way that we know put some responsibility as patrons in her section us to just go right ahead and fuck ourselves” – and some details made my eyes get wider and wider and my eyebrows started to disappear into my hairline. Whoa Nelly. Like, it’s CRAZY. Every single situation is crazy. That said, it was really good! I was compelled to keep reading even when I was supposed to be doing other things. I am looking forward to more from this author. What a debut!

Happy March, everyone! Next week is our two-year Pande-versary, who would have thought? Take care of yourselves. xo

A January Roller Coaster; Ninety-Eight Weeks In

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Tomorrow is February! I simultaneously feel like it’s February, whee, already! and also that New Year’s was several months ago. I’m looking at the calendar, and the first of the month, with the taking down of the tree and the Fresh Start of New Year’s, feels like a fuzzy date eons ago. February! Is tomorrow! The month of hearts and chocolates, and, in two weeks tomorrow, the month of DEEPLY DISCOUNTED hearts and chocolates! I have already sourced myself some Lindor strawberry chocolates, and I have plans for my heart-shaped cake and cookies, AND we are having dinner guests this weekend, for which I have planned a Mexican Theme, given our actual trip to Mexico in March is no more, for The Usual Pandemic Reasons, Not That I’m Sad About It But We Would Have Celebrated Our 20th Anniversary And My Son’s 18th Birthday Whilst There. Anyway.

Hidey-ho Neighbourino

We are getting new neighbours, and this is me:

A few weeks ago, a For Sale sign went up on our next-door neighbour’s lawn, and not only did it sell within 24 hours, but there was a BIDDING WAR. It must be the incredible neighbours, no?

I met my new neighbour-to-be a few days ago and he seems incredibly pleasant, which is always nice. I am friendly with all my neighbours, and good friends with a few of them. Our former next-door neighbours were nice people; we lived next to each other for 21 years, and were friendly but not friends. They would very kindly purchase big buckets of candy popcorn for the boys every Halloween, and we always exchanged pleasantries with them in passing. They kept to themselves mainly, so they weren’t the kind of neighbours who would have extra keys or anything, but we had a very cordial relationship.

So I was surprised to see the For Sale sign, and even more surprised to discover that the house was vacant when it went up for sale: a) they didn’t tell us they were moving, and b) when did they move? I am home ALL THE TIME and I never once saw a moving truck or anything that would indicate that they were leaving. I mean, you’d think I’d have seen someone moving a couch or boxes or something. Did they move on Christmas Day?

These were the neighbours who have had Hot Rod the Plumber many times over the past few months, so perhaps it was in preparation for their Stealthy Big Move.

Wisdom from my teabag.

What’s The Over-Under On This

The other day Stephany (HI STEPHANY) posted about being an over-or-under-buyer, and it is clear that I have over-buying tendencies, which have been vastly exacerbated by the pandemic. These tendencies really flared up through 2020, and I tamped them down somewhat in 2021, and I have just had another round that has ended with OMG Nicole Please Stop Buying This.

Now, in my defense, nothing goes bad in this house, in terms of food. With the exception of the occasional mushy mini cucumber, I never throw anything out. This is a combination of meal planning, targeted grocery shopping for those meals, and having two teen boys who will hoover anything down that is edible and in the house. I always have backups in the pantry of household staples: flour and oils, nut butters and baking items, toilet paper and soap and toothpaste. If the backup comes into use, then I buy another backup. It gives me an enormous amount of comfort to know that if we run out of an item on the main floor, there is a backup in the pantry downstairs.

Non-dairy milk is a staple for me.

From 2012-2021, I used exclusively almond milk for myself – the guys happily use dairy – but in 2021 I discovered macadamia nut milk, and I never looked back. It’s creamy, it’s delicious, and buy it by the case at Costco. I go through about a case every two weeks, what with smoothies and all, and since I am at Costco every two weeks, I generally have TWO cases in my pantry at any given time. You know, just in case there’s a delay in my Costco shopping. And then it was December, and I bought an extra case, and by the time my first Costco trip of 2022 came around, I had THREE cases in my pantry.

There was, during that first Costco trip of 2022, no macadamia nut milk.

Now, the rational part of me said that I had three cases at home, and there was certainly no shortage of different non-dairy milks in the city. We are so used to abundance that it is unsettling to not have exactly what we want exactly when we want it but there is still An Abundance of Food. My last Superstore trip showed very few varieties of eggs, for example, but there were still eggs. My favourite hippie crunchy natural peanut butter has been out of stock for weeks but there is still the store brand hippie crunchy natural peanut butter. There was no – oh my god, I cannot believe how spoiled I am – organic spinach for my smoothies, but there was plenty of spinach. The frozen fruit section is pretty sparse but there are still non-frozen fruits. This is not Ceausescu’s Romania where people are lining up to get bread. We have plenty of everything.

And yet, I pushed the Panic At The Disco button, about the macadamia nut milk. I thought, well, if it’s not available, maybe I can find another kind of creamy non-dairy-non-almond milk. The next week at Superstore I bought two different brands of cashew milk and an oat milk, just to try, just in case, what if there is no macadamia nut milk ever, what if, what if.

And here I will interject to say that this is all ridiculous, and also back in 2012 when I first went non-dairy, the options were almond or soy; those were my choices, along with the saddest item ever, known as rice milk. Now there are so many different kinds and brands and really, I want to punch myself in the face at my reaction to this blip in the macadamia nut milk supply.

Very long and kind of boring story short, the next time I went to Costco, there was a big display of macadamia nut milk, and I bought two cases, and I now have four full and one partial case, along with cashew and oat milk, and this is ridiculous, and I am spoiled. Imagine! Imagine transporting the Ingalls family, or a Victorian, to our modern life. Wait, you can eat more than a single potato and a slice of bread in a day? Vegetables and fruit are available to you in the winter?

All of which is to say, on my next grocery trip my mantra will be You do not need any more non-dairy milk, for the love of god, Nicole, do not buy any more non-dairy milk. I hope my mantra holds. I have officially gone from Prudent Backup Buyer to Slippery Slope Towards Insane Hoarder.

Mousetastrophe

Speaking of hardships, we had a mouse in the house last week; this is a thing that happens every three to five years, and every single time it happens I feel like I might die. It’s not enough that we are in a global pandemic, now I have to think about the Hanta virus? Not to mention the possibility of a MOUSE near our FOOD. The FOOD that we EAT. From the moment I discovered mouse droppings underneath the kitchen sink to the moment said mouse was summarily removed from the premises, I felt like a haunted shell of a woman. My younger son strolled into the kitchen to find me sweeping out the droppings and spraying down the kitchen sink cupboard with non-hippie super-chemical cleaning spray, and asked what was going on. I told him, in that kind of eerily calm voice that means I am having a breakdown, that there was a mouse in the house. “I see,” he said, “It is going to be okay, Mom. It’s going to be okay.” Then he turned and went to find the traps.

It turns out that in the times of adversity, I can be sanguine and can face almost everything with good cheer and a Can-Do Attitude, but a mouse in my kitchen is One Toke Over The Line, Sweet Jesus. Global pandemic? We can do this. Husband working from home, forever? It’s fine. My kids constantly facing cancellations and disappointment? It’s making us stronger and more resilient and flexible. Mouse in the house? I AM GOING TO DIE. Later, over dinner, I suddenly put my head in my hands and said I had a bad feeling. There was no noise. I just, like Lawrence in Office Space, had a feeling. The boys scurried over to the cupboard, and my older son announced, “We got him!” at which point I screamed frantically and ran from the room.

Later, the boys would tell me I reacted like a contestant on The Price is Right, but with less happiness and high-fiving.

Pandemic Reading

Black Girls Must Die Exhausted. I really loved this book; I was hooked from the first page and became completely invested in the characters. Tabitha is 33 and the trajectory of her life is perfect; she has checked all the boxes she wanted to check…until some medical news comes her way, derailing her plans. This book is so much more than the sum of its parts: important social issues in an incredibly readable and entertaining book. It is a book that normalizes Black culture and I think that is a really important thing: the tendency is to make white the default. It’s enlightening and joyful, as well as a thought-provoking book. I just saw that this author has another book coming soon, I will be reading it for sure. 

The Art of Travel. Okay, first, a digression. I put this on hold over a year ago; it is the only copy in the library system, and I was fifth in the queue. The rule is that books cannot be renewed if there is a hold on them, and so the reader has three weeks before returning. Let’s do the simple math: five people, three weeks, fifteen weeks. Add in a couple of days of processing and transit, and we will say that I should have expected to read this about four and a half months after putting it on hold. It was over a year! The library eliminated late fees, which in general I think is a good thing, except that it can lead to Very Bad Behaviour by patrons who just don’t bring the book back. I was number ONE in the queue for over two months. WHO DOES THAT.

Anyway. It’s not a complaint, exactly, as I had more than enough to read over the past year. It’s more of an observation, and slight admonishment. We are living in a society!

Back to the book. It’s an interesting, and at times, delightful little book about travelling, and the search for happiness, and the theme is that wherever you go, there you are. We tend to idealize vacations, thinking our troubles will melt away with sunshine, palm trees, and margaritas, but honestly, if we are unhappy in life, a change of scenery MAY not be the ticket. The author writes about different places and brings in 19th century artists, writers, and philosophers (ALL MEN, OF COURSE), which makes this a really unique and interesting read. Even though Flaubert sounded like a real ass.

The Most Precious Substance On Earth. This is exactly the kind of book I love: it follows a woman from her teen years to adulthood, and it’s an “ordinary is extraordinary, day-to-day life” book. But. It’s a Big Downer of a book, I felt, and there is a Huge Upsetting Disturbing Occurrence in the first little bit that is written so casually and calmly that I thought at first that it didn’t really happen. Content warning for parents of girls, specifically teen girls. You may not want to read this. It’s touching and sad and also funny and smart. I’m glad I read it but be aware that at times it is a hard read.

Happy End of January, everyone! The month that seemed to be months-long is at its end! How was your January? xo

Challenging?; Ninety-Seven Weeks In

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Recently I’ve seen a lot of “ten year challenge” posts on social media, which is one of those strange phenomena of our time. A challenge, in my mind, is to be ninety-seven weeks into a global pandemic and to still get out of bed every morning, putting one foot in front of the other and keeping hope and optimism in day to day life. A challenge is to parent effectively when there are constant disappointments and changes that are out of anyone’s personal control; a challenge is to keep making dinner, day in and day out, with no end in sight and nothing exciting to anticipate. What about the “ten year challenge” is a challenge, exactly? Is the challenge in finding photos that are a decade apart? Or does the challenge actually lie in the posting of photos that are a decade apart, forcing us all to face the changes that ten years have brought and the vast improvements in our ability to take photos with good lighting and posing? I feel like it’s the latter.

I vaguely recalled, pre-pandemic, that one of those challenges had occurred recently, and upon searching my online diary/ blog, I found it in December of 2019, presumably to end off the decade. December 2019 was not all that recent, of course, but what a time that was to be alive. I hosted a Christmas coffee with a dozen women in my house in that month, and we all stood close to each other and ate things.

Anyway, I do not know exactly what is the point of a “ten year challenge” other than to show the vast changes time has wrought on our faces and bodies. I am not saying these changes are bad – every day is a gift, every passing year is a cause for celebration – but they certainly exist. Not only do changes exist, but they SHOULD exist. Do we really want the same hairstyle we had ten years ago? Do we really want to go through life with our faces exactly the same, waxen-like?

I posit that the answer is no.

I had a huge argument with my dad a couple of months ago. We both got pretty heated and it was all on the topic of do I look old. It started when I mentioned a man who I haven’t seen in twenty years and who is my age or a little older; my dad said that he looked the same as he always did, but “old.” I said that the same could be said about me, at which point my dad got extremely indignant. I didn’t look old! I look great! Not old! Great! What was I talking about!

Dads and their daughters, am I right?

I tried to say that the two were not mutually exclusive and, while I do think I look “great,” I do not look like a young woman. We went back and forth for several minutes, this pointless argument ending with me ungraciously conceding, saying that fine, I still look like I’m in my twenties, DAD, and with both of us annoyed with each other.

I came across a great post that exactly describes why I dislike filtered photos; I understand the temptation, I do, but I think that a) on a personal level, I occasionally see people in person, and I don’t want to look different from my social media profiles, and b) on a societal level, I want to see and celebrate women my age who look our age. Society wants older women to be invisible, and filtering makes older women invisible. Fuck the patriarchy!

Also, sometimes those filters actually smooth out features, so that a woman – it’s always a woman – looks like she is missing a nose. I like to be a person with a visible nose.

This reminds me of something that happened several months ago. First, the backstory. Back when Facebook was in its infancy, I reconnected with pretty much everyone in my high school graduation class, including a woman I shall call X. I am still friends with pretty much everyone in my high school graduation class, by the way. I have lots of great feelings and memories about that time of life and I have much enjoyed seeing my compatriots grow and change as I myself have grown and changed.

Back in my high school days, I was a friendly acquaintance with X, rather than a true friend, and it was nice seeing her Facebook updates and getting to know her. Then, one day, she unfriended me. I don’t know why, but you know what, I’m not for everyone. Who knows. As we were never true friends, it didn’t bother me much.

Fast-forward many years, to last spring, and I received a friend request from X. Life changes, people go through rough patches, you never know what’s going on, and so I accepted. The very first post from her that I saw was a before-and-after photo: she had gotten some kind of injection or treatment that made her look like a walking Instagram filter. It was truly amazing; the bags under her eyes, the lines around her mouth – completely gone. She had commented that she had never before posted an unfiltered photo of herself, but now she was doing just that.

She looked really incredible, but something about that nagged me. Do we only post unfiltered photos if we look like we’ve filtered our faces? And yet, SHE LOOKED INCREDIBLE. Imagine walking around, with your face looking like it’s been softened with an Instagram filter! And while I am generally happy with my looks, I kept kind of thinking about it. This “thinking” increased when a friend of my sister-in-law told me, casually, as we were sitting on the beach last summer, about the Botox injections she received in the dental office she worked at. Not only did she tell me about her own treatment, which she received at a highly reduced rate, but she had unsolicited advice for me: I too could benefit from Botox. She went on to say that she wasn’t sure HOW many injections I would need to get rid of my forehead lines, but it would be a lot, and if I DID decide to get an indeterminate-but-absolutely-large-number of Botox injections, I would look amazing. Thanks? I don’t even think this was a passive-aggressive statement, I think it was aggressive-aggressive. Are my forehead lines that terrible that someone who I barely know would comment on them and give me advice about what to do about them? I wondered.

Anyway, I thought and thought and then, for research purposes, I went to look at X’s page, to see where she got the treatments done, and what kind of treatments they were, and it was then that I discovered she unfriended me, again. Well! I took it as a sign. People come in and out of your life for a reason, and I think that X’s reason was to remind me to be happy and contented with my face, as it is. Forehead lines and all.

After all, look at Betty White! What a beauty she was in her old age.

I saw that magazine at Superstore and, although I really do understand publication schedules and logistics, it was still very startling.

For what it’s worth, I’ll play along with the ten year challenge. No filters! Just me in 2012:

And now in 2022:

You know what, I’m happy with my face. I am happy with the changes, and I am also grateful – ETERNAL GRATITUDE – for home hair colour kits and moisturizer.

Pandemic Reading

The Way We Weren’t. Someone recommended this to me, and the woman I THOUGHT recommended it says she didn’t. So, I don’t know. Someone did, who was it? Anyway, this is quite a touching story about marriage, compromise, loss, and a very unlikely friendship between a crusty old man and a forty-something woman, both coping with loss and sadness. I didn’t love this but I did like it. Trigger warning: pregnancy loss is a major theme. 

Girlhood. I’m going to be honest: I almost didn’t make it through the prologue. The prologue very lyrically and beautifully outlines the author’s life: a happy childhood that ends with precocious development that leads to multiple unwanted sexual encounters and sexual assault, leaving school at 16, becoming a meth and then heroin addict, her years as a sex worker, and finally sobriety and becoming an award winning author and professor. Honestly, I wasn’t sure I had the emotional strength to read it. I’m glad I did, I guess, but I’ll tell you, it was rough going. It’s part memoir, part scholarly deep dive into what it means to be a woman, and the various ways the patriarchy destroys womanhood and our ability to love and care for ourselves. It’s compelling and powerful and very, very grim. It ends hopeful but is crushing to read. Take care if you read this.

Will. “Will Smith don’t gotta cuss on his taps to sell records. Well I do. So fuck him, and fuck you too.” (There’s a little Slim Shady in all of us, people). I got a little jiggy with it and picked this up. I liked the parts about the early days of rap and hip hop in the 80s; that was a musically formative time in my life. I still know all the lyrics to Parents Just Don’t Understand (okay, here’s the situation: my parents went away on a weeks’ vacation). It was interesting to read about DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince, and also how he made so much money from those years and blew it ALL by the time he was 20. It’s an interesting psychological phenomenon to see a person suddenly strike it rich and then spend it all; it’s a fact that sudden wealth is mean-reverting and that lottery winners are broke after only a few years. Smith spent all his money on cars, motorcycles, and houses, and he also didn’t pay his taxes, so he was completely broke and owing the IRS a ton of money, just before he got cast on the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. Quincy Jones basically saved his life. Fun fact: the ghost writer also wrote The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck, and once you know that, you can’t unknow it. The voice comes out. I liked this just fine, didn’t love it, didn’t hate it, it was okay though. Oh, and the reason “Will Smith don’t gotta cuss on his raps?” His grandma overheard him swearing and shamed him for it, saying that intelligent people don’t need to use that language. So, out of respect for his grandma, he kept his raps squeaky-clean. Awww. Grandmas!

The Cost of Living. This is the second of Levy’s memoirs, and it deals mainly with her divorce, living as a single mom, and finding space to write. I really liked it and am looking forward to reading the third. Check out the back of the book:

It’s the last full week of January! Time flies even when it’s January, I guess. How do you feel about filters, fillers, and injections? What about photo challenges? Tell me everything. xo

Boyhouse Year In Review 2021

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Is it just me or was this year actually a decade?

Well! I think at this time last year we thought the Pandemic At The Disco would be in the rearview mirror, and yet it is not. Currently we are going through our FIFTH wave, which is extremely disheartening and, at this point, makes me feel like this is forever. Intellectually I know that’s not the case; everything passes with time and this will too. (WHEN?)

We are ending the year on a low; yesterday it was announced that the winter break would be “extended” and the January diploma exams, of which my older son was due to write three, have been cancelled. It is very discouraging. Going through this post I realized that there were many low moments, but I do feel like there was a lot of joy and laughter this year as well. I think living through a global pandemic has forced me to re-examine my life and to make new kinds of choices about it. There have been ups and downs and in-betweens, and, on that note, let’s examine the year in the Boyhouse.

Boyhouse Year In Review 2021

January

I set some goals and expressed my gratitude, I cleaned my oven and reused canning lids, after six weeks of at-home learning the kids went back to school and my son immediately broke his glasses in gym class, and I talked about being judgmental and how I don’t want to be that way, but we are only human. I also shared my hot tip on how to grow your hair out – just stop cutting it.

I kind of forgot how grim things were last January, with everything closed down for the second wave. Wait, was it the second? Yes, second. Still, look at that photo! Lots of beauty still to be found.

February

I continued to embrace the concept of friluftsliv with my fabulous wardrobe choices, I decided to change my mindset towards overstocking the pantry and also my period, it was really, really cold and it was also Family Day, which was great since I hadn’t spent every SINGLE waking hour with my family for eleven months, and I was really sad and couldn’t figure out if it was hormones or, you know, life in a pandemic. I also expressed my love for hearts and chocolate.

I must have cleaned my fridge right before that photo – it’s so shiny!

March

My son was almost done with his braces and to celebrate, I made him be my pack horse at the liquor store, in the spirit of Trying New Things I had body sugaring done and it was life-changing, I reflected on one year of Pandemic Living, I compared Costco 2021 to Costco 2020, and we had A Very Eventful Week which started with me thinking I had a blood clot to my son threatening to burn his orthodontic elastics, and, failing that, his masks. To add to the excitement, I talked about my favourite cleaning items, please don’t everyone click on that at once, you might break the internet.

April

Wow, a lot of things went wrong and so I was as cross as two sticks, my tenacious chin hair turned white and I had lots of awkward interactions at the library, we were in another mini-lockdown and so I talked about my Coping Mechanisms, I talked about being Pro-Aging, as opposed to Anti-Aging, which is a ridiculous concept, and I got vaccinated the day after my birthday! I also talked about my favourite skin-care products FOR PRO-AGING.

Gosh, remember how hopeful we all felt back then? Like the Pandemic was no longer going to be At The Disco. Good times.

May

After talking about Pro-Aging, I was asked if I wanted the senior’s discount at Shoppers, and then the lady didn’t even give me the discount, I had a really big downward spiral and then started to climb back up, then I had lots of ups and downs, including lineups at Costco (down) and flower purchases (up), it snowed and the kids were slated to go back to in-person school, Barkley turned 13, and I discussed all my favourite little helpers!

June

I was inspired to Embrace the Season – inspired by a woman who, sadly, has just recently passed after a long and difficult illness. Her words will remain with me forever, and she will be much missed. Rest in peace, Melanie.

Less sadly, I talked about clothing trends and how depressing the mall is these days, after a couple of weeks being in school the boys were on exam break, our provincial government continued to be stupid and dropped every single Covid protocol which, spoiler alert, was not a good idea, and I did a lot of gardening.

July

We visited my parents and I swam in the lake, the province may have dropped their mask mandate, but I kept my own, I talked about aging and my aging face, and I bought new bras and shared my favourite life-changing items.

August

We went on vacation and unsurprisingly given the complete lack of Covid restrictions, there were tons of outbreaks, I read a lot, I was grateful to Spotify, my aunt sent me Royal Family memorabilia, I almost lost my mind not being able to find my clothes, I did an “Ask Me Anything” post, I recycled all the old boxes my husband had hoarded out of the storage room, I got very Landslide-y, and recalled all the stupid things I used to worry about, and I loved my garden.

September

Thank you, Universe, the kids went back to school, we got our ducts cleaned and found a sheep, and my husband and I went to Lake Louise, I recapped eighteen months of Pandemic Life, my son turned 16 and I did a deep dive into Jane Eyre, I talked about clothing trends and bought new jeans, and I shared all my handbags with you.

October

I was feeling very low, I talked about gourds and Gords, I was – as always – grateful for modern technology as I have zero sense of direction, my cute little mini-gourds were being eaten by something in the neighbourhood, and I shared my favourite things about Spooky Season and discovered a gruesome scene.

November

I shifted my festivities focus from Spooky Season to Tiny Secret Festive Season, I was living la vida hygge, I had one-on-one time with my younger son and WE ATE TAKEOUT FOOD, I learned about thirst traps, I got full-on festive, and I talked about the reasons I love November.

Usually by this time in the annual recap, I think well, this just happened! but it feels like November was a year ago already. Time has no meaning.

December

I received the most thoughtful Secret Santa gift and my son came down with a cold, I completely lost track of the days, I had not one, but two Christmas miracles, I went to Banff with my husband, and I shared my favourite things about December.

As we wrap up the (very strange and weirdly long) year, I wish you all the best in 2022. WHO KNOWS WHAT 2022 WILL BRING. I think we can all agree that no one can predict anything anymore, but I hope you are all safe and healthy, and am wishing you much joy, peace, and happiness. Thank you, always, for reading my little blog. xo

What Day Is It Again; Ninety-One Weeks In

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I do not know what’s going on with my neighbours and their drainage, but this guy has returned several times since I first sighted him in October:

I did finally catch a glimpse of him, after an embarrassing amount of peeking out the window whilst folding laundry, and it was, to be honest, a bit of a let down. I mean, I’m sure he’s Hot Rod for someone, but not for me.

Speaking of folding laundry, I have been really wanting to do one of those “snapshot of my day” posts, but I spend so much time doing boring things like folding laundry and cleaning the kitchen that I find it somewhat depressing. I love reading other people’s “snapshot of my day” posts and “my day in pictures” post, and meanwhile, here’s me:

3:00 pm: Nicole folds a massive load of laundry while listening to a podcast about the development of the polio vaccine, hashtag living my best life.

I did consider it last week though, and even took a photo of my Morning Practice Space, the festive prettiness of which really makes up for the squishiness of which, and the “bumping into the wall and/ or table” of which.

Maybe one day! Maybe one day I will treat you to A Day In The Life of Nicole, and you can all be wowed by the incredible amount of things I get done before 10:00 am, and simultaneously, but differently, wowed by the complete lack of things that I do after 7:00 pm. One of my yoga students asked if I still go to bed at nine o’clock, to which I replied that nine is a LATE night for me these days. I’m essentially comatose by that time.

I keep thinking it is much later in the month than it actually is. For the last week I’ve had these panicky Christmas is next week feelings, and then I have to remind myself of the actual date. I blame the fact that this is the last week of school and of my classes of 2022; usually these things go into the 20s of the month, but not this year. It feels like December is flying by, but I am going to reiterate: it is the thirteenth. Christmas is NOT this weekend, no matter what my brain keeps saying.

I’m not complaining, just, apparently, confused. Oh god, remember last year? Last year at this time, things were in a pretty dismal state; school had gone online, which was absolutely dreadful, and there was a “no gatherings at all” rule. I’m sure lots of weirdness lies ahead, but I’m going to just take things as they come. Basically, as long as the kids are in physical school, I don’t really care what else happens. That is my bar, and it is low.

Because of last year, I think I have developed a Come At Me attitude when it comes to almost everything, but particularly grocery shopping. I am planning to visit Costco after my usual Superstore grocery run this week, and in years past I would never have gone to Costco so close to Christmas (IT’S NOT THAT CLOSE TO CHRISTMAS, NICOLE, IT’S ONLY THE THIRTEENTH). Anyway. This year, I don’t care. I mean, what can happen – will I have to line up to get in the store? Been there. Will I have to line up in the store? I did that two weeks ago. Will there be shortages? WHO CARES, I JUST WANT MY CASE OF MACADAMIA NUT MILK AND SOME KALETTES. IF THEY AREN’T THERE I’LL GET SOMETHING ELSE, HIT ME WITH YOUR BEST SHOT, COSTCO.

A few updates from last week: there are limited supplies of both rice AND noodles at Superstore, as well as other imported items – I was able to snag a bottle of sesame oil, which was one thing I was actually running low on. My pantry is pretty full right now, as I have that It’s A Pandemic And We Are Going Into Shortage Season feeling.

Also – and I am wary just writing this – no one else has succumbed to The Cold. May our good health continue!

Pandemic Reading

I have been wondering if I should even tell you about this, but it’s a tiny nag at the back of my brain. About six months ago, I received a message from a woman I know who told me that she purchased a couple of books I had enjoyed, and she wanted to let me know that they were completely boring and she hated them. She went so far to say that one of the books that I had loved was the worst book she had ever read. With that in mind, I wanted to clarify a few things.

Reading is very subjective, and, with the exception of a few books that I think are IMPORTANT, such as Caste or My Grandmother’s Hands, I do not necessarily recommend any of the books in my weekly reading recap. I might love a book – which I really, really do this week – but that doesn’t mean I think YOU will love it. Maybe you will! But we all have such different tastes, and my love of a book does not translate into an across-the-board recommendation for all. I have read many books that people have raved about it, that left me feeling meh, but that’s on me, I think. There are also whole genres that other people love, such as sci-fi, fantasy, and horror, that I am extremely averse to. That doesn’t mean those books are inherently bad or boring in any way, they just aren’t for me.

With that in mind, I was pretty taken aback by that message; I knew it wasn’t a personal affront, but it kind of felt like one. All of which is to say that when I absolutely love a book, I don’t expect you to, but maybe you will (if you are Anna (HI ANNA), my book twin, I DO expect you to!). Shared enjoyment of a book has nothing to do with friendship, either. One of my best friends, Allison (HI ALLISON) loves sci-fi and horror, Suzanne (HI SUZANNE) loves a good mystery, and many of my friends love fantasy and time travel, which I do not.

This week I have continued my reading of the Giller Prize shortlist, which was loaned to me by my friend Marion (HI MARION), and I am about to rave about a book.

Son of the House. I am going to come right out and say it: this might be the best book I have read all year. After looking at the Giller Prize shortlist, this was the one I was most excited to read, and it did not disappoint. It checks every box for me: the minutia of women’s lives in a society that oppresses them, and how they overcome the various oppressions, a description of a country and culture that is not my own – in this case, Nigeria – and multiple eras and points of view with intersectional, but seemingly unrelated, characters. Two women – one, a formerly impoverished housemaid and one a wealthy, educated principal of a school – are kidnapped in Nigeria and they tell their stories, and it is a fascinating, incredible, beautifully written book. I loved it so much.

Fight Night. In contrast, this was the book I was LEAST excited to read on the shortlist, having not been a big fan of Toews. However, I was pleasantly surprised! This was a really good read; it is written from the viewpoint of a child, so the narration is unreliable and interesting. As with most of Toews’ works, the subject material is quite dark and disturbing, but the book itself is quite lovely and touching. It has a very strong theme of family and struggle, and I was surprised at how much I enjoyed this.

Have a great week, everyone, and if you are like me and continuously confused by the calendar, Christmas is in twelve days! It’s not this coming weekend, it’s NEXT weekend. xo