Category Archives: Rexing Ball

People Are Strange, When You’re A Stranger

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You know, Mom, you might want to consider switching up your routine, my older son said to me. That way, if someone doesn’t see you for a few days, they won’t think Rex died.

It’s not like I walk the exact same route at the exact same time every single day, but I do often enough that in the days following my return from Morocco, I was stopped no less than fifteen times while walking Rex to be told that my presence on the greenway was much missed. Some, but certainly not all, were people I know by sight and talk to regularly. One older couple said, frantically, Where WERE you, we were so WORRIED that something happened! They looked with wide-eyed significance at Rex, who was engaged in the serious business of Sniffing A Tree.

Well, it’s nice to be noticed, although as my sister-in-law’s boyfriend says Big black dog, big red hair, you’re hard to miss. In any case, it’s nice to be home, and the fall colours have been incredible.

People are very interesting and we never really know what’s going on in someone’s life, although we might think we do. We were the first zone to be called for boarding on our flight from Paris to Casablanca, but as soon as we all finished going through the check zone, we were stopped. All of us in zone 1 stood in the walkway for over thirty minutes, and although there was an announcement about it, I didn’t really understand. It was something to do with customs, which made a lot of sense after we finally boarded the plane. I settled in with my Kobo when I heard incessant screaming and yelling.

I don’t know about you, but an adult shrieking is not something I want to hear when I’m on a plane. I tried to see what was happening, and then thought maybe craning around in my seat wasn’t a smart idea, so I quietly shrank a little. What was happening, which the man next to my husband informed us, was that a person was being deported back to Morocco and that there was a large police presence on the back of the plane. The flight was delayed over an hour before the man was taken off the plane, still screaming. My husband’s seatmate, who is a Moroccan national but works in Algeria, necessitating long flights through Paris to get home, said that there is such an occurrence on almost every single such flight, which made me unbelievably sad on multiple levels.

Because of this, we were delayed getting into Casablanca, but it was nothing compared with the six Australians in our group who were delayed by DAYS and who just barely made it before our tour left the city. They were delayed in Rwanda, then stuck in Dubai, before finally making it to Morocco, and somehow 5 pieces of luggage made it there as well. The sixth, belonging to our new friend Greg, arrived five days later and the reunion was cause for much celebration in our group. He would track it daily with his Air Tags, letting us know that now, somehow, it’s in South Africa, and the like. This is why I never check luggage. I was incredibly stressed on Greg’s behalf, and I only just met him.

In any case, I was very happy to have the Australians join our group, which up to that moment consisted of another Australian, a couple from Ottawa who had defected from Romania in 1985 and who were absolutely fascinating, and a woman from New Zealand. The seven Australians and two Canadians were pure delight, but the woman from New Zealand was, to put it mildly, not.

As an example, Ms NZ made all eleven of us, plus two guides and a driver, wait for fifty minutes on the bus, and then, when she finally boarded, she did not apologize for being so late. This was at nearly six pm, after we had been on a walking tour since nine in the morning, and all we wanted to do was shower and eat. Not eighteen hours later, we were stopped by the police because she wasn’t wearing her seatbelt, which led to a prolonged, agonizingly heated discussion between our guide, the driver, and three armed policemen. I didn’t know we needed to wear seatbelts, Ms NZ said defensively, again not apologizing.

All of that could have been forgiven – we all make mistakes, although apologizing is a thing that people do in society – if she did not constantly complain. By the time the Australians joined us, I was already wondering how I could bear two weeks with this woman. She complained endlessly about our hotel: the elevator didn’t stop at her floor (it stopped at ours), the hair dryer didn’t work (it worked in our room), and the tea kettle needed a plug converter (we take a converter with us). I tried to feel compassion about these annoying little blips, but then she yelled at the desk staff that she wanted a cup of tea and she wanted it NOW, and if there is one thing I cannot abide, it is a person who is rude to service staff. After breakfast the next day she complained that no one brought her coffee, and since I had only known this woman for twelve hours at that point, I thought I was being helpful by pointing out that it was buffet-style, and one only needed to ask the man at the counter to prepare a cup of wonderful coffee. Maybe she didn’t know how it worked, I thought. All one needed to do was ask, and delicious coffee appeared. Why should I have to ask? she said to me. He’s walking around, he could just do his job.

Well. How does one respond to that, except to say You’re a cunt, which I did NOT do. Do we go into Starbucks and sit at a table, waiting for someone to bring us a Tazo chai with coconut milk? NO WE DO NOT. She also complained incessantly about garbage by the side of the road, including when we were on a walking tour in a village with a guide who lived in that village. People live here! Those people might not understand the words, but they definitely understand what you’re saying, and what you’re saying is RUDE and implies that they are living in a trash heap.

It got to the point where I wondered if our guide was starting to hate the sound of his own name, since Ms NZ would shrilly call it out every five minutes to ask another of her inane questions while the rest of us had twitching eyebrows. What are those trees, why are they all trimmed that way, who decided that it was the best way, why is it the best way to trim the trees…ad infinitum.

And I realize that had I not been, as they say, a donkey on the edge, I would have happily tuned all of this out. I would have cheerfully half-listened to our guide patiently talk about branch pruning in Morocco, but as it was, I wanted to murder her. Thank god for the Australians and the Romanian-Canadians! And was I sorry that she not only contracted the Traveller’s Tummy but also some kind of virus that caused her to sleep – on the bus, in a restaurant, in the accommodations – for almost forty-eight hours? No, I was not. I am a firm believer in karma, and we were all happy to have some blessed silence.

Weekly Reading

I have SO many books to tell you about, that I read while on buses and planes, but I think I will keep those for a separate post. For now, this is what I read this week – and wow, it was a good week!

Songs at the River’s Edge. I had such a craving to reread this book about a British social anthropologist who lives for eighteen months in a rural village in Bangladesh, circa 1987. It was a twenty-year journey for me to get this book at all, and the details of that are here. She details how she is accepted into the family and describes all the various customs, relationships, and social hierarchy within. There is relative prosperity and desperate poverty, and the stories are moving and beautiful, about the power of community and family, as well as the dire straits of the people who try to move away in search of a better life. The stories about women and their marital fate are fascinating and often very sad. 

Motherness. I have known Julie Green, the author of Motherness, for over a decade; we used to work together at YMC. Truly, I didn’t know her well; her beat was “Buzz,” and she wrote several newsy and current events-related articles a day, while I wrote one recipe post a week. She lived in Toronto and I in Calgary, and once or twice a year I would fly out to see the whole team. I remember those parties very fondly, but I didn’t talk much to Julie. She was pretty quiet and, I assumed, shy. What I didn’t realize – and what she didn’t realize, either – is that she is autistic, and these parties, she writes, were a source of terror and anxiety for her, causing her many sleepless nights and to hide in the bathroom for most of the time. I had no idea. And this is the important part of this memoir, the idea of “masking” that autists do, particularly women. They get along to get along, so to speak, and the stress of the masking, Julie says, “comes at a cost to mental health and can lead to low self-esteem, stress, exhaustion, anxiety, depression, and even suicidality.” She goes on to say that autistic women are often misdiagnosed with depression, anxiety, and mood disorders, which makes me wonder how many women are walking around without appropriate help. Probably many. She is the mother of an autistic child, and she writes openly about the struggles and joys and the agony of trying to fit your child into a world that doesn’t fit them. It’s raw and vulnerable and very moving. Highly recommend this incredible memoir. 

October has been such a strange month for me, what with travel and then birthday celebrations and then coming back to earth! I can hardly believe it’s the last week. I hope you are all, like Humpty Dumpty, having a great fall. xo

The 100 Day Project Begins

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100 Days of Music

My friend Kari (HI KARI) discussed the 100-Day Project in a recent post, which is exactly what it sounds like: a commitment to 100 days of something. That something could be any kind of creative or meaningful practice, and I knew I was in immediately. But what could I do? I’m not an artist, and although I think about what I’m writing every day, it isn’t beneficial to me to actually write every day. It feels like a cheat to choose yoga or walking in nature, which I do every single day anyway. Then it occurred to me: piano. I play piano most days, but not every day. I always feel like I need a block of time to play, which can be insurmountable some days.

But then I remembered my concept for Yoga Club, in which the only requirement for participants was one posture a day. Why not apply this to the piano? I don’t have to play a concerto every time I sit down; I am committing to at least one song – maybe more! – a day for 100 days. I started on May 5, which will take me to August 13. I got so excited about this that I ordered a new songbook, and in the meantime, I’m working on some old and new favourites.

Do you want to join? You don’t have to be a blogger, you just need to commit to something you’d love to do. My friend Michelle (HI MICHELLE) is doing 100 days of postcards, and I cannot WAIT to see her creations. Wouldn’t it be fun, all of us doing something together, but apart?

The Bears Are Back In Town

I was reading on the deck with Rex at my feet, naturally, when I heard a little rustle from the neighbour’s property. Typically this wouldn’t even register, since there are myriad quail and other birds rustling around in the grasses and shrubs, but Rex suddenly jumped up and started barking frantically. He backed his body into mine and continued barking, as I looked to see what it was. I couldn’t see a thing so I settled back down in my chair, but he continued to be very agitated. At that moment my son opened the door and asked me to bring myself and Rex inside because a mama bear and her cub had just been beside his car.

Eeep!

He had been taking something to his car and wasn’t thirty feet away when he spotted them, and after the bear made eye contact with him, she and her cub disappeared down the bank. I guess we are back in Bear Season. I’m trying to be zen about it: there are no reports of black bears attacking humans, and they would only attack a dog if they felt threatened. Rex has had ample opportunity to prove that he will not go near bears, unlike the deer who he will chase forever. There’s nothing for it but to continue to keep the garbage locked up in the shed, scan the yard before letting Rex out, and deep breathing.

Walking Each Other Home

I had JUST come off a week of coyote encounters, so I didn’t really need the bear excitement. The most dramatic of the encounters occurred by the creek on the walking path, when a very brazen coyote was just walking along the path, with people and dogs everywhere. When I encountered him, Rex and I were 85% of the way through our loop, and there were two options: to keep going and hope that Rex’s size and loud barking would get him to leave the path, or to double back and do almost the entire 5 kilometre loop again. As I stood there, a very nice couple offered to walk with me until we passed the coyote, strength in numbers, etcetera. The coyote did disappear into the greenery as we passed, with Rex giving the warning bark, and I appreciated the couple and their kindness so much. It reminded me of Rumi, and that we are all walking each other home.

Speaking of such, I have been loving Simple Abundance so much; May has been a month focused on the concept of home. I found this quote so interesting:

Was Edith Wharton a Buddhist? Probably not, but it reminded me of the concept of the body being a rental house for the soul. Also, I did not realize that Edith Wharton was an interior and landscape designer! People contain multitudes.

Weekly Reading

Speaking of multitudes, I have a couple of very opposite, yet weirdly similar books this week.

Animal Instinct. I came for the pandemic sex, I stayed for the incredible commentary on motherhood, marriage, and the need for connection. Wow, this book! It was recommended on Catherine Newman’s substack, and it is definitely a Pandemic Sex Book, although I will say that the sex descriptions are much less graphic than what I’ve seen in so-called spicy open door romances. Here’s the synopsis: it’s spring of 2020, and newly divorced Rachel makes a profile on a dating app. She is fresh off of a demeaning and lonely marriage, and she is DTF. No strings! She is also kind of a tech genius and starts to create an AI bot based on all the good characteristics of the people she meets, kind of a perfect person. And she gets a little obsessed with chatting with this perfect, non-existent person. This story has so much to say about the pandemic and how it shaped our relationships with screens and virtual contact. It has so much to say about motherhood, and how a woman can be a good and devoted mother and a sexual being at the same time. It has so much to say about marriage and the division of labour, childcare, and the mental load. It has so much to say about not giving up on love, even after heartbreak, and giving life a second chance. I loved it so much, but it is NOT for everyone (Lisa, I’m looking at you, HI LISA, do not read this). If you are at all triggered by descriptions of early pandemic days, and particularly the thought of other people having a lot of casual sex in spite of public health protocols, this is not the book for you. Personally, I have come to believe that the loneliness epidemic and the long-term effects of isolation on mental health were terribly destructive, but some might find the furtive booty calls upsetting. Also, like I said, this book is not as graphic as many contemporary romances, but it’s still pretty descriptive. In particular, there is an anal sex scene that still has me inadvertently clenching and Kegeling whenever I think about it, including this very moment.

Mansfield Park. Speaking of Lisa, she had mentioned a book called This Motherless Land, which, she said, is a retelling of a Jane Austen novel. I immediately and stridently said that I WOULD NOT READ IT because I LOATHE retellings, but then remembered that I had been currently reading Caroline, and also once upon a time I loved Bridget Jones’ Diary. And also the movie Clueless. And then I looked into This Motherless Land and discovered that it’s a retelling of Mansfield Park, which is a deep cut, it felt like. Given the synopsis it seemed like a fascinating book as well. So in Lisa’s comment section, I came full circle, and put This Motherless Land on hold at the library. This is a long way to tell you that while I waited for it to come in, I pulled out my old copy of Mansfield Park, which I haven’t read since the Great Jane Austen Pandemic Reread in 2021. I think this is a really underrated Austen, with its interesting themes of infidelity and colonialism, of the British class system and the creation of wealth via unethical means, of kind generosity for its own sake and the indolence of inherited wealth. One might think that the two books I read this week have nothing in common, but that’s not true: they both involve social propriety and othering people who choose differently, loneliness and forbidden love. There is also a joke about admirals, with their rears and vices, so really, what else is there to say? Jane, you saucy minx!

Devotions. There is no good segue here, but I have been reading a poem or two prior to my yoga practice, and have once again finished this, the most wonderful collection by my very favourite poet. She brings so much meaning, and finds so much glory in the natural world, and I love her so very much.

We all know that I too find so much glory in the natural world, but I could do with a little less of the large predatory mammal part of the natural world this week. My nerves! There has been a lot of deep breathing and meditating, believe you me, and in the meantime, I’ll be assuaging my feelings on the piano. Do join us for the 100 Day Project! We’re all in it together. xo

Let The Music Play

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Turkish Delight, On A Moonlit Night

I am currently in a delightful chapter in my life in which my children are grown and my husband and I are healthy and mobile, and so we have big plans to do a lot of travelling. It’s a big world out there and I want to see as much as I can for as long as I can; no one knows what the future will bring, and so I want to experience as much of other countries and cultures as I can.

Recently we have been talking about Türkiye, which I briefly visited as a teen on a school trip, and would love to see a lot more of. Unfortunately, the planning for this trip may be the undoing of my sanity. Every time I hear, see, or even think of the word “Istanbul,” I immediately follow it up in my head with was Constantinople, now it’s Istanbul not Constantinople, been a long time gone, Constantinople. And that’s the best case scenario; frequently I will go through the entire song in my head before I can rest. Why did Constantinople get the works? That’s nobody’s business but the Turrrrrkkkkksss. Istanbullll.

I don’t know what percentage of my brain is dedicated to song lyrics and other quotations, but it’s significant. I wonder what incredible things I could accomplish, were I able to clear my mind of Getting Jiggy With It, a song that went through my head incessantly when I was writing my very last exam in grad school. I got an A in that exam, so I guess it all worked out, but I’m not sure I’ve ever really recovered from scribbling down equations to the mental chorus of no love for the haters the haters mad cuz I got floor seats at the Lakers see me on the fifty yard line with the Raiders.

Speaking of which, one only need say to me here’s the situation before I mentally reply my parents went away on a week’s vacation.

Does everyone’s mind work this way, or is it just me? One of my favourite scents from Bath and Body Works is Butterfly, and every time, every single time I select that body lotion post-shower, I hum to myself See the dog and butterfly, up in the air he likes to fly.

Seriously, if I could rid my mind of song lyrics, random quotations from movies, Seinfeld, and the Simpsons, along with toxic diet culture, I would be a fresh book waiting to be filled. Staring at the blank page before you…

It’s Not Easy Being Green

We’ve had quite a bit of rain lately, which means that everything is greening up. It’s also likely the reason Kermit was hanging out on my door last week. In any case, it’s officially Garden Season, so prepare yourselves for an onslaught of Garden Updates for the next six months or so. I planted my first rows of kale and spinach on the weekend, the berry patch is all budding, and my husband and I went to the plant nursery. It is way, way too early to plant tender veggies like tomatoes and peppers, and yet I came home with exactly that.

I’ll be bringing these in every night for the next month.
Housewarming gift from the incomparable Suzanne, (HI SUZANNE), relevant to my interests.

Oh, and on the topic of green things, I have an update to my avocado woes. I bought a bag of avocados at Superstore, and, like a person completely beaten down by life, expected nothing out of them. Why did I buy them then? I don’t know. Maybe there was a shred of hope left in my soul. But then when I cut them open, every last one was perfect. It was enough to restore my faith in the world.

Ladies, Leave Those Umbrellas At Home!

My dear friend Sandi (HI SANDI) invited me along with her sister to a paint night this week, and as usual, it was so much fun. I did have doubts about my own skills, however, when I saw the sample painting. My initial thought was no way, this is going to be a mess, but you know what, it turned out pretty well!

I will say that the teacher, as well as anyone else who walked behind me and observed my painting, said repeatedly oh, that’s so interesting, what you’re doing with the skirt. To pull a quote from one of my favourite Seinfeld episodes, WHAT? I HAD A DIFFERENT INTERPRETATION! And if you can name that deep cut episode off the top of your head, let me know and I will send you a prize. What will the prize be? I have no idea.

It reminded me of my probably long-deceased childhood piano teacher, Mrs. Rechel. Along with exam pieces for the Royal Conservatory, I was encouraged to choose some “modern” pieces to play for fun. Frequently I would be playing these pieces of choice for her, and her mouth would just be a thin line. Oh, that’s very interesting, she would say, or, in some cases, Hmm. It’s certainly different.

Hot Carl In The City

Speaking of things that are different, I was reminded this week of the day back in 2012, when a car parked in my neighbourhood had a license plate HOT CARL. I remember wondering about the owner of this car, if his name was Carl and he had very high self-esteem, and then someone pointed out to me that a Hot Carl is a sex act that involves feces. To this day I think about this. Was the car owner really into Hot Carls? Or was he just a guy named Carl who thought he was all that and a bag of chips? Or – and here’s another deep cut – was he a fan of The Simpsons? This mystery is one for the ages. It will never be solved. Unless, of course, he (I assume that this person is a he) reads this and chimes in. Carl, are you there?

I came across this thought circuitously, because Jenny (HI JENNY) had posted an interesting photo of a car, a Range Rover no less, that proclaimed across its rear window Make Money Not Friends. You know what, I admire that kind of honesty. I would rather see that then some asshole who is cutting people off and behaving badly with a bumper sticker saying Choose Kindness. At least with the Range Rover, you know where you stand, and you would also expect to be cut off in traffic. Although I guess it’s not comparable after all, since we don’t know where we stand with Hot Carl.

Speaking of traffic, on my walk the other day I saw a man on a motorcycle wearing a mascot head in the shape of the Easter bunny. I wish I had the wherewithal to take a photo but to be honest, I was too stunned. I hope he had a helmet on underneath.

Mom? Mom? Was that a giant rabbit?

Weekly Reading

Girl, Woman, Other. This book blew me away; it is a work of art. I love women’s stories and I love short stories, and this really delivered. Each of twelve chapters is the life story of a different woman, and all of those short stories are interconnected in some way. The women are Black and British, and all their stories are unique and yet universal. It’s incredible to me how a good short story writer can convey so much with such an economical use of words. The writing style of this book is powerful and moving and adds to the emotionality of the experience. Loved it!

Tiger Eyes. My reread of Judy Blume continues with this, which was absolutely not a favourite of mine as a youth, but it’s a really fascinating read as an adult in 2025. The premise is very sad; a teen girl’s father is shot to death in his corner store, and her family transplants to New Mexico to be with relatives during the aftermath. The town in New Mexico is Los Alamos which is famous for being the place in which the atomic bomb was developed, and which itself was populated by physicists who research that and other weaponry. It’s a wild setting for a YA story, particularly one that was published in 1981 during the Cold War. This completely went over my head when I read it around age 11, as did the themes of grief, loss, and depression. Blume is such a master of weaving such heavy topics with those of sex, alcohol use, and family troubles, topics of deep interest to young readers. It was great on the reread, and there is quite a bit about Oppenheimer and American foreign policy, as well as changing ideas about Native Americans. There is still a bit of dated language which is unsavoury for the current climate, but it would have been still ahead of its time.

Bite By Bite. My friend Laura (HI LAURA) has never steered me wrong yet. She said this was her favourite food memoir, and the words “food” and “memoir” perked up my ears. Wow, was this a joy to read. Every chapter focuses on a different food – the majority are fruits, many exotic fruits, but she also waxes poetic about foods as varied as black pepper, gyro, waffles, shave ice, and lumpia. This book focuses on the joy of eating and how foods build community and celebration, and it is truly a delight. Talk about leaving toxic diet culture behind – this just made me want to celebrate the many delicious flavours in this world. Now, did an essay about pawpaw – a fruit I have never seen, let alone tried – bring me to tears? It sure did.

On the topic of joy and food: the grapes have all been pruned and tied and are ready for spring. Please enjoy Rex enjoying the prunings! Happy April, friends. xo

Pretty Nice Little Sunday

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It was a big weekend at the Boyhouse with lots of things to celebrate. Twenty-three years ago yesterday I was wearing this outfit:

Just swanning around Banff, like you do.

And then twenty-one days ago yesterday this guy made his entrance into the world:

Spiky hair, don’t care.

The truth is that ever since our son was born our wedding anniversary has been kind of eclipsed. He arrived at 11:55 pm, he couldn’t wait five more minutes? In any case, this necessitated a celebratory cake.

Yesterday was also Rex’s fourth birthday, but honestly, that is a lot of things for just one day. I mean, I kind of celebrate Rex every day, but I like to think of Rex Day as the day in October when he came to us. That said, I did buy him a dapper new collar.

Thoughtful Instagram pose.

If you have been reading this blog for a while, you might be thinking wait, didn’t you just buy him a new collar to replace the one that was destroyed at the kennel and yes, I did. I had ordered a collar from an Etsy artisan in Ukraine back in November, it took months to get here due to the postal strike, and it was a disappointment from day two, when the size adjustment wouldn’t hold. It was constantly becoming loose and twisted and although it was not cheap, I had to admit defeat. I chalked it up as a sunk cost and ordered another collar – from a Canadian artisan this time – and I’m very pleased with it. I like the plaid that reflects the Scottish ancestry of his last name, which is my last name, which is different from my husband and sons’ last name.

With my son’s birthday upcoming, last week I was digging out the sheet music for the song that most reminds me of his early infancy. Back in 2004, we didn’t have very many TV channels, streaming didn’t exist, and neither did YouTube or phones that weren’t actual telephones. I was always scared I would fall asleep during nighttime feedings – god, I was so tired – and would drop the baby, so I would watch whatever was on at two in the morning. Usually this was either an infomercial or MuchMusic videos, and I would generally choose the latter. If I Ain’t Got You by Alicia Keys was very popular at that time, so I probably watched that video five hundred times.

I only need to hear the opening bars to be transported back to that time. Nostalgia is a lovely thing, because I have a tendency to gloss over all the hard parts – the exhaustion, the crying, the uncertainty if I was doing anything right – and I focus only on the feeling of holding the baby and sniffing his head.

A recent episode on the Bad on Paper podcast focused on music, and one of the discussion questions was what song always makes you cry, at which point I realized something interesting: Landslide, always a sobfest in the past, no longer makes me cry. I used to not be able to get through half the song without dissolving into a puddle of sadness, but no longer. Am I dead inside? Maybe. But I think the truth is that anticipatory grief is worse than the grief catalyst itself, the empty nest. Then again, I still have a son at home.

I did go through a period in 2023 where everything made me cry, most notably Miley Cyrus’ The Climb. Crying to Miley Cyrus while on the Peloton is an image that neatly sums up my mental state at that time. I still feel strange when I hear there’s always going to be another mountain, but I don’t cry. I think the only song that currently has Cry Power for me is White Wine in the Sun; I start listening to it, nodding along and feeling seen – the hymns have nice chords but the lyrics are dodgy – and then, bam. I need the tissue box.

Another discussion question was what was the first song you remember liking, and that is an easy one for me to answer: Queen of Hearts by Juice Newton. I still love that song, and I still bounce around like one of the kids in Charlie Brown’s Christmas when I hear it.

I’m 100% one of the girls in purple.

I asked my son and husband if they remembered their first loved song; my husband’s was We’re Here For A Good Time by Trooper, and my son’s was, distressingly, Gold Digger. Only a really good mother listens to Late Registration on CD in the minivan while her two small children are absorbing every word.

I remember clearly the moment I realized I had made a grave mistake: I had taken the children over to my parents’ for the afternoon, when my not-yet-three-year-old son said to my mother Grandma, I ain’t got no money so I can’t get no hoes. I had barely recovered from that revelation when his not-yet-two-year-old brother yelled We want prenup! We want prenup! My mother, understandably, looked at me in confusion and asked what they were talking about, at which point I realized that there would be no more Late Registration in the minivan.

Weekly Reading

White Tears, Brown Scars. This very thoughtful and insightful book details the ways in which women of colour have been excluded from the white feminist movement. It is an account of lived experiences, with a lot of focus on Middle Eastern and Indigenous women, which is something we need to see more of. Those of us living in Canada are well aware of our dark past with regards to our treatment of Indigenous peoples. There are so many – hundreds? thousands? – missing and murdered Indigenous women that are omitted from news media, for example. This book also explores the reprehensible practice that Canada – and the author’s native Australia – had of taking Indigenous children from their families in order to assimilate them to white culture. Sexual violence affects all women, but this book shows how much more it affects women of colour, and the biases about such travesties. One thing the book didn’t touch on, but is something I think about a lot, is the large percentage of caregiving jobs that are performed by women of colour – nannying and childcare, eldercare and home care, cleaning and housekeeping – so that white women can thrive in their careers. It’s a very uncomfortable truth. Women of colour face not only the misogyny that all women do, but also racism. A small aside I found interesting is the note that there is a tendency to refuse to give women – all women – respect with regards to names and titles. The best example I can give is presidential candidates: women are referred to familiarly by their first names, men by both names or last name only. No one ever says “Al,” “Bill,” or “George,” for example. Just a little something to be aware of. This is an important book, and it is even more important today than it was when it was published five years ago. Thanks to Stephany (HI STEPHANY) for the recommendation.

Like Mother Like Mother. Someone recently asked if I would rather have a) a book with great writing and a bad plot, or b) a book with a great plot but bad writing, and every time, I will choose the first option. It will surprise no one who knows my taste that I barely need a plot, I just like good writing and well developed characters. So, this book is the b option. I thought the plot had a lot of promise – an intergenerational story of three women, one of whom writes a roman a clef about her mother, who is a very powerful newspaper editor, renowned for “bringing down” a corrupt president in the year 2018. I wonder who that president is modeled after? Anyway, the mother is heralded in the media world but is a really terrible and largely absent mother, who grew up herself without a mother. Themes of intergenerational trauma, etc., abound. The daughter goes on a quest to find what happened to her grandmother, it’s a whole thing. There’s nothing wrong with the plot. The plot is fine. The writing style, however, really didn’t do it for me. It’s choppy and uneven, and the reader is absolutely flooded with backstory, given to us through the least believable dialogue one can imagine. We skip timelines constantly, sometimes as much as three times in a single page. The characters are one-dimensional caricatures. It’s a book that tells, rather than shows, and I did not enjoy it at all. Additionally, the author acknowledges the “sources of several unattributed quotations buried in conversations.” WHAT. This is not a thing we do! 

WHAT.

Joy For Beginners. I think the best way to describe this book is “cozy.” It’s a lovely read about a woman who, after cancer treatment, decides to embrace life and face her fears by rafting down the Grand Canyon with her daughter. She gives all her friends challenges to take on as well; we read about how they accept the challenge. There are a lot of insightful and relatable vignettes about womanhood as we go through middle age: marriage and divorce, motherhood and empty nesting, travelling and walking long distances. Thanks to my friend Laura (HI LAURA) for bringing this to my attention. Laura leads the book club for Melissa Gilbert’s Modern Prairie website and this is the book they discussed this month. No big deal, just mentioning that MY FRIEND is super cool.

I believe that the soul lives on long after our bodies die, and I think in a former life Rex was a lawyer. He is not allowed on the furniture, but he seems to think this is appropriate. Three paws on the floor – he’s found a loophole. Hope you all have a beautiful week! xo

You Can Find Me…

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In Da Club

I am thrilled at the response to my yoga post! Don’t you just love the thought that we are all in our own separate lives, but yet together? I like to imagine you all just adding touches of loving-kindness and asana throughout your day. I think we could have a monthly check-in, with perhaps a mantra or featured pose (asana to do in your kitchen while you wait for the oven to heat up!) or a very short video. In early days of the pandemic, I created a series of gentle yoga videos specifically for my students as a stop-gap measure as we all tried to figure out the zoom life; the quality is pretty bad, and it was never meant for a wider audience, but perhaps someone will find them useful. At the very least, you can see what parts of my Calgary house looked like. Full disclosure: I have not rewatched these as they are a bit triggering, as it were, remembering the circumstances that led me to making yoga videos in whatever space in my house was unoccupied for whatever time I could manage.

If You Get Caught Between The Moon and The Walking Path

The Okanagan valley where I live is famously overcast in winter; this helps keep the temperatures mild and windless, and to me, that is a pretty sweet tradeoff. It does get gloomy though, and often it’s too cloudy to see the astronomical wonders in the sky. Over the last week, though, the clouds have been lifting, right in time to view the Wolf Moon.

On my early morning walk with Rex, I felt like I was inhabiting a Mary Oliver poem as the Wolf Moon fell on my right and the sun rose on my left.

The sun sets close to 4:30 now, which is a solid half hour later than a month ago. I’ve been known to suddenly scream at everyone in the house to look outside, oh my god, look outside, so I am one step closer to my Life Goal of Becoming Judy.

And look at this sunrise! I truly AM living in a Mary Oliver poem. No joke, Canada geese have been flying around me on every walk. WILD GEESE. I cannot make this up.

Please Please Wait A Minute Mr Postman

When we went to Italy, Rex went on his own little vacation to the pet resort. It seems like it was a three week bender. He came back with an eye infection, an ear infection, lice, and an extra two and a half kilograms. His collar was partially shredded and his license tag was missing. Wasn’t that a party…look at the mess I’m in! We should all have such a good time.

It was great timing, though, because I had been meaning to get him a nicer collar, and so I ordered one from Etsy as a Christmas gift, not that he knows what Christmas is or, more accurately, every day is Christmas for him. The Etsy shop MAILED it, even though the postal strike was already on, and so it was stuck in the US lo these many weeks. It finally arrived this week and I think he looks pretty sharp.

December felt very strange with zero holiday cards in the mail; I was a little blue about it but my husband assured me that I would be very excited when the mail started moving again. He was right; who knew holiday cards in January would be exactly what I needed? The mail is exciting again!

Also exciting was my package from Allison, who was my Secret SANta (HI ALLISON)! Allison and I have been friends for about fifteen years, and boy, does she know what I like. Look at this box of treasures!

Every single thing was a complete delight! Fuzzy socks and lotion, chocolates and candies, a bookmark and a gnome!

A gnome cross-stitch card? Omg! Thanks Allison!

Weekly Reading

The Body. A few years ago my friend Leanne (HI LEANNE) introduced me to the Bill Bryson Theory of Diminishing Returns that states that the first Bill Bryson book that you read – any of his vast collection – will be completely and utterly fascinating, and will cause you to excitedly read more and more. The next book – no matter which book – will be slightly less fascinating, and subsequent books will decrease in delight as you go along. I found this to be very true, abandoning the author altogether after Notes From A Small Island. But I saw The Body displayed at my local library; it was the very first Bill Bryson book I read, in 2021, and I wondered if it would be subject to the law of diminishing returns or if it would be as fascinating as when I first read it. Friends, it was the latter. It’s an absolutely incredible study of the human body and its functions and foibles. Now, I will say if you are squeamish at all, or if you even slightly veer to hypochondria or germaphobia, then you should probably give it a pass. I fortunately remembered the horror that was the breast cancer section and the description of the first mastectomies, and so I quickly skipped over that section this time around. Sadly, I did NOT remember the lobotomy section and read it again, which led to the same nightmares I had the first time around. Still, an excellent read, even if I did re-learn that “vagina” comes from the Latin word for scabbard, which, really? Can we have NOTHING for ourselves? It’s bad enough that until very recently clinical trials excluded women on the basis of their pesky old Aunt Flo, which led to inefficacies and sometimes toxic overdoses of prescription drugs for the female body, it’s bad enough that women are constantly misdiagnosed for heart attacks as we present differently from men, it’s bad enough that menopause is only recently being studied and that for hundreds of years women died en masse during childbirth not because of the birthing itself but because of puerperal fever brought on by MALE doctors NOT WASHING THEIR GODDAMN HANDS. We can’t even have that most female of body parts named in a way that isn’t in reference to the man and his MIGHTY SWORD? God, I could flip over a table and scream into the void. TAKE BACK THE VAGINA, LADIES! But back to the book. Modern medicine and everything we know about the body can be attributed to a) dogged, tireless, and often personally hazardous work by scientists, researchers, virologists, and other medical professionals, b) wild accidents, and c) absolutely atrocious and inhumane experimentation on people by Germany and Japan during World War II. A fascinating, if sobering, read. Also? Wash your hands! It’s the single most powerful way to stop disease, not just childbed fever, but almost all disease, including those considered airborne. The description of how a cold virus ends up everywhere is pretty disgusting and I am NOT going to think about it for one minute longer. Pardon me while I go wash my hands.

Don’t Forget To Write. When I was mired in emotional instability brought on by the beautiful but haunting Moon Road, my friend Hannah (HI HANNAH) suggested this as an antidote. It’s just fun; a story about a young woman in 1960 who gets caught making out with the rabbi’s son and gets sent to live with her great-aunt for the summer. This great-aunt just happens to be a matchmaker, and capers ensue! Sassy comebacks abound! There was a surprise ending that really was a surprise – I usually can see these things coming but I did not. Is it believable? Absolutely not! But it’s a perfect diversion from life.

Home Stretch. The day before a wedding, in small town Ireland, there is a terrible accident that kills three people – including the bride and groom – and seriously injures another. Two others are able to walk away, one of them being the driver, whose life in this small town is now ruined. This book is a perfect example of how to write compelling character-driven prose. Secrets abound and while some can be guessed at, the reader is compelled to keep going; it’s an un-put-down-able book that spans 1987 to 2019, from Ireland to England to New York City and back again. It’s a great story of choices, secret lives, and redemption. Thanks to Lisa (HI LISA) for this recommendation!

I hope you all have a beautiful week filled with fun mail, pretty skies, and, of course, yoga moments! xo

Festivus, But Without Grievances

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So, an anti-Festivus?

One week ago today I finished the second draft of my novel. It was my goal in 2024 to write one draft, and now I have finished two, right in time to enjoy the holidays and a break before my revising and editing course starts in January. To say I’m pleased with myself would be an understatement. It’s something I’ve wanted to do my entire life, write a book, and I did it! My goal in 2025 will be to have a manuscript that I feel comfortable sharing with beta readers, so stay tuned.

In my recent Ask Me Anything, which is still open should you have any burning questions, Pearl (HI PEARL) asked What is the book you’re working on about? In its current evolution, it’s a story about a single mother in her fifties who becomes involved with a widower. Her ex-husband delivers some surprising news that affects their daughter, and our protagonist finds herself navigating a new kind of life.

Years ago when I was in yoga teacher training, I was talking to my friend Jo (HI JO), who was a very established teacher at the time. We were talking about teaching yin and she said something that stayed with me: If you want to teach yin, you really need to have a yin practice. Jo and I were and are both Ashtanga practitioners, and I took that to heart, teaching what I knew.

When I first set out to write this book, I had in mind a romance, but for middle-aged people. The thing is, though, romance comprises only about a tenth of what I read. To paraphrase Jo, If you want to write romance, you really need to read romance, and in that vein I would say my novel veers toward a character-driven literary fiction. I wanted to write the book I would want to read, and I am doing that.

Engie (HI ENGIE) asked What is the best year of your life? As you know, I suffer from recency bias, but I really do think that 2024 was one of the best years in my life, particularly coming on the heels of 2023, which was an absolutely crazy year of wild change and upheaval. I have had many wonderful years in my life, absolutely, but this past year was filled with travel and gardening, friends and family. My sons are both doing well and are establishing themselves, my husband is so relaxed and settled into retirement, everyone is in good health, I have a beautiful home and garden, and I wrote a book! Life is uncertain and things can change on a dime at this stage of the game, so I am living in the present and feeling gratitude for all these incredible gifts.

Another incredible gift in my life is, of course, Rex. When our beloved Barkley died in June 2022, I was extremely vocal about Never Again Having A Dog. Never! My older son gently said to me But Mom, we are a dog family, but no, I said. No no no. Well, we all know how that turned out, when Rex arrived to our home in October of that same year. Elisabeth (HI ELISABETH) asked Did Rex come to you named Rex? and the answer is yes. His full name is Tyrannosaurus Rex Stegosaurus, which should tell you a little bit about his original family. I would like to go on the record to reiterate that Rex was NOT a rescue dog. We were chosen by his original family – speaking of gifts, that one was massive – who were incredibly loving and caring but who could no longer keep him. He was a year and a half, and perfectly trained and already full-grown, and some days I cannot even believe my luck that we were chosen to be his family.

Engie (HI ENGIE AGAIN) also asked What’s the best thing about having a dog? I read in a book recently that getting a puppy is a one-way ticket to eventual heartbreak, and while that is technically true, the absolute joy of having a dog far outweighs that. There are so many wonderful things about having a dog, but the best is probably the feeling of love and joy that emanates from them. Dogs are so in the moment, they miss you the second that you are gone and are so happy the second you come back, even if you were just in the shower. They are just happy to go somewhere, as long as they go with you. We are just not worthy of dogs, honestly, they are such incredible creatures and I for one feel so lucky to have not one but two fuzzy balls of love in my life.

Of course one of the best things about having a dog is walking them, although I will say that while I adored and loved my sweet fuzzy Barkley to the moon and back, walking with him wasn’t exactly a joy, even when he was young. He had a terrible tendency to eat tissues that had been dropped on the sidewalk, and as an aside, do you have any idea how many tissues are dropped on a sidewalk in a semi-inner-city neighbourhood? It’s a lot. He knew that tissues were the only thing I wouldn’t remove from his mouth because god, how gross. From the time he was a puppy until the day before he died, I would have to be on the lookout for tissues and redirect him before he snapped them up and ate them, and I was only successful maybe half the time.

While I’m on the topic, once I was walking with him as a puppy – and the boys were little enough to be in the Chariot stroller, this is how long ago it was – and he snarfed up a CONDOM that was on the sidewalk. A condom. I had terrors as to what would happen if he actually swallowed it, because certainly it would be injurious to his little digestive system, and imagine having to tell people that your dog died because he ate a condom. So there I was prying a condom out of my puppy’s mouth while the little boys asked mama whatcha doin wif Barkley’s mouf and I was praying, friends, I was PRAYING that the condom was just used in a silly way by neighbourhood kids, like blowing it up as a balloon, and not for its intended use. I am pretty sure I used up an entire bottle of hand sanitizer after I fished it out of his mouth, as well as a year or two off my lifespan.

I was thinking about this when Michelle (HI MICHELLE) asked her question: I know you go out walking a lot, and I wonder if you’ve ever found anything interesting or strange that was dropped on the side of the road? Well, Michelle, how’s that for an answer? A condom on a busy sidewalk near the elementary school. Oh wait, I just horrified myself anew on a number of levels.

We did come across a dead coyote a couple of weeks ago, but I’m not sure if that counts as “interesting” or “strange” or even “dropped.”

One thing that I always find interesting is when there is a single shoe, which reminds me of a story of long ago. When I was in university, my friends and I were at an on-campus bar listening to live music, and one of my friends had brought her boyfriend, an incredibly nice but dull-witted fellow. The dance floor soon turned morphed into a mosh pit, and shortly after that the extremely inebriated boyfriend stumbled over to us, missing a shoe. Eventually we had to leave, with our one-shoed fellow, but before that I needed to stop in the Economics Society office to pick something up. I was the Economics Society president, hashtag bragging, and while I was in the office our Shoeless Joe drew all over the white board: a number of single shoes, with the caption “Have You Seen Me?”

Since that day, anytime I see a single shoe abandoned on the sidewalk, I think of him, walking home with one shoe on that snowy winter night.

Weekly Reading

The Wedding People. From start to finish, this book was an absolute delight. It was just perfect! It was so smart, and so funny, and so uplifting and life-affirming and heart-warming. The premise sounds a bit off: a woman heads to a hotel to kill herself, and finds that there is a six-day wedding going on at said hotel, and she is the only one there who is not part of the festivities. Themes of friendship, support, and happiness are interspersed with true humour and excellent Mrs Dalloway references. The backdrop is post-Covid, and there are some really interesting thoughts about the pandemic and what it did to all of us, and our relationships. A quote that really hit me: ‘”But life is strange, always thinking this one thing is going to make you happy, because then you get it, and then maybe you’re not as happy as you imagined you would be, because every day is still just every day. Like the happiness becomes so big, you have no choice but to live inside of it, until you can no longer see it or feel it. and so you start to fixate on something else – you want a child, and then the child is here, and that happiness is so big it begins to feel like nothing. Like just the air around you.” Until it is gone, of course.’

The Plot. There is an Alice Munro story called “Family Furnishings,” in which a writer takes details from a relative’s life and creates a story from it. It addresses the question about who can tell a person’s story. I think that most fiction writers take details and experiences from their own lives and the lives around them, and create from them new stories. I was thinking about that Munro story when I was reading The Plot. To whom does a plot belong? This book follows a washed-up writer who is a teacher at a writing residency; one of his students tells him the plot of a book he’s writing, and the plot has an incredible twist. A few years later, he finds out that the student had died without writing the book. So what’s a writer to do? He uses the plot to create a book that becomes a bestseller, optioned for a movie, etc. But, like the narrator in The Tell-Tale Heart, he starts to unravel when the heartbeat he hears is a troll on twitter, accusing him of plagiarism. It’s an interesting premise for sure but after a slow start I guessed the twists and could see the “surprise” ending coming, and I found the last couple of chapters terribly explain-y. Still, a solidly diverting read. 

Piglet. This book is brilliant from a literary point of view, but whoa, is it ever uncomfortable to read. I think it needs to be interpreted symbolically, as in a woman wanting more, more, more, and never being really satisfied. Of course this is shown as excessive eating, and I will say the food descriptions are Off The Hook. If you, like me, enjoy a good food description, hold onto your hats. Or forks. It’s a very moving story about a woman from humble beginnings whose wealthy fiance tells her about a terrible betrayal by him, only two weeks before their wedding. In case you, like me, find yourself reading this and thinking that you missed something, no, you didn’t. The betrayal is never revealed to the reader, which is a Real Literary Choice. You know that couples therapy scene in Old School, where Frank is talking about fantasizing about a waitress’ panties? “Probably they’re just plain white cotton. But then I thought, what if it’s lace? What if it’s a thong? What if it’s something really cool I don’t even know about?” The Betrayal is like that. Probably it’s just adultery. But what if it’s something really cool we don’t even know about?

Santa Claus Is Going To Town On Me. Well, you knew this was coming. Heh. Of course I couldn’t let the holiday season pass me by without reading this, after it was mentioned by Bad on Paper. I mean, it’s basically porn, but with Santa. If you have ever wondered what Santa’s dick looks like, this is the book for you! You may be saying to yourself, omg Nicole, of course I haven’t wondered that, NO ONE NORMAL has wondered that, and that is probably true as I myself never thought about Santa in any kind of sexual way before reading this. But what has been seen cannot be unseen, friends. I can never think of Santa in the same way again (tinsel-like pubic hair). To paraphrase Jessica from Drinks With Broads, STOP MAKING SEXY SANTA A THING, HE SHOULD BE COZY. Anyway, the whole thing took me maybe 45 minutes to read and I discovered that a) Mrs Claus is dead, b) Sexy Santa prefers to be called Claus and is maybe Finnish, c) he doesn’t live on the North Pole but instead in some other planet, and d) he has no elves, Sexy Santa is a Lone Wolf. It’s a lot more plot than you might expect from Santa porn, honestly. Quote that sums up the entire book: “I’ve always hated Christmas, but this year will be different, because this year, I’m going to fuck Santa Claus.”

On that very unsettling note, I should end this very long post, which will be my last one until the annual Year in Review. Wishing you all a very happy holiday season! Your readership is a gift to me, and one that I cherish. xo

One Day In Your Life…

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Aficionados of obscure Canadian bands from 1988 will certainly be singing along to that title: …shouldn’t be a problem. One day in your life, shouldn’t cause you pain. Because it’s one day that you might never be around here, and I’ll never ever see you again.

Well. That got a little dark for a minute.

My favourite day of the week is Friday, or, as I like to say to my sons’ extreme consternation, Fri-YAY. My older son says Mom in that certain way that our offspring have to say that we are unbelievably lame creatures, us mothers, whereas my younger son merely closes his eyes to indicate the psychic pain I cause him for using a term like Fri-YAY.

But it is a Fri-YAY to me, I save special treats for that day and I minimize jobs and chores, and here’s how last Friday, the final Friday of November 2024, went down.

3:56 am. I wake up and think about things until the clock strikes four, and then I get out of bed and stumble to the kitchen, where I start that pot of ambition. I drink two glasses of water, perform my morning ablutions, and get dressed in the clothes I have set out in the main floor bathroom the night before. I turn on the Christmas tree and get Rex out of his crate, which is a true highlight of my day, since he behaves as if it’s been years since we’ve seen each other. He’s like the Mary Oliver poem about starting the day in happiness come to life.

Friday is a great day in Rex’s life, because it’s Garbage Day. I grab my flashlight and coat and we go to the shed where the bin is locked up away from bears. As I drag it up to the road, he runs back and forth excitedly. After that, we go inside where I fill his food and water bowls, fill my own coffee cup, and start my laptop. This is my designated blog reading time, so if you’ve ever had an incoherent comment from me, probably the coffee hasn’t kicked in yet.

5:21 am. Yoga time! I read a poem first and then meditate on it while I practice.

This is followed by a Peloton ride.

7:15 am. The sun will be coming up in 15 minutes, which is perfect timing as I don’t like walking in the dark. I rehydrate and change my clothes, put on mascara and tinted lip balm, and we are ready to go! For a change I decide to hike up Knox Mountain. There’s no snow at our house but there is a bit on the mountain, and that adds many, many minutes to our walk, as Rex eats, rolls in, and frolics through the scant snow.

9:31 am. We finally get home and I am ready for breakfast. I make a smoothie, tidy up the kitchen, and decide that I cannot abide the state of the floors – side eyeing Rex – and so I give the main floor a quick vacuum and wash.

10:20 am. I shower and scrub out my shower – I do this while my hair mask is absorbing, hot housekeeping tip – and then moisturize, apply makeup, and get dressed. I practice my Spanish to let my hair dry a little before taking the blow dryer to it. I’m on a 1006 day streak!

11:43 am. I don’t usually write on Fridays, but I’m on a self-imposed deadline to finish my second draft before January, which is when my Revise and Edit course begins. I set my mental timer for twenty minutes, and after that I treat myself to reading a couple more blogs.

As Laura and Suzanne know, once the glasses are on, it’s Business Time. (HI LAURA HI SUZANNE). Does anyone remember the Flight of the Conchordes? When you get down to just your socks, it’s Business Time. Anyway, it’s not THAT kind of business.

12:21 pm. Lunchtime! Yesterday I had made a vanilla ice cream mixture and so I put that in the ice cream maker to churn while I eat lunch. I add chopped up Oreos and consider myself a contender for Mom of the Year. I read a chapter of my current book, which is Real Americans.

1:30 pm. I have a pedicure appointment at 2, but I need to stop at the library first. I do this and later discover after I left another of my holds came in. I had put all my holds on pause when we went to Italy, and I currently have eight library books at home, plus three at the library, plus TWO MORE in transit. Oops. I have a lovely pedicure, and come home to see my husband and son in the yard putting up the outdoor Christmas decorations. Rex is out with them too and he’s pretty excited to see me. He comes inside with me where I brush my teeth, call my mother, and then come back out to be a consultant for the decorations. Should the walrus and the penguin be together? Where does the llama go? Should the snowman go under the overhead vines as a welcoming committee?

3:59 pm. This is it. This is the day where the sun sets before 4:00. I’m mainlining Vitamin D at this point. We go back inside and have Cocktail Hour: first, a chilled shot of Limoncello to sip, reminding us of Italy, and then a glass of Chianti.

5:00 pm. A knock on the door, and it’s a delivery from UPS. My dear, sweet friend Elise has sent me a package and it’s absolutely incredible. Does she know me or what?

5:30 pm. It’s time to make dinner, and it’s my favourite, the one I could eat on repeat indefinitely: Greek salad with hummus and pita. What better day to have my favourite dinner? Since I (always) make dinner, the guys clean up the kitchen.

7:00 pm. While they are cleaning up, I change into my pajamas and do my dental and skincare routines. Then the three of us watch an episode of NYPD Blue. It is a ROUGH one. If you know, you know. After that we are all kind of silent, and I read a few more chapters of my book while my husband watches hockey and my son disappears.

8:47 pm. Bedtime! I’m calling it a day. A Fri-YAY.

Weekly Reading

To The Women. I have been reading these poems in the morning before yoga and let me tell you, this uplifting collection could not be better timed! has words of wisdom about body image, aging, and loving yourself more and more as time goes on. For those of us side-eyeing our wardrobe as it relates to our newfound perimenopausal tummy, this is a really inspirational look at aging.

The God of the Woods. About halfway through this mystery-thriller about a young girl who goes missing from summer camp is this quote: “She read Walden out of sheer boredome and found herself annoyed by Thoreau: his self-regard, his tone of superiority, the way he doled out advice so obvious as to be insulting. Here was a rich person playing, thought Louise. There were poor people far more resourceful and self-sufficient than he was; they just had the grace and self-awareness not to brag about it.” HELLO. Seldom have I felt so seen. I don’t think I’ve ever had my feelings about Thoreau encapsulated so well, so that boosted the book for me right there. But more interestingly, that paragraph basically sums up the whole book. It’s a foreshadowing and a thematic statement all in one and I AM HERE FOR IT. I love when authors leave little hints like that. Anyway, this is not my usual genre, but I picked it up because it’s so buzzy right now. And even though I don’t love mystery-thrillers, I really liked this, I found it a nice twisty entertaining read that kept me guessing until the end. Damn if I don’t feel bonded with Liz Moore right now, too. Living deliberately my ass.

Real Americans. This was an interesting reading experience, a book about three generations of Chinese-Americans that deals with wealth, class, assimilation, fitting into society, and, wildly, the ethics of genetic modification. It’s also about family and making the best choices given the circumstances. I really loved the first third of the book and then I liked it a bit less as it went on. As literature, it’s quite a remarkable accomplishment, spanning decades and generations and weaving historical events into everyday life. There are some interesting questions raised: what role does fate play in our lives, what does it mean to be part of a family, is wealth incompatible with living an ethical life? It’s a thought-provoking and very well written book.

Congrats to all my friends who participated in NaBloPoMo! I saw quite a few “day in the life” posts and was inspired to do my own – waiting until December, of course! I’m always a bit reticent to do these posts – is anyone really interested in the minutia of my life? – and then I realize that I myself am fascinated by them, so why not. Next up: an AMA! Happy December, friends. xo