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And I try, oh my god do I try, I try all the time

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…in this institution.

I’m not exactly praying for a revolution, per se, but honest to god, yesterday I took the quadruple whammy: time change, Mercury still in retrograde, the eve of the full moon, AND after somewhat of a hiatus, my Ladies’ Holidays arrived. What timing. There is nothing we can do about moon phases and planetary movement, there is little to be done about Ladies’ Holidays, and here we still are, many years after the war ended, still pretending that Daylight Savings is indeed saving daylight and energy. We all spring forward like zombies, for absolutely no reason whatsoever except that we have to do it, or we will be an hour late to everything in society.

THERE IS NOT ACTUALLY MORE TIME IN THE DAY. We do indeed have more daylight, but that is due to the revolution of the earth around the sun, not moving the clocks forward.

Anyway, I am trying, OH MY GOD DO I TRY, to not make Time Change Week a self-fulfilling prophecy, I am trying to be positive and pretend like it’s any other week, I’m trying to look on the good side – wow, it sure is light out when we are eating dinner! – but I just spelled prophecy with an F and well. Well.

It’s going to be a very hectic week, in any event. I have a meeting at the school for my younger son’s sailing trip, which leaves in three weeks. I mean, hopefully. Given that we can’t do anything about external circumstances. The point is, there is actually a parent meeting! We also had a last-minute fundraiser because – and this may or may not surprise you – the poinsettia fundraiser did NOT do as well as expected. Isn’t that strange, in the middle of a recession in Alberta, people aren’t clamouring for $40 arrangements right before Christmas. I cannot believe it either. Well, I leaned in HARD to this fundraiser as it was for Co-Op grocery and gas station gift cards; this is an actual useful fundraiser for things people might actually want. Maybe we can all use our Co-Op gift cards to stock up on toilet paper. They had it on sale this weekend.

Anyway, my lovely friends were more than generous for this fundraiser; I instantly blew past the minimum I needed to sell and ended up nearly five times that. My hope is that this fundraiser will be as wildly successful for everyone as it has been for me, and that the administration will take note and, perhaps, come to the conclusion that gift card fundraisers are the way to go, and the poinsettia one can stay in the trash where it belongs. Technically the future doesn’t matter for me, as I won’t be doing this ever again, but I like to think of myself as benevolently hoping for the next generation of sailing-trip parents.

God bless you all, for your tips about bra shopping and fitting, and sharing your similar anguish and bust-related woes. My friend Megan (HI MEGAN) sent me directions on how to measure myself for a bra, and let me tell you this: the size of my old bra was so incredibly wrong, it was startling. In fact, it was such an odd size that it qualified as a “specialty” one, which is how I ended up deciding to visit the specialty shop just across the street from the studio at which I teach. I had a class Friday at lunch, but I gathered all my mental strength and zipped over to the shop, giving myself a nice window of time before class. Or, at least, I thought it was a nice window of time.

When I related my tale to the lady at the shop, she tilted her head and said that at that store, they don’t do such pedestrian things as measure for bra size. As I looked at her, confused, she just said that I would try on bras until I found one I liked and that fit. Ooo-kay. She brought me the size I thought I was, which did not fit. Then she brought me another one, and it did not fit. Then she brought me the size of my old bras, and, unsurprisingly, that also did not fit. Twelve bras later, all different sizes and styles, none of which was even close to fitting, I found that I had ran out of time and had to get to the studio.

God, I hate wasting time. More than anything else, that makes me crazy. Well, it’s probably a good thing anyway, since the only thing I hate as much as wasting time is wasting money, and every single one of those bras were over $150. At one point – probably around Bra Eight – I would have paid all that and more just to end this hellish shopping experience and leave with something to show for my efforts. I guess on the bright side, if I’m going to wear the wrong size bra, at least I can do that with the ones I have in my lingerie drawer, at no additional expense.

I left the store with my self-esteem somewhat in tatters. I mean, who can’t get a bra that fits at a specialty bra store that specializes in hard-to-fit sizes? Me, apparently. I think I’ll try a non-specialty store in the hopes that I am not as special as I think I am.

Well, I tried. Oh my god, did I try.

All Panic, No Disco

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This week is a Costco week, and I happened to have a little bit of time on Monday morning to venture over there. I had seen the news about long lineups and store craziness, but honestly, from the photos I saw it just seemed like a regular day at my busy Costco. However, I have never been there at opening before, mostly because I only discovered a month ago that Costco opens at 9:00; I had always thought it was 10:00 and would time my arrival to be just shortly after that. Wow, people really get to the checkout quickly I would think, seeing lineups at 10:15 and assuming that all those people were power-shopping after their 10:00 arrival. Anyway, what I’m saying is I’ve never been to Costco at 8:55 before and it was an experience.

I don’t know if this is normal behaviour, or if it was Coronavirus panic, but carts were lined up awkwardly through the parking lot, waiting for the doors to open. Maybe this always happens; I don’t know. I turned to ask the lady beside me if it was always like this, but she was wearing a mask and latex gloves, so I felt she probably didn’t want me to strike up a conversation.

My friend Janet, of beautiful hair fame, (HI JANET) said she was at Costco and the greeters were wiping down carts with antibacterial wipes, but using the same wipe over and over. I’m not sure what we are doing here.

I have a natural tendency to overbuy things when they are on sale, and I have to really fight that tendency so as to not end up with an overflowing house. That said, I always – always! – have backups of important things like my most-used food staples, soap, toothpaste, dish soap, and – wait for it – toilet paper. I never buy it at Costco though, only Superstore when they have a sale or there are special PC points involved. So I was probably the only person at Costco on Monday morning without giant stacks of Kirkland toilet paper in my giant cart.

It was impossible not to notice. When I later heard that Costco ran OUT of toilet paper, I was completely unsurprised.

Well. I don’t ever think it’s a bad idea to be prepared for an emergency, and the great news is that Superstore still has plenty of toilet paper, people, plenty. I have been slowly and quietly putting a few extra things in my pantry and medicine chest like ibuprofen, vitamins, and, alliteratively enough, shelf-stable staples. If it’s all for naught, well, at least I won’t have to buy chickpeas for a while.

I am generally very good at cleaning out my cupboards; rotating canned goods and making sure they all get consumed. However, I was organizing things in my canned-good cupboard and I noticed a jar, way at the back. I pulled it out and it was a jar of olives, not the brand I normally buy, and in fact, I couldn’t remember ever buying them. They had pits, for one thing, and I always buy pitted. I looked at the top and people, they expired in 2013. Expired! How long does it take for olives to expire? When did I even buy these? We renovated our kitchen in 2012, I would have thought I would have discovered the olives prior to that. Who knows?

I had a friend over for tea the other day (HI T) and we were talking about my long-ago shopping challenge. I mentioned to her that, because of the shopping challenge and also when I Kondo-ed the house, I am a lot more aware of the things I buy and bring into the house. Other than, apparently, olives. But I am more mindful of what I buy; sometimes I am too mindful, as is the case with my ill-fitting bras. One of my exceptions to the shopping challenge was a new bra, because my old ones didn’t – and do not – fit properly. I finished that shopping challenge in 2018. Buying a bra was one of my 2020 New Year’s Resolutions.

My friend told me that I really should get on that resolution, that she herself had been bra shopping and, after being measured, discovered that she is a much different size than she thought she was. She and I wear the same size bra, or DID until she got fitted. Her new size made my eyes pop out of my head. Could I ALSO be that size? I know a number is just a number and a size is just a size, but I was wowed. And so it was with this thought in mind, plus her assertion about how much more comfortable she is in her bras these days, I decided to bite the bullet and go to the mall.

I probably wouldn’t have even gone to the mall had I not needed to purchase a birthday gift for a special soon-to-be-sixteen-year-old, but there I was, gift purchased, with thirty minutes to spare before I needed to leave for my afternoon class. I power-walked through the mall to get extra steps in, and circled around to the Victoria’s Secret. Well, to what WAS the Victoria’s Secret. The store was shuttered, with not even a sign remaining. How long has this been closed? I thought. I was just in the mall in January, and it was open then. Regrets, I have them. All this time, I have had a Victoria’s Secret five minutes away from my home, all these years, and now it’s gone. I could have been buying a bra anytime I wanted, and now, no. They probably had a closing out sale! I COULD HAVE HAD A DISCOUNTED NEW BRA IN MY (HOPEFULLY) NEW BRA SIZE! Don’t take life for granted, people. I took Victoria’s Secret for granted, and now it’s gone. Probably because I couldn’t even get it together enough to got shopping. I started humming You don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone…

I stood there, staring, at the shuttered window with the song going in my head on a loop. I must have stood there for three solid minutes, probably looking like a lunatic, while another song came into my head, courtesy of the Evita soundtrack. So what happens now…where am I going to…

It goes without saying that I left the mall with my New Year’s Resolution still unfulfilled. Yes, I do know that there are other lingerie stores. Yes, I do know I could visit The Bay where I could get chided by an older Eastern European lady for wearing an incorrect bra size, before being steered toward the Olga line. But I’ve only worn Victoria’s Secret bras for the last decade, and I am feeling bereft. Yes, I do know that there are other Victoria’s Secrets in the general Calgary area, but I tell you this: if I didn’t go to a shop only five minutes away, there is no way I am going to get in the car and drive to the outlet mall outside the city limits, or, worse, to the mall in the south side of the city, to get to which I have to take my most-loathed-it-must-have-been-engineered-and-planned-by-a-group-of-drunks freeway.

No, I am going to just accept that I will probably wear my current bras when I’m in the nursing home. We are together for life, now. Me and my ill-fitting bras, together forever.

I’m not one to blame everything on planetary movement but

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Mercury is in retrograde! This, I think, explains a lot.

I do not tend to blame everything on external forces, but Mercury will still be in retrograde when time change occurs this coming weekend, so I feel it best to set my expectations for myself and the rest of the world quite low, as we all wander around in a fog of exhaustion, going back to school drop-offs in the dark with a general feeling of confusion.

My friend Hannah (HI HANNAH) noticed something in her dayhome the other day:

It’s true. Jealousy can be very automatic, and I think it’s natural, sometimes, to want what we do not – and in some cases, cannot – have.

Take, for example, my friends Florence and Janet (HI FLORENCE HI JANET). These two are the most supportive of friends, they are like the sisters I have never had. They are beautiful souls, hard working, and devoted mothers. They also both have the most naturally amazing, effortless hair, and I will admit: I covet. Their hair isn’t one of those things that appears to be effortless but actually takes a lot of effort, like natural-looking makeup. Their hair is literally effortless. I know this because Florence has stopped by my house after her morning swim on occasion, with wet hair, and over the course of a coffee her hair dries into this perfect, naturally wavy hairstyle, thick and shiny and beautiful. I mean, can you imagine? Janet and I practice yoga together every morning at 5:00 am, and every morning at 5:00 am she swans into the studio looking like a hair model, even though she literally just got out of bed. Then, she takes her long, thick, curly hair and whips it up into a messy bun, and she looks like she has had a team of stylists working on her, even though she put approximately ten seconds of effort into it. Again, can you imagine? Maybe you are a person with similar gifts, and if so, I envy you too.

So I will freely admit my jealousy about their gorgeous manes, but here is the important thing that I want to talk about: their perfect hair really has nothing to do with me. They are not shaming me with their beautiful hair. Their purpose in life isn’t to walk around with perfectly amazing hair and make the rest of us feel bad, they just HAVE perfectly amazing hair. I can be jealous of their hair and ALSO be proud and lucky to have them as friends. They, as it is popular to say now, lift me up, and I try to lift them up too. We lift each other up.

And I would repeat that for all of the women in my life who I call friends: we all lift each other up.

Therefore, what I am about to talk about does not in any way refer to my supportive network of friends, the ones near and far. What I am about to discuss is really more of a social media phenomenon.

I have mixed feelings about the saying No one can make you feel inferior without your consent because if someone is INTENTIONALLY being an asshole, that kind of absolves that person from blame. Saying or doing something with unkind intentions, well, that can hurt or make the recipient of such actions feel inferior, no consent required.

Intention matters, is what I’m saying.

Apparently there’s a new trend on TikTok, with mothers videoing bento box lunches that they have – I assume lovingly – prepared for their children. And, if you have ever been on that thing called the internet, you will not be surprised to know that there is a huge backlash about it. “Mom-shaming,” people say, “Must be nice to have so much time on your hands.”

Intention matters.

Two things: I have not, and I never will be, on TikTok, as the thought of anything like that is extremely unappealing. I am turning into my own curmudgeonly grandfather here, I have never even used Uber, not because I have issues with it but because I don’t really want to go through the process of learning something new. What’s wrong with a taxi? Second, I have not and never will – because my kids are teenagers – made a bento box lunch, mostly because my kids came home for lunch every day during elementary school. But I think that they are adorable and I kind of wish that I had. And if I had, maybe I would have taken a photo of it. After all, half my instagram feed is photos of baked goods.

Getting back to the point: a woman putting a video of her cute lunch on TikTok is NOT mom-shaming. Mom-shaming is a real thing, that’s for sure, but celebrating a cute lunch? That’s no more shaming than a person talking about an exercise class they had gone to or a book they have read. That’s sharing, not shaming, intention is what makes the difference. My reaction to a cute lunch/ exercise class/ book is my own issue.

That woman who videoed her lunch is not better or worse than the mom who throws a Lunchable in a bag and calls it a day, or the mom who slaps a piece of bologna between two slices of bread and calls it a day. We are all different, we all parent differently, but the common thread here is that we all do the best with the time and resources that we have, and honestly, if one feels “shamed” from watching something like this on the internet, then I would submit that the issue falls with the recipient of those feelings. I would like hair like Florence or Janet, but their beauty does not diminish me as a person. They are not walking around being naturally gorgeous to shame me, they are just walking around being naturally gorgeous.

It seems to me that the women who are the loudest and most vocal about Lifting Each Other Up only want to Lift Up the women who are similar to them in life journeys and circumstances. I will be your support person but only if you admit that you also find making lunches boring and terrible. I will be your support person only if you are just like me in every way and face the same struggles in the same manner as I do. If we are truly Lifting Each Other Up, then we need to do that regardless of one’s place in the journey of life or one’s circumstances.

Intention matters. We need to be able to celebrate accomplishments, beautiful things, and happiness. If someone posts about their new jean size, or a photo of themselves in a bikini, or a fancy cake, or a bento box lunch, we need to be able to be happy for the person posting, we need to be able to celebrate and lift each other up. If we are not, if we cannot, then some self-examination might be in order here. The intention of a woman proud of the way she looks and posting a flattering photo is not to shame the people looking at the photo, but rather to celebrate herself. This is what we all should be doing, really; celebrating ourselves and our beautiful friends. My knitting friends, Alana and Kourtney (HI ALANA HI KOURTNEY) showcase photos of their beautiful creations NOT with the intention to shame me, a person who literally cannot sew a button on a pair of pants without devastating results, but rather to celebrate their own accomplishments. I have many friends who write and publish books, and those are accomplishments to be celebrated; they have nothing to do with some of us who have been writing a blog since 2008 with nary a book to be seen.

If we are going to truly Lift Each Other Up, we need to do that. One woman’s gifts do not diminish another woman’s.

I’m just a prisoner of love

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We are just finishing up what has been, for the boys, a five-day long weekend, for my husband, a four-day long weekend, and for me, a three-day long weekend. For my high school son in particular, it’s great that he was back at school for one whole week before having a three-day and subsequent four-day week. We would not want undue stress.

To be honest, though, it’s been quite lovely, having a relaxed few days. We had very good friends over for dinner and, in honour of Valentine’s Day, I made a heart-shaped cake. I have discussed this before but it bears repeating now:

So easy, and so cute. I also made a whole lot of heart-shaped cookies; what is a semi-holiday without commemorative cookies? It is nothing, that’s what.

My husband and I don’t really celebrate Valentine’s Day in any kind of traditional fashion – except maybe, afternoon delight, which is really a regular occurrence, so it doesn’t count. However, he did give me this running top a week or so ago, purporting it to be an “early Valentine’s gift” so I’ll take it.

Every year I – jokingly, obviously – ask my husband if he bought me a Prisoner of Love teddy bear, and this year he told me that he really, really has no idea what I am referring to. I was amazed that he had never seen those teddy bears that are for sale in drugstores and the like every Valentine’s Day, I suppose for men who forgot the holiday and want to have something tangible to give to their lady. Prisoner of Love teddy bears strike me as one of the funniest things that could possibly be gifted to someone on Valentine’s Day, with the minor exception of gas station roses. In any case, he had never heard of or seen them, and I couldn’t believe it. I appealed to my Friday lunch yoga class, and after class several people told me that they had never heard of them either. Am I imagining things? Was it all just a dream?

So now I appeal to you, my dear readers. Have you ever heard of, seen, or – omg, please – ever received a Prisoner of Love teddy bear? A quick google search shows me that there are some modern-looking Winnie the Pooh versions, but that is not at all what I’m thinking. I’m thinking of cheap looking, white teddy bears with black-and-white striped prison gear.

Have You Seen This Bear?

That is, clearly, one of those enormous bears that can be won at the Stampede or similar fairgrounds, by a weirdly talented sharp-shooter or ring-thrower.

Last night we took advantage of the long weekend to watch Bohemian Rhapsody with the boys, and while it wasn’t as fun to watch as Rocketman, it was a very interesting movie. It was quite fascinating to see the collaboration for all of Queen’s songs, but it was also fascinating to point out familiar faces. Hey, that’s Tom from Downton Abbey! Hey, that’s Littlefinger! I saw in the opening credits that Mike Myers was in the film and, about 3/4 of the way through, I wondered when he was going to make an appearance. His character had already come and gone by that point, my husband said. I have to say that was some good hair and costuming.

It’s important to do things as a family, and so I took my older son with me to Costco yesterday. I have never in my life been to Costco on a Sunday afternoon and, as god is my witness, I never will again. How bad could it be? I had thought to myself and the answer is Really very bad. If my son hadn’t been with me, cheerful and encouraging, I probably would have just turned around and went home when I reached the parking lot, which was much more of a disaster than usual. But we pressed on, finally finding a parking spot behind the building. Subsequently someone would park directly behind me, so that I had to make a 20-point turn to back out of my spot, but I would not discover this for another 45 minutes.

The shopping expedition did not take as long as I thought it would, although the jumble of carts lined up for free samples of miniature chocolate chip cookies was almost enough to push me over the edge. As one might expect, the lineup was the worst part.

This is what I don’t understand, though. I had a full cart, as usual. I would have never gone had it not been a weird combination of a holiday Monday, several appointments in my usual grocery shopping time, and a desperate need for my household staples. All through the lineup, though, were people with less than five items in the cart, and those items were often things like muffins or a pack of drinkable yogurt. There would be no WAY I would set foot in Costco and go through all the nightmare that is the parking lot and lineup, just for muffins and drinkable yogurt, or for anything that you could get at a much less mentally taxing grocery store. Oh well, it takes all kinds to make a world, as everyone’s grandma, including mine, used to say.

Well, I am going to finish off this long weekend with a lot of reading, a little yoga, and a nice little dog walk. I hope you all have a wonderful holiday Monday! xo

Brass Monkey, that funky monkey

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All high schools in the city, it seems, have a reputation or something that they are known for. Some schools are known for their excellence in fine and performing arts, some schools have fabulous vocational programs, some schools excel at sports. The nearby Catholic high school, for example, has won the city championships in football pretty much every year since its inception. Our high school has a reputation for academia, and the demographics in the school reflect that.

So it was with interest that I attended Math 10 Parent Info Night on Tuesday. We are a very mathematically-inclined family, and even though I couldn’t imagine what the info night would cover – I already had the course outline, complete with weighting for each unit, test schedule, and information about notes-for-purchase and the required graphing calculator – I wasn’t going to miss it.

It turns out that, hilariously, in addition to a discussion about different streams of math and the various avenues available for academic assistance, the math department felt the need to give a somewhat prolonged lecture with an underlying message to parents to just calm the fuck down. It was priceless.

I consider myself to be, in many ways, a very strict parent. I have high expectations for my children in terms of academic performance, work ethic, and general behaviour, but in that crowd, I looked like a lax, overly permissive hippie.

My son’s math teacher got up to speak; he is an older, very formal gentleman who is of Ethiopian descent. He began with a very long story about how he is actually a physicist, he loves teaching high school math but his first major was physics. This went on for some time, causing me to tilt my head and think where is he going with this. Eventually he revealed that his daughter, in high school, was struggling in physics. More than struggling, she was suffering. And so, after some discussion with the teacher, he withdrew her from physics. In the car on the way home she sighed with relief and said “I didn’t think you would let me drop physics.”

At this point the teacher appealed to the parents, saying that he did not know WHY she would think that she had to take physics, just because HE was a physicist. That was HIS dream, not hers. I half expected him to start reciting Your children are not your children, but instead he stated that, as parents, we may have dreams of our children being engineers or doctors or what have you, but there are many, many different paths to success in the world.

He concluded by saying, with much pride, that his daughter is now a high school band teacher. I smiled, and looked around at my fellow parents, expecting a certain smiling reaction to a man who has revealed with pride and joy that his daughter chose her own path, one that has led to success.

The room was silent. All the parents were leaning back in their chairs with their arms crossed, and a look of bemusement mixed with horror on their faces.

Well.

After that the presentation opened up to a Q and A session, which was equally ridiculous. One mother kept pressing to see what SPECIFIC grades a university engineering program required for entrance, a question literally impossible to answer. A father asked which math stream was appropriate for a student who has career aspirations of being an astronaut. Sir, if your child is going to obtain a PhD in Astrophysics, probably that child should pursue the more RIGOROUS math stream?

At that point I booted it out of there, and when I got home and relayed the story my son pointed out that I did, indeed, look a little bit like a hippie with my yoga pants and mala, which seemed a bit aggressive on his part. It’s not like I was wearing Birkenstocks or sporting leg and armpit hair.

I do very much value academics, but I am also very happy that my son is taking drama this semester. I played Amanda Wingfield in our high school production of The Glass Menagerie, and I can still do a mean Southern accent. I also played – bizarrely – Shelly in Grade 11 when our school did Buried Child, and if you do not know this play, I suggest you google it and sit in awe that a high school actually put on such a thing.

Anyway, the current unit in my son’s drama class is lip-synching, and he and a friend have chosen Brass Monkey as their assignment.

As a slight aside, during the week the boys work out in the “dungeon” after school; they alternate days and if I didn’t already know their workout schedule I would be able to ascertain it based solely on the playlist blasting from the basement. My younger son’s playlist is almost entirely Guns and Roses, interspersed with some dreadful death metal and – strangely enough – Elton John. There’s something weirdly unsettling about having Tiny Dancer follow Mr. Brownstone. My older son’s playlist is similar, except that it is Van Halen with Led Zeppelin, with the occasional Michael Jackson tune.

I am not judging, here, my own workout playlist is similarly eclectic, with everything from Rob Base and DJ EZ Rock to the Pointer Sisters to Jimi Hendrix to Eminem.

Because of the impending Brass Monkey performance, my son has been working out to the Beastie Boys exclusively this past week, and let me tell you this: if I thought having Honky Cat in my head for six days straight was bad, it was NOTHING compared to Brass Monkey. Honky Cat, at least, has lyrics that I know and are varied. Now I just keep mentally yelling Brass Monkey, that funky monkey, Brass Monkey junkie…over and over in my head.

Yesterday my son was working out and I was inspired. I ran down the stairs and screamed at him “WHAT’S THAT NOISE?”

He stared at me for a moment – I’m not a screamer, especially not for no apparent reason – and then it dawned on him. “Mom, you’re just jealous, IT’S THE BEASTIE BOYS!”

It was as proud a moment as could be. I felt like his math teacher, beaming with pride and joy. I also felt like this:

Well, this Cool Mom is off to do some cardio and maybe I’ll add the Beastie Boys to my playlist today. Happy Valentine’s Day everyone! xo

Nicole’s Favourite Things: The “Yes, I Am Still Talking About My Feet” Edition

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Last week I stepped into my Sorel boots and immediately got a very wet sock. It turns out that, after nine years of service, they have given up the ghost. There was a big crack in the sole of the boot; farewell, Sorels.

I actually checked the blog to see when I purchased them and, indeed, it was January 2011. Even though these boots were perfect for just stepping into, making them ideal for wearing to and from the gym and yoga, I am not that sorry to see them go. They were heavy – like walking with 1980s-style ankle weights – and due to their age, not even very warm anymore. Plus, they are extremely unattractive, which in a way was a bonus: no one would ever voluntarily steal them from the gym or wherever. Who would want such ugly, heavy boots? That said, my friend Taryn (HI TARYN) is attempting to fix the sole so at least they can be donated, as the thought of just dropping them into the garbage was a bit too much for me. Maybe someone will indeed want them.

I can really understand, as I age, how old people end up with substandard things they have had for decades, just because they are “too good” to throw out. For one thing, time goes by so quickly – we are more than a third through February, people, wasn’t it just New Year’s a minute ago – and so things purchased years ago can still feel “new.” I just bought new towels, the old ones going to our “vacation house” (it’s a LONG story that I might get into sometime), and the difference is night and day. How have we lived this long with what essentially feels like burlap, when we could have been enjoying these new towels that feel like I am drying myself off with an actual cloud? Well, those burlap towels were purchased when we renovated in 2012, and they probably felt like clouds at the time too, but that was EIGHT YEARS AGO. Things wear out, like towels, and Sorel boots, and flannel sheets, which currently also feel like burlap and which are, as we speak, on sale at Costco for $49.99 per set. But my sheets are perfectly fine and serviceable, I think, I just bought them. Probably also eight years ago, at the least.

Anyway. I may work myself up to new flannel sheets at some point, but right now, maybe because of my Sorels, maybe because of my panic-at-the-disco about gel pedicures, I want to talk about feet. I promised you all that I would talk about my favourite foot care products, and I do not disappoint. Whether you do your own pedicures, or you are looking for some nice products, or you are just actually interested in the state of my feet, I have recommendations for you. Without further ado…

Nicole’s Favourite Things: The “Yes, I Am Still Talking About My Feet” Edition

Soak Them

The first thing I do when giving myself a home pedicure – if I have time, that is – is to soak my feet in (usually very) hot water, with a sprinkle of the Saje bath salts below. I am not sold on Saje bath salts over any other bath salts, but I a) do not take baths* and b) a student gave me this giant bottle of salts, and so I like to use them. They are a lovely lavender scent, and they are “yoga” brand so, fun! But, you know, use whatever you like.

*I feel weird saying I do not take baths, because it makes me sound like an unwashed barbarian. I’m sure you all assume that to mean that I only take showers.

Anyway, I soak my feet for 5-10 minutes or so, depending on how much time I have, and then I painstakingly remove my nail polish. I say painstakingly because I have worn red nail polish on my toes since I was sixteen years old, with no breaks, and so my natural toenail colour is, shall we say, unattractive.

After soaking, if time permits, I quickly file any dry, crusty parts off of my feet with the file above. I have no idea where that file came from. Did I buy it? Did it come in a gift pack? I have no idea. I just know it’s been in my bathroom drawer for many years and it is a very good quality foot file.

Spa Ritual Polish

Honest to god, this is the best nail polish ever. It’s what they use in the fancy salon I frequent with my mom on Mother’s Day for our annual pedicure. I usually buy a bottle while I’m there, and it lasts me pretty much the whole year. This colour is Soulful, which makes me smile. The polish advertises as being vegan and cruelty-free, which is nice, but it also makes you wonder how a nail polish could NOT be vegan. It’s probably best not to think about it. Anyway, this is a super-long-lasting polish, and the pink colour in the above photo is what I use on my fingernails. It’s a nice natural colour, called Idyllic. Idyllic and Soulful, that’s me.

Don’t Forget The Top Coat

The white bottle in the group photo is the official top coat for Spa Ritual, and it does make the pedicure last a long time. However, I haven’t noticed a significant difference – other than price, hoo boy, the price – between that top coat and good old Sally Hansen:

I don’t think I’ve ever used it as a base coat. Maybe this accounts for my hideous natural nail colour.

O’Keefe’s Foot Cream

I have tried every single foot cream/ foot balm/ foot “rescue” that you could possibly imagine, and they all worked in a fair-to-middling kind of way. My husband was swayed by an O’Keefe’s commercial to try their dry skin cream and reported it to be better than anything he had ever tried, including Gold Bond. I thought I’d try the foot cream, and was almost put off by the cost, but I soldiered through.

People, this is the greatest foot cream of all time. It is like a literal foot miracle. Dry skin, cracked skin, crusty skin, all GONE. I was braced for it to smell medicinal and old-people-ish, but it is actually light and minty scented. I cannot say enough about this cream; for once the commercials do not lie. Just a word of warning, as with any foot cream, be sure to put socks on after use, and it’s probably best to use it at night and not right before you put on shoes or sandals. Unless you like footprints on your floor and sliding out of your shoes.

 

It’s been almost two weeks since my last home pedicure – not bad!

Feel free to share your favourite foot products with me, and have a happy Monday! xo

Maybe they are “regular”

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I am absolutely a morning person, and yet I’ve had a few strange occurrences over the past few days that have caused me to figuratively tilt my head and raise my eyebrows at myself. On Saturday I started the coffee without noticing that the pot was on an angle, and by the time I finished washing my face, brushing my teeth, and feeding the dog there was half a pot of coffee that had spilled out on my countertop. Half a pot of coffee is a lot of coffee on a flat surface; it took me many minutes and many dish clothes to clean the mess up. I had to move all the small appliances and twenty-five bananas out of the pool of coffee and, of course, the angled pot had pressed up onto the filter and so there were grounds all through my coffee maker as well. My coffee maker was in need of a vinegar cleaning anyway – I am not sure if I’ve EVER given it a vinegar cleaning, and I have had this coffee maker since at least 2012 – but still. It was not, I thought, the best way to start a new month.

Then, this morning I went to yoga practice with my pants inside out. I didn’t even notice until I was two-thirds of the way through; if they were black I’m sure I would have never noticed, but they were blue, with a black gusset, and so it was fairly obvious.

Despite these two occurrences, February seems to be off to a good start. Saturday my husband and I had a date to The Casbah, where I had the single best meal of my life. I am not exaggerating. It was epic. If you are in Calgary, you really must go. Not only is the food incredible – I’m serious, it was the best meal I have ever consumed – the atmosphere is wonderfully romantic and lovely. I have always wanted to visit Morocco; one day I will and I will eat all the chickpeas and tajines and couscous you can imagine.

Then yesterday, in addition to being a palindrome, Kansas City won the Superbowl, which I was excited about. I also made a delicious dessert that I hadn’t made for a while, strawberry daiquiri pie. It’s the easiest thing in the world: a few days before, put two cans of full-fat coconut milk in the fridge. Scoop out the thick and creamy part to use, whirl it in a food processor with three cups of sliced strawberries (I used thawed frozen ones), two tablespoons of lime juice, and 1/2 cup honey. Pour it into a graham cracker crust (1 1/4 cups graham cracker crumbs with 1/4 cup melted coconut oil). Freeze, eat with magic shell chocolate (2/3 cup coconut oil melted with 1 cup chocolate, add 1 teaspoon vanilla and 1 tablespoon honey).

Most importantly, though, today my son went back to school. Hurrah to the end of exam break, all is back to normal in the Boyhouse.

So February is great so far, and I am happy to report that I am no longer hearing Honky Cat on a loop in my head. I was talking to the boys about this and my younger son pointed out it was excellent that I didn’t have Bennie and the Jets stuck in my head, because no one knows the words to it. I realized with a start that this was true. I don’t know the words to Bennie and the Jets; I would venture to say that no one does*. I would say that the entire population might know “Hey Kids,” followed by a great deal of mumbling, then “She’s got electric boots,” more mumbling that culminates in “B-b-b-bennie and the Jets.” But nothing else.

My son told me he had looked up the lyrics and it was worth doing; if you are interested you should do this because whoa nelly, none of those words a) make sense, and b) sound like anything at all in the song.

Speaking of things that don’t make sense, I had to go to Walmart for a few Walmart-y type things, one of which was Advil. The Pain Relief aisle is the same as the Family Planning aisle – huh, let’s not think too much about this – and there was a man there, talking with one of the employees. The employee – who was, I feel it is important to mention, female – had a box of condoms in her hand and was reading it.

Employee: This says “Extra Large.”

Man: No, no, that’s not what I need. Is there an “Extra SMALL?”

At this point I seriously considered browsing through the KY jellies and multiple personal lubricants just to hear the rest of the exchange. Mostly, though, I was impressed with this man. I mean, who has the confidence to ask for extra small condoms in a normal, non-whispery voice? Who has the confidence to actually go to a physical store to look for extra small condoms, rather than special order them online? May we all hold ourselves in such esteem.

Also? I’m pretty sure they DON’T have extra small condoms. I am pretty sure that the condom companies would never market them that way. It’s probably like in Starbucks, where a small is a Tall.

Well, there’s no good way to segue into this, but look at what I saw in the Co-Op the other day:

CANNED HAGGIS. Who knew there was such a thing? Not me, that’s for sure. As if haggis itself isn’t gross enough – “I think all of Scottish cuisine is based on a dare,” Mike Myers – CANNED haggis? Who would buy this? Let alone who would pay $13.29 for a can of haggis? No Scottish person, that’s for sure. If there is one thing that unites us as a people, it is frugality.

As a note I have never actually eaten haggis, canned or no, and I never will. But I just can’t imagine it being good in any capacity, even if I wasn’t vegetarian. Note the mushy peas next to it. Shudder, shudder, shudder.

I have decided that I WILL challenge myself to wear a different outfit every day in February. Let’s see how this goes. Today is cold and snowy and grey, which is a very February kind of day, I think. So why not brighten it up by digging through my closet to come up with different things? If there’s one thing I love, it’s clothes. And Moroccan food. And Elton John.

Here are my first three outfits of the month: date night, my only football-themed top for Superbowl Sunday, and a very typical “teaching day” outfit.

*Technically it is not no one; other than Elton John, my friend’s husband does actually know the words, which is a very excellent party trick in my opinion.