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Nicole’s Favourite Things: The Revisiting My Youth Edition

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I know you were all on the edge of your seat, waiting to see what would happen when we went to our doctor’s appointment last Friday. Would the scheduled time be incorrect again? Would I be berated by the long-suffering office receptionist for missing my appointment? Would I actually see the doctor?

Well, all was smooth, you will be happy to know. We were in the waiting room by 1:55. Of course, we waited for a while to see the doctor, but I wasn’t too concerned about that: we all had books and phones and weren’t really doing anything we wouldn’t have been doing at home anyway. I got a TEENSY bit of stink-eye from the receptionist, but I guess I would be annoyed if I thought I was a no-show as well. The boys were having standard checkups, but I was there to ask the doctor about a little white dot that had been on my face for – get ready – three and a half years. I had been fairly unconcerned about it, but lately people had – strangely enough – been commenting on it, including one concerned friend who related a long and detailed story of a similar thing she had which turned out to be a form of skin cancer, and my own mother-in-law thinking that I had Caesar salad dressing on my face. Well, I’d rather neither of those things be assumed, but the doctor assured me it was simply a calcium deposit, and within five minutes he had removed it. Five minutes! After three and a half years! I guess in future I might look into these things earlier, before people think I a) have cancer, or b) am an absurdly messy eater.

The Before

 

The After

I finished my Christmas shopping this week, which is neither early nor late for me. Some of you (HI JAN) have asked how this is possible, year after year, to complete the shopping in early November. I could write an entire post on that but let me assure you it is not because I am following that article that has been going around, “The Gift of Death;” after all, our family “adopted a senior” this year and I don’t think a printout of “The Gift of Death” would be appropriate. What I will say is that I do schedule in a couple of two-or-three hour chunks of time to go to physical stores and then I just power through; the rest I do online.

The reason I always finish my shopping early is because going to the mall in December, as my sons would say, harshes my mellow. This backfired on me slightly, however, since one of my time chunks that I had scheduled was this past Monday afternoon. A Monday afternoon in November is assured to be a quiet time at the mall, correct? Well, not if that Monday is November 12 and half of the city is also crowding into the stores that have – ridiculously – Black Friday specials and the like. Black Friday is not a thing in Canada. Anyway, I managed to get everything done, even if the parking lot crushed my soul, as cars were parked haphazardly for no reason, it wasn’t even snowing. The lines are there for a reason! They aren’t friendly suggestions.

Back to Monday. I had gifts to shop for but I also had ME to shop for. Which brings me to…

Nicole’s Favourite Things – The “Revisiting My Youth” Edition

Everything fashion-related reminds me of my long-lost youth lately, and not always in a particularly good way. These styles are not flattering, people.

Ah, but we all wore such unflattering pants back in the day, with our tight, tucked-in tops or bodysuits or crop-tops. Well. I shall leave the youth culture to the youth, when it comes to pants like these. To me, all this needs is a tapestry/ denim vest to complete the look, but then I am not the target market here. I revisited my youth this week in any case, in what I hope was a good way.

Your Mama Wears Army Boots

A large issue with not buying any clothes for a year, and buying very minimally in the years prior to that, is that everything seems to be wearing out at the same time. Specifically, winter boots. My favourite pair of winter boots died this week, literally died. I bought them from Sears – Sears! – maybe four or five years ago, and they were worn extensively through our very long winter seasons, so it is no surprise that their death was imminent. I stepped in a puddle and my foot was absolutely soaking wet; on further investigation it appeared that the sole had become detached. Since I was going to the mall anyway, I thought I’d shop for some boots. I found, and fell in love with, these:

Hello 1990s! There is a photo in my high school yearbook of people who were all wearing this style of boots, but Doc Martens. Back in the day I would have worn them with babydoll dresses; now I wear them with yoga pants and flowy black sweaters. Hey, you have to move with the times!

Speaking of babydoll dresses…

Le Chateau

The other thing I needed to buy for myself was a dress for my husband’s work party. Yes, I have many, many black dresses that would be appropriate, but I have worn them all many, many times. I wanted something new and fresh. First I went into the Bay, which was having a (Black Friday?) sale on dresses. It took me some time to even locate dresses in my size, let alone dresses I liked, but I finally ended up with three in the change room. I texted my husband to see which he liked best, to which he responded that he really had no idea since my hand was largely blocking the dress. My mirror selfie game is not strong, I will give him that. However, the expressions on my face are my favourite part of these gems:

If we were going by my facial expressions, it would be The Horror! But really, I was just trying to figure out how to capture the moment on camera.

I wasn’t in love with any of them, but I was going to settle for the third. Then I thought, did the one-year shopping challenge teach me nothing? NEVER SETTLE. To be honest, I wasn’t super comfortable in it; for lack of a better word, I felt a bit exposed and just a teeny bit slutty, and not in the way I want to be. I put it back on the rack, thinking if I didn’t find anything else, I would come back to it.

I started to wander through the mall and I came across Le Chateau, which I hadn’t set foot in since I was a teenager. God, how I loved that store. My all-time favourite teenage outfit came from that store:

It was a tiny black tube skirt with a swingy, A-line top, with little daisies attached to it. I would wear the hell out of that outfit now, if the skirt was longer. Or if the skirt were yoga pants. Anyway, I hadn’t been in Le Chateau forever since I have always associated it with my long-lost youth, but I will change that now because people, they have some great clothes in there. If I didn’t wear yoga pants five days a week I would stock up. As it was I found the perfect dress, but I will post a photo later, when I’m all dressed up with somewhere to go. Suffice it to say that my husband thought it was the best dress he’s ever seen me in, and given he’s seen me in a lot of dresses over the past twenty-two years, I think that says something.

The Body Shop

I remember when The Body Shop came to Calgary – I was around 13 and it was like a revelation to me. Against Animal Testing before Against Animal Testing was cool! All the interesting products! For years after that, all my babysitting money – and later, my Pizza Hut money – was spent on things like grapefruit skin toner, strawberry lip balm, and peppermint foot cream. Every Christmas I would be thrilled to receive one of their baskets containing Satsuma or Vanilla bubble bath, a little scrubby, and the useless glycerin soap that came with everything.

Oh, how I loved The Body Shop! And then…I just stopped shopping there. I don’t know why. Maybe I was too busy futilely trying to find an eye cream that made me look decades younger, and I haven’t taken a bath for years (I SHOWER, PEOPLE, DON’T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT). But I stopped in and I’m so glad I did. They still have awesome gift baskets that are perfect for the ladies on your list, and they also have interesting new products like this:

I am an absolute sucker for things that claim to illuminate, even, and revitalize. I bought it for myself, along with a couple of gifts. But the results from this face mask will be the subject of another post. Stay tuned! xo

Corrections

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A few days ago I was making a new acquaintance, a lovely woman who turned to introduce me to her friend. “Have you met?” she asked, and I opened my mouth to answer, but before the words could come out, her friend indicated that we had never before met and it was a pleasure to make my acquaintance. I closed my mouth, smiled, and echoed the nice to meet you too sentiments.

The thing is, over the past decade, I have met that same woman at least a dozen times, and every single time we have had a similar encounter. In the past, I would have mentioned that we met before, detailing the whereabouts and mutual friends, but each time this woman indicated that the meetings left no impression whatsoever and I was a complete stranger to her. This week, though, I mentally shrugged and went along with it.

Who knew I was so unmemorable?

It reminded me of how my next-door neighbour called me Michelle for the first twelve or thirteen years that we lived side-by-side. I was recounting this to a friend who asked why on earth I wouldn’t have corrected him. I did. I did correct him, but after the first several years I just gave up. I am Michelle now. Oddly enough, he now calls me by my actual name, which is nice, but a little unsettling after all these years of responding to Michelle.

Sometimes it just doesn’t pay to correct people.

When I make appointments, be it for doctor, dentist, hair salon, or bikini wax, I always have a very specific date and time in mind. I do not call to make an appointment until I check my calendar carefully and decide which of those specific dates and times would work. I don’t have the kind of job where I can easily switch things around; I have classes at certain times, and I work around that. Back in the summer I called to make appointments for the boys and myself for the doctor. I booked Friday – two weeks ago – at 2:00.

As I was driving to the appointment, my phone rang. (Please spare me your concern, I have Bluetooth.) It was the doctor’s office.

Me: Hi! We are on our way to you right now!

Doctor’s Office: Well, your appointments started at 1:00 and you missed them completely.

Me: What? Oh. I…had written them down as starting at 2:00?

DO: ONE O’CLOCK.

Me: Okay…will the doctor still see us today?

DO: No! He has a VERY full clinic this afternoon and cannot possibly accommodate you when you are THIS LATE! *insert deep and irritated sigh*

Now, when I speak to my children utilizing the tone of voice that the doctor’s office was using on me, it means that my children are In Need Of Correction, and They Are Not Only Very Wrong, But Also Kind Of Stupid. I save this Very Sharp Voice for Problems And Idiocy, and I don’t use it lightly. Therefore, I can tell you that I felt Very Small and also Very Stupid, in addition to feeling Kind Of Defensive, because I knew I wasn’t in the wrong. I teach on Fridays until 1:00 and I would have never made an appointment at that time, since I do not have a magic teleporter. But I also knew that really, there was absolutely nothing to be done. It didn’t really matter who was in the wrong (NOT ME) because the result was the same: we wouldn’t be seeing the doctor that day.

I took a breath, thinking this was a good time to Model Good Behaviour to the kids who were in the backseat listening to this exchange. I apologized for the mistake, and asked what could be done. Could I reschedule? I could and I did, not without some consternation in my mind.

I spent some time, as I made a few turns to go back home, being annoyed not only at not getting the appointments, but also for being Spoken To Sharply. No one likes to be made to feel like they screwed something up, especially when they didn’t. But then I started to think of it a different way: it was a gift. After a very hectic few weeks where I barely had time to sit down, I was given a free afternoon. I could go home and read a book! Have a glass of wine! Do nothing! I had been given the gift of time and after all, what did a few weeks’ difference make when I had made appointments in the summer?

Yesterday I had a call and a voice mail on my cell, which rarely happens – who calls anyone these days? But there it was, for the first time ever since becoming a patient in 2011, a reminder call from the doctor’s office. I have never had a reminder call before but I probably have “FLAKE” written on my file now. Well, it’s probably for the best. That way, if such a silly thing ever happens again, I can reschedule the appointment without being made to feel like I wrecked the doctor’s entire afternoon and everyone has been Highly Inconvenienced by me and my flaky ways.

As I said, it often doesn’t pay to correct people. In fact, I might go out on a limb and say it rarely pays to correct people. In this case there was absolutely nothing to be gained by it, I got a free afternoon out of it, and we still have appointments, albeit a few weeks later than planned. Now, here’s the true test: what time will I see the doctor this afternoon? Will it be 2:00? Or will he be, as he usually is when I go to see him, running significantly behind schedule? Stay tuned!

Hello November!

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Yesterday a friend asked me how much Halloween candy I had eaten while waiting at home for Trick or Treaters, and I will tell you this: zero. My secret? I buy the candy that I don’t like, which is for me a giant box with a mixture of those little Kit Kats, Coffee Crisps, Smarties, and Aero bars. The new young couple down the street – who reminds me of my husband and I many years ago – came by with their two little ones. This is their first Halloween in the neighbourhood, and the woman told me enthusiastically she had bought 100 little bags of chips and hoped that would be enough. I was loathe to tell her that we have never had more than 20 Trick or Treaters, and that she would be munching on chips for some time to come. See, that is a mistake I would never have made – it’s not that I don’t buy hundreds of tiny chocolate bars, it’s that I would never buy that many potato chips, for the simple reason that I cannot resist them. For me, salty beats sweet any day.

Next year I think I’ll buy full size chocolate bars, because I want to feel like one of those fancy ladies; a princess distributing largesse to the populace, as it were.

Thursday after classes I took the Halloween decorations down, with the help of the boys. Normally this is something I would leave to my husband but a) it’s completely dark by the time he gets home and b) today is supposed to be a “rain/snow mix” which would be a bit disastrous for our animatronic thingamagigs. Electric shorting out might add to the creepiness though:

The kids went Trick or Treating with all their friends; I was very happy to see them come back candy-laden and happy, with no one commenting on their giant statures. Does it seem to you that EVERYTHING is a divisive topic nowadays? You name it, everyone has a STRONG and IMMOVABLE opinion on it. Teens trick or treating is definitely one of them. I am of the camp that would give candy out to literally anyone who comes to my door; they could be in university – hell, they could be senior citizens and they would still get a handful of Kit Kats from me. As for my own kids, they can Trick or Treat for as long as they want as far as I’m concerned.

So here we are in November, and I for one am happy about it. Our house was hit by an absolutely deplorable virus, and I seemed to have gotten the worst of it. I recovered enough to be on my feet but the residual exhaustion has been something else. It’s been a week of just setting one foot in front of the other, and occasionally bursting into overwhelmed, exhausted tears. Today I’m finally starting to feel like myself again; I spent some days last week wondering how on earth I usually had the energy to do my normal day-to-day things. Here’s how poorly I felt: I haven’t had a sip of wine in two weeks. Dark times, people.

This morning, after napping all yesterday afternoon and sleeping ten hours last night, I felt well enough to return to my usual Saturday morning spin class. You know how they say the first time back is the hardest? I certainly hope that’s true. All during the class I kept looking down at the little orange warning on my bike: Over exercise can result in serious injury or death. Death! It seemed like a terrible portent. Usually I am filled with all sorts of personal-best goals during the class; this morning my aim was to just make it through without death. If I have a choice in the matter, I would rather not Meet the Maker while wearing sweaty padded leggings.

Fortunately, I am still here to tell the tale.

The kids are in that teenage phase where every morning, they seem taller than the day before. This has resulted in them completely outgrowing their single beds; my older son in particular is several inches longer than his bed, which has led to some uncomfortable nights. We decided to buy them both extra-long-full-size beds, which is more complicated than you might think, given we live in a 1960s bungalow. There has been much jenga-like moving of beds, and there were twenty-four hours when the new beds were delivered into the front entry, in which the entire entryway and front door were completely blocked off. The chaos of this has not added positively to my mental and emotional state this week, but the final result is extremely satisfactory. At one point I looked at all the wrappings and cardboard and craziness and repeated to myself the only way out is through over and over. Happily, after much rearranging and quite a bit of purging, things are looking up! The only problem is that I lay down on one of the beds and damn, it is way more comfortable than my own bed. The only thing keeping me from surreptitiously bed shopping is the thought of going through all this chaos again so soon. Maybe I’ll feel well enough for a glass of wine tonight, to give me some courage. Let’s hope!

Yard-work fashion on point

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I admit that I’m very surprised that several of you have tried growing your own cilantro with no success, for the reason that I have had very little success with other herbs, but for me cilantro grows like a weed. Is it the super-dry climate I live in? Is it my basement grow-op that is never warmer than twenty degrees, and is frequently as low as 14 degrees in the winter? Is it the extreme love I put into it? No, the latter can’t be true – I’m sure you all were beaming your hearts like Care Bears at your own cilantro seeds.

Honestly, I can’t explain it. The only other herb that I’ve had any success with – and “success” is very loosely defined here – is basil, and even that was finicky and difficult and never amounted to much. Cilantro though! Here is my current crop:

And here is the set-up, from a distance:

I have two sets, and one I allow to lay fallow, like I’m an actual farmer. Then when my cilantro plants are at the end of their little life spans, I plant the other set so that I can smoothly dovetail between old cilantro and new sprouts and so that I am never – save for this summer’s incident – without.

Anyone still here? I didn’t really come here to talk about cilantro, although I COULD. I could talk about cilantro all day long. I could also talk about how happy I am that the snow is melted and we are suddenly into FALL, like an actual autumnal season that people in normal climates have. Who knows how long it will last, and so carpe diem, carpe diem all damn day. I’m just thrilled not to be wading through the snow for a few weeks. I managed to rake up the still-soggy leaves and I had enough spring in my step to make my sole contribution to Halloween decorating:

Aren’t they the most perfect pumpkins? This weekend the house will be transformed into something haunted, but it won’t be me doing the work.

What I really wanted to talk about today is current fashion, specifically one facet of current fashion: ripped denim. About a month ago I was at the mall shopping for a birthday gift for my dad, which was notable in itself as this was well in advance of my dad’s actual birthday. For some reason, I am usually scrambling at the last minute, like my dad celebrates on a lunar calendar and it is not actually the same date year after year.

Small digression: my dad is fantastic to shop for. He is the kind of gift recipient who immediately incorporates the gift into his life to show his appreciation, which I in turn appreciate very much. His gifts from me are strictly in three categories: shirts, golf balls, and aftershave, and I cycle through those categories throughout the year.

Another small digression: the last time I bought him aftershave, the woman at the counter – despite my clearly stating that I was shopping for my father – kept trying to steer me towards all sorts of pheromone-type sexy aftershaves with names like SEXUAL and similar. Lady, I am shopping for my DAD. I will leave the pheromones to my mom, thank you very much.

Back to the story at hand. I was in the Bay – an excellent dad-place – and I noticed a clearance rack of ladies’ clothing. I am not made of steel, and so I took a peek. This is what I found:

Further down the aisle:

I would have LOVED those when I was the age my own kids are now.

“I hate milennials!” my 14-year-old said to me just yesterday, and when I reminded him that he himself would be considered such, he replied, “I know, but still, we are terrible.” I was laughing so much I didn’t even get the context in which this statement was made. Note: I do not share this opinion, mostly because I do not like making sweeping statements about entire groups of people. Also, to quote my dad, we shouldn’t HATE anyone.

However, kids these days do have a lot of things easier than we did, that’s for sure. For one thing, google. If you wanted to know the primary export of Argentina or the capital city of Ethiopia or Tom Cruise’s height or the calories in a Reece’s Pieces Blizzard, you had to either a) look it up in the Encyclopedia Brittanica, which your parents had purchased volume by volume, b) hope for a Tom Cruise expose while paging through your mom’s copy of Star magazine, c) buy one of those calorie counting books and hope for the best, or d) spend time in the reference section of the library.

When I was in university, I had an actual preference between microfilm and microfiche.

Now, all kids have to do is grab their phones and google things. They don’t know what a busy signal is, they can shop for literally anything they want online, and, these days, they can buy their denim pre-shredded.

Back in MY day, if you wanted ripped denim – and who didn’t? – you had to do it yourself. There was none of those artful tears and frays that are sold at a premium. Back in MY day, we took scissors to our jeans and spent hours fraying them so it looked natural, and we LIKED it that way. Goddammit.

I am not one to revisit my youth, particularly in terms of style – BEEN THERE, DONE THAT – but this week as I was raking leaves I considered my yard-work outfit: old Skechers that have flowers on them (my special garden shoes!), my old Goodnight Moon t-shirt that I bought for Blissdom 2013, and these:

Look! I’m on point, fashion wise! This is what happens when you have the same jeans for six years. I earned that! Kids these days, sheesh.

Spoiled

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It occurred to me yesterday, as I was baking muffins at 6:30 in the morning, that my children are exceedingly spoiled. I might go so far as to say that my husband is, as well. Of course, anyone who knows me would think that is probably a rich statement, coming from such a princess, but just because I am incredibly spoiled doesn’t preclude my family being so as well.

There is a difference, I think, in being spoiled and being a spoiled brat, and I will say that the latter is not the case. And, as one of my students said to me as I mentioned that my dog has become much more spoiled with age, that is on me. It’s true! It’s my fault. I don’t really think the kids are spoiled in terms of material things, not really, but they certainly are in terms of food. Hence, muffins at 6:30 in the morning, so that the kids will be able to have a delicious homemade snack when they get home from school.

Delicious homemade snacks and fresh fruit are my two must-have-at-all-time-items, which certainly explains why all my free time is spent grocery shopping and preparing food. I was just telling a friend that I have two refrigerators and one refrigerator-sized freezer, and all of those appliances are chock-full of food all the time. Doesn’t food go bad though? she asked, and no. Nothing goes bad in our house, ever, with the exception of the odd mini-cucumber. This is because we never go out to eat, and I make all our meals, and most things, from scratch.

Side note: whenever I say I make something from scratch, I think of my beloved late Grandma Fern, who used to say about cakes allegedly made from scratch, Scratch your ass and reach for the mix? Oh, Grandma. I was a little skeptical about Hedy’s spice cake at the church potluck too.

Anyway, I do make most things from scratch – no ass-scratching involved – and so now my family is so accustomed to homemade things that store-bought or restaurant items “taste weird.” This includes but is not limited to: ice cream, muffins, loaves, cookies, cakes, brownies, pasta sauce, and, strangely, hummus. It is a problem of my own making but sometimes I’d just like to buy a container of hummus from Costco without everyone wondering what’s wrong with this hummus, it tastes weird. 

ICE CREAM, you guys. A few years ago my husband bought me an ice cream maker, after we were at a dinner party at which the hostess served her own homemade ice cream. One thing led to another and now I have no fewer than three flavours of homemade ice cream in the freezer at any given time. And I don’t even eat ice cream! But I digress.

I am not one to talk, though, as I recently discovered my own “it tastes weird” scenario and that is store-bought cilantro. A few years ago, as a Valentine’s gift, my husband bought me my own indoor grow lights so I can grow HERBS NOT THAT KIND OF HERBS ACTUAL FOOD HERBS. I almost exclusively grow cilantro because a) it’s easy to grow and b) no one else in my house will eat cilantro, and I hated how quickly a bunch would go bad in my refrigerator. The only thing I will accept going bad is the single mini-cucumber every two weeks. So, for the past few years I’ve grown my own cilantro, loving how I can just easily harvest the exact amount I need when I need it.

Over the summer, though, we were out of town and so I took a cilantro-planting break. I didn’t feel I’d be around enough to give my little plants love, and also I am deathly afraid of fire and wouldn’t want to leave the grow lights on lest a cilantro plant weave its way into the fluorescent lights, dry out, and suddenly burst into flames, eventually leaving the house to be a smoking hole in the ground while we were off on vacation.

My two greatest fears in life are, in this order, my husband and/or children being diagnosed with a terminal illness, and fire. I cannot even contemplate having little scented candles in the house, I will never run the dryer if I’m going to step out of the house for even five minutes, and I look nervously at the allegedly harmless little tea lights that are lit in the yoga studio. What if someone knocks it over, and the whole studio goes up in flames? I think, extremely irrationally, given that the tea light would most likely just extinguish itself before such a scenario would ever happen. I even was anxious during Christmas Eve candlelight services, although that fear I think has much more basis. I mean, some of those little kids holding actual flames? What if one of them set my hair on fire? I would think, as a teenager. Given the fact that it was the eighties, and I went through a bottle of Salon Selectives a week, this was a pretty rational fear.

When I was a kid my maternal grandparents had a lamp that rotated, and when it was lit, it looked like a forest fire. A forest fire! God help me. No wonder I’m so crazy. I was obsessed with looking at the forest fire lamp, which probably explains a lot.

Anyway! Enough about fire. Back to the cilantro story. When we returned from vacation, I replanted some seeds, but in the interim, as I waited for them to sprout their little green deliciousness, I needed my favourite stir-fry garnish and so purchased a bunch from the local Co-Op.

People. I thought I had actually bought the wrong herb. It tasted…weird. Is this parsley? Or what? I thought, then looked at the little labeled twist tie. No. It’s cilantro. It tasted weird and off and I thought it must be the bunch. I threw it out – breaking my own rules – and bought another bunch at Superstore. I looked carefully – yes, it definitely is cilantro – and when I got it home it was the same thing. I have spoiled MYSELF for regular cilantro. After growing my own I cannot go back to conventionally grown cilantro. I can’t. I won’t. No wonder my kids look askance at bakery goods and regular ice cream. IT ALL TASTES WEIRD.

Nicole’s Favourite Things: The Thankful Edition (sort of)

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Yesterday I learned that it was National CB Radio Day – 10/4! That was a cheering discovery, and if I was a trucker in the 1970s, my handle would be Red Pepper.

Speaking of which, it’s funny; the song Personal Jesus by Depeche Mode, a song I listened to and enjoyed back in 1990 or so, has come on the radio every single time I have gotten into the car in the past week. Every single time. Is it enjoying a resurgence in popularity? I am sure I haven’t really heard it much at all since the early nineties, yet, here we are. Did all the radio stations suddenly collaborate to pull it out of obscurity? A few years ago I witnessed a similar phenomenon with I Just Came Back To Say Goodbye, which is a terrible song to have going in a loop in one’s head. It’s even worse than Your own. Personal. Jesus. Someone to hear your prayers. Someone who cares. over and over.

I have felt like I needed my own personal Jesus in the past few days, mostly because of this:

That was my backyard first thing Tuesday morning, and then about six hours later it looked like this:

I stopped measuring after we hit twelve inches, because I only have a foot-long ruler, and I didn’t think the measuring tape would work.

I’m not going to complain about the weather, I’m not going to complain about the weather, we can’t control the weather, we can only control our own reaction to the weather…I kept up with this mantra over and over, even while I wondered why I live in actual frozen hell. Complaining about the weather is very boring, not to mention depressing, and weather talk in general is only interesting to those directly affected, and so while I’m sure you would all be fascinated by my dog walk that featured snow-laden branches completely giving way and dumping snow all over me not once, not twice, but five times in a thirty-minute walk, and how I actually calculated the calories burned by shoveling snow that felt like it was 100 pounds per square foot, I will abstain. Sort of.

It’s almost Thanksgiving! This is as early as it can possibly be, and I really do want to take the time to be mindful and thankful, even while I am completely depressed about the fact that I live on Planet Hoth and all of my frozen plants are covered in snow and probably will be for the next nine months. That was not being mindful and thankful, Nicole.

Positive thoughts! Positive thoughts! Let’s segue into Nicole’s Favourite Things, shall we! I missed September, so will smoothly combine it with Thanksgiving which is, in my humble opinion, kind of a lame holiday. I dislike pie in general; pumpkin pie is particularly abhorrent to me. Even when I did eat meat, I never liked turkey dinner; as a plant-based person, it is now, how shall I put this, very un-fun. But it’s not all about the food, is it? Well, it kind of is. I do like the thought of being thankful for things, which is something we should do every day, and Thanksgiving gives us a good reason to remember all those things for which we are thankful. So, here we go!

Nicole’s Favourite Things, the Thanksgiving Edition

Leaves

I’m sure glad I took this photo last week, because those same shrubs are now sagging under the weight of the snow. Sorry! I can’t seem to stop complaining. But they are pretty, aren’t they?

Boy, those leaves are going to be a bitch to rake up. Moving on! Positive thoughts!

Apples

I know all of you people are all about the Honeycrisp, but for me, there is only one kind of apple, and that is the McIntosh. Have I mentioned this already? Yes, I have. Many times. But Macs are so good, they are the perfect texture and the perfect tartness and the perfect taste. My older son was begging, literally BEGGING me to make an apple pie, and although I consider it to be an abomination, and a grievous waste of the perfect fruit, I bought a few extra apples specifically to make pie.

I am not gifted in the “making baked goods look pretty” department, so this is as good as it gets, in terms of pie crust. I read the shortening box, and one suggestion was to roll out the crust between two pieces of waxed paper and WHY HAVEN’T I BEEN DOING THIS SINCE THE BEGINNING? What a game changer. I highly recommend it; it makes it so much easier to roll and to transfer into the pie plate, and it is so much less messy than cleaning up flour that gets scattered everywhere since the dough keeps sticking to everything.

By the way, do you like my apron? My parents brought it back for me from their recent trip to Scotland. My youngest niece calls aprons “cooker capes” and forever that is how I will think of them.

Pears

As much as I love apples, I love pears a teensy bit more. Their season is so short that our whole family ends up bingeing on pears for the few weeks that they are really good. I have been buying them in six-pound bags; the first one contained pears of all the same greenness, so they all ripened at exactly the same time. We were a family of pear bingers for a few days; the next bag I bought had a few that were almost-ripe, so things have smoothed out around here, pear-eating-wise.

Inhale Smoothies, Exhale Love

After my one-year shopping challenge finished, I wasn’t actually going to buy much of anything; I really do have a lot of clothes. But I saw this tank and I could not resist:

It’s like it was made for me! I do both of those things! I had to have it and it makes me happy every time I wear it.

This Sweater

One of the nice things – I guess? – about living on Planet Hoth is that I have a number of gorgeous, warm sweaters. This one I bought right after my shopping challenge ended – it was on clearance for TWELVE DOLLARS, PEOPLE. I love the way it looks! But it is NOT the most practical item, as the sleeves droop into everything while cooking or washing dishes or doing any of those household tasks that seem to take up a large percentage of my life.

Barkley is wondering what is UP with those sleeves.

Happy Thanksgiving, my friends. I hope you have many things to be thankful for this weekend. xo

Reach out and touch someone

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This is a thing that actually happened at Superstore this week: behind me, unloading her groceries, was a mom with a small boy, around aged two, eating one of those free cookies the bakery gives any child under 12. Behind HER was an older lady, who started talking to the little boy, seated in the cart. She was talking the way you do to a two-year-old – Is that a good cookie? Are you a good helper? Are you getting groceries with Mommy? – and then suddenly, loudly and stridently, said to the mom, “You really should teach him that he shouldn’t talk to strangers! I’m serious! I just read something about a little boy being abducted and KILLED after talking to strangers!”

I whipped my head around from where I was piling my groceries into my bins. I was smiling to myself when I heard the little boy babbling, and this woman’s complete change of tone was startling, to say the least. The mom made slow and direct eye contact with me, raised her eyebrows and smiled, and then turned to the older lady. “Thank YOU for your concern,” she said in a very polite and kind voice. The woman kept talking, saying she was serious, this was a serious situation, and the mom just kept nodding and smiling. “Okay, THANK you. That’s kind of you to be concerned.” She said it in a way that was completely unoffensive and simultaneously showed that she would not give this weird busybody a single thought.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so impressed in my entire life. Also? What the actual, lady? First of all, why are you luring a two-year-old into a conversation with you, only to chastise the mother for allowing such a conversation to happen? Secondly? While of COURSE I taught my own children to be cognizant about their surroundings and not randomly begin conversations with strangers on the street, I do think there is something to be said about polite chitchat in the grocery store. I would like to think that if an older person began conversing with my children in the security of their local grocery store, that my children would be so kind and polite as to carry on with the conversation. Everywhere you go these days, people are on their phones, desperately avoiding any and all human contact, and this has made the world a worse place. Whatever happened to making small talk while waiting in line? We have enough temptations in our phones to avoid society as a whole, we don’t need weirdness about Not Talking To Strangers when that stranger is simply making a comment about the weather or the photo of the Duchess of Cambridge on the cover of Hello! magazine.

Clearly, this hits a nerve with me. I am a person who – surprise! – loves to talk to strangers. I think we, as a society, would all be better off if we took the time and extended ourselves a bit to have a light conversation with other people, people we don’t know, people we will likely never encounter again in our lives. Instead of just scrolling, liking, and commenting, making actual contact with other humans, people who may or may not be lonely, people who may or may not need a kind word, people who may or may not just want to be seen by someone, even if it’s a complete stranger asking if those Dr. Oetker pizzas are any good, because she’s never tried them, but she’s always wondered.

The world is so small now – we can connect with people half a world away with just a click – but it’s also so big. Reaching out and just making contact can really make a difference, plus, it can be fascinating. People are so interesting, aren’t they? Everyone has a story. I remember years ago, a friend posted a photo of a lovely little apartment in Italy, with flowers on the balcony, and she said, I wonder who lives here and what their life is like. I think that all the time, but with food. I wonder what that person is going to do with all those pears and Swiss chard, I might think as I gaze at the groceries on the conveyor belt in front of me, or Oooh, that looks like a birthday party to me!, or What makes Gourmet Gummy Bears gourmet? I always look at other people’s groceries, not in a judgmental way, no, but out of genuine interest. The other day I was at Costco with my usual cart full of groceries, and the older gentleman in front of me had a total of four things, which is always interesting to me when that happens. A person has to be, in my opinion, in possession of some incredible inner strength to go to Costco and leave with four things. How do they do it? I feel virtuous and strong if I leave without spending $400, let alone only putting four things in my cart and then LEAVING. But this particular gentleman made me smile because all I could think of was this guy is going to have a good time this weekend. In his cart was the following: a vacuum-pack of baby back ribs, a ten-pound bag of onions, a Costco-sized pumpkin pie, and a two-pack of the kind of whipped cream that comes in a spray can. PARTY.

Of course, sometimes the contents of people’s carts make me wonder. The other day, a young couple with a baby were behind me, and the cart – the entire, giant cart – was filled with that kind of baby food that comes in a squeeze packet. There was nothing else at all in the cart, just dozens and dozens of squeeze tubes, in all different flavours. It seemed like every squeeze tube of baby food was actually in that cart. For once in my life I didn’t instigate a conversation, because I didn’t want to sound in any way weird or judgmental (that’s a LOT of baby food you have for that one baby!). My natural nosiness was satisfied though, as I heard the lady say to the cashier that they were going to China for five months, and this kind of baby food was either unobtainable or expensive. I imagined a suitcase full of baby food on its way to China and smiled.

A cart full of squeeze-tube baby food is one thing, can you imagine a cart full of this?

I was looking for travel-sized shampoo when I saw this on display. I admit I stopped and stared at it for a good couple of minutes, completely blocking the aisle until a lady asked if she could get by. I apologized and explained that I was looking at this, to which she said, in an excited kind of voice, “Are you going to try it?” No. I’m not. I don’t want placenta on my face, no matter how revitalizing. She went on her way but I like to think that she circled back to pick one up. It could have happened!

Have a beautiful weekend, my friends, enjoy the end of September! xo