Category Archives: Uncategorized

Renaming The Boyhouse to The Sugar Shack, at least for today

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There is no question that I am not gifted artistically. I am a person who couldn’t, say, draw a car without having a car directly in front of her and even then it would be a strange, stickman-like car. Things that normal people might find easy are terrifyingly difficult to me, like gift wrapping or sewing a button on a pair of pants. Actually, the last time I attempted to sew a button on a pair of pants, I accidentally cut a hole in the butt and also ended up with a thick snarl of thread behind the button. When the kids were little, the kinds of crafts we did were things like “decorate this paper heart with stickers” or similar non-difficult ideas. I was always more of a “make your own playdough” mom, rather than the kind would would make pine cone reindeer, if you know what I mean. I know a number of women who have taken up things like knitting or crocheting or even cross-stitch as a way of relaxation, but to me that would be akin to checking myself into a rubber room. That adult colouring craze from a while back? No. I can’t.

So when I do something that requires hand-eye coordination and it actually does work out, it is viewed in this house as next thing to a miracle. Therefore, there was much excitement about this:

My husband came upstairs from his workout and said “My god, it’s actually a heart!”

I know, babe. I know.

We aren’t really Buy Each Other Gifts For Valentine’s Day people; fifty percent of us are allergic to flowers and pollen, I don’t really like having big boxes of chocolates to consume, and I have enough jewelry to last me a lifetime. To be honest, even before kids we didn’t really celebrate Valentine’s Day (except…well…you know…) but these days I just like to bake all the things for every commercial and non-commercial Hallmark and non-Hallmark holiday.

Sundays are a big cooking day for me; I usually bake some snacks (which last maybe a day or two in this house) and I always make a big Sunday dinner, complete with dessert. I decided I wanted to make a heart-shaped cake but my skills in this department are, as mentioned before, seriously lacking. So I used this tutorial from my friend Maija (HI MAIJA) which is so easy even I couldn’t mess it up. I thought about making a red velvet cake – I hadn’t made one since I helped a friend with a baby shower, and that baby is now going into kindergarten – but the excessive use of red food colouring is unappealing. Instead, I made a strawberry cake with a cream cheese icing, tinted just a little bit. It was a major hit, and very easy.

The most important thing here is to make sure your pans are the same size. Otherwise, super easy.

Have I mentioned that my grade seven student is super into the “Circles and Area” unit of math? Have I also ever mentioned that at one point in grade twelve I was known as the “Conics Goddess” for my mastery of the conics unit? I told my husband that and he was less impressed with my conics prowess than I would have hoped. I think his exact words were “That is the nerdiest thing I have ever heard in my life.” Well, I never.

If I can do it, you can too!

I also made and frosted 112 sugar cookies. Why would I make so many, you ask? I really have no idea. I wanted to send some in to the grade six class, but the teacher suggested that since the class is conjoined with another, it would be better to either send in no treats or enough for both classes. Since I realized that my years at elementary school are rapidly coming to a close, I could not and would not send zero cookies. This is my last chance to send Valentine’s Day treats to school and I am going to go out on top I was thinking to myself in a crazy, semi-hormonal way. I had some dough in the freezer left over from Christmas, but with all the frenzy surrounding November and December this year, I hadn’t marked if it was a full batch or not. I made an entire full batch, and used the frozen dough which was, I soon realized, indeed a full batch. One hundred and twelve cookies.

I realized that I have been asked for this recipe many times, so I am going to put it here. I am not going to be modest, because it’s not my recipe, it’s actually my mom’s. They are the best goddamn sugar cookies you will ever have in your life. They were the best cookies when I was a kid, and my mom made these for us and our friends, and they are the best cookies now. They are the cookies that I always get complimented on. Ten-year-old boys have stopped me in the playground to ask me to send their mom the recipe. THEY ARE LITERALLY THE BEST COOKIE EVER. I make them at Christmas, Valentine’s Day, Halloween, and for school birthday treats in lieu of cupcakes. They are easy, foolproof, you can make them with your kids, and you can freeze the dough for up to six months. I make the dough ahead of time so I only have to roll it out when I’m baking.

Now, they are not vegan. They are not, by any stretch of the imagination, remotely healthy. But these are TREATS. You could probably sub in coconut oil for butter and maybe aquafaba for egg replacement, but I don’t. They are for my kids, they love them as-is, and it’s nice to make a recipe that was my mom’s. One day I will say that this has been handed down over the generations, but I think I need at least one more generation to do that.

Nicole’s Mom’s Sugar Cookies

1 cup butter, softened

1 1/2 cups sugar

1 tablespoon vanilla extract

2 eggs

1 1/2 teaspoon baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

3 cups flour

Cream together sugar, butter, and vanilla. Add eggs and beat well. Mix in baking powder, salt, and flour.

Make the dough into a two or three balls, wrap with plastic wrap, and refrigerate for at least two hours. You could also freeze the dough for later use.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees (or 325 if using convection oven) and line baking sheets with parchment paper. This is an important step! Don’t forget the parchment paper! Roll out chilled dough on a floured surface. Cut into shapes. Bake for ten minutes for the perfect, soft cookie.

When cooled, frost and decorate as desired. Since I am kind of lazy, I like to just spread a delicious buttercream on top and add sprinkles.

Nicole’s Buttercream Frosting

1/2 cup very soft butter

4 cups icing sugar

1 tablespoon vanilla extract

2-3 tablespoons milk

colour, if desired

Cream butter, then add icing sugar in 1/2 cup increments. Add vanilla. Add milk until desired consistency is reached. Whip it on high for a minute to get a really fluffy frosting. Enjoy!

 

Glory days

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The other day I had just finished showering, preparing to teach an evening class, when the dryer finished its cycle. I brought the basket upstairs, in my bathrobe, and pulled on a pair of socks that were on top. I am now ruined for non-dryer-warmed socks. Regular socks are just a sad imitation of a superior product. However, it would be pretty bad, ecologically-wise, for me to run the dryer every time I put on a pair of socks, and yet it is a very tempting prospect, especially on a day like today when we are in “winter storm warning;” at minus 21 with a ton of snow I wish I could just live in the dryer. Or maybe have clothes made out of electric blankets.

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Brr!

Speaking of ecological warriors, because of changes – FINALLY – made by the CRTC, I was able to actually see Superbowl commercials yesterday! For those of you not in Canada, this is a huge thing. Local stations would take over and instead of seeing the big-time commercials, we would see locally-made commercials for a furniture warehouse, or commercials for the actual television station that we were watching. Normally my husband would just record the whole game, start late, and zap through the commercials. But not this year! This year I got to see this one with Melissa McCarthy and this one, which is my new favourite thing and, proving that advertising really does work, I am going to look into this hair care line.

My hair has reached critical “it’s winter” dryness and that, coupled with my grey-root situation that is typical in this stage of my hair-colour cycle, is making me feel a bit dreary. I am trying to reconcile my I-Am-Woman-And-Growing-Old-Is-Beautiful-Screw-The-Youth-Culture mentality with my Eeek-Don’t-Look-Too-Closely-In-The-Mirror mentality. Know what I mean? I want to not care about my marionette lines and my undereye circles and my forehead ridges, but vanity, it is the last to die. I wrote this piece all about self-care and I love it, I really do. I think it’s one of my favourite things I’ve written in recent memory, and I believe every word I wrote, and yet it is HARD sometimes, to smile while looking in the mirror. I mean, in some ways it’s not, because I suffer from a mad case of Bitchy Resting Face, and smiling alleviates that.

Ah, I should not focus so much on appearance, am I right? My friend and I were having tea the other day and talking about exercise and keeping in shape, as we grow older. “It’s not about aesthetics,” I said, and then, for the sake of honesty I added, “Well, maybe it’s a little about aesthetics.” I wonder what age I will be when I stop caring about my appearance. Death, maybe?

Does anyone else suffer from this internal struggle? I don’t want to care about my appearance, but I do. I want to celebrate my aging self, and I do, but I also am starting to fully understand why celebrities get plastic surgery. Can you imagine being an actress, seeing yourself in reruns? For the vain – scratch that, for anyone – that would be difficult. And in this time of filters and Instagram and photoshopped everything, it’s hard to remember what real people actually look like. And for me, I feel very strong and healthy, and so it’s sometimes startling to see myself in the mirror, pre-makeup in the morning.

On that note, I was half-watching a movie with my husband on the weekend: Fifty Fifty. It is a very touching – and, apparently true – movie about a young man with cancer and a fifty-fifty chance of survival. No spoilers here, except that we were 95% of the way through a movie when I realized that the mother was played by Anjelica Huston. She’s aged, I thought, then mentally slapped myself because of course she’s aged! She’s not dead. We should all be lucky enough to age. What a terrible way to think, especially while watching a movie of such content.

Am I alone in this? Anyone else struggling a bit with this whole “looking our age” thing? Come here and let me hug you and pat your back with my knobbly, veiny old hands. xo

Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl

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This morning I heard Copacabana on the way home from yoga, and it set the tone for my whole day. I have been doing the merengue and the cha-cha all day, humming about yellow feathers in my hair and a dress cut down to there. At least I know all the words to Copacabana, which makes it a little less crazy, unlike the time I had Fancy by Bobby Gentry stuck in my head. I only really knew the words Here’s your one chance, Fancy, don’t let me down so I basically had that on repeat for a few days. I would much rather sing about the hottest spot north of Havana.

My friend and I were walking our dogs and talking about the vast amount of food our sons consume each week. We joked that food preparation, in a house with pre-teen and teenage boys, is the equivalent of a part-time job. Since I have the irritating personality trait of needing to empirically quantify any such claim, I actually started noting down how much time I actually do spend grocery shopping, planning and preparing meals, baking, doing dishes and cleaning up the kitchen. The number of hours I spend doing those things per week was actually astonishing and I wish I hadn’t had the urge to do the math.

For one thing, I realize that this job is just going to get bigger and bigger for several years, and then, when the boys leave home, it is going to be gone, completely GONE, and I am going to be left in my empty kitchen, singing Landslide softly to myself while wondering what to do with all these cookies.

That, right there, is the reason I cannot wish away time, even if every single Tuesday I think to myself What? It’s only Tuesday? I don’t want to wish my life away. It’s already the end of January and life often feels like it’s a cartoon of pages flying off the calendar.

Anyway, with all the awful, terrifying, and disheartening things happening in the world, I am choosing to focus on my own backyard. There are lots of opportunities to make the world a better place, and as I said to my neighbour the other day, efforts that seem small in the grand scheme of things are actually not small at all to the people being helped. It’s a good reminder.

I am also focusing a bit on my literal backyard, because this happened:

 

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We have a huge backyard and when the kids were small they would spend hours out there, playing with Barkley and shooting water guns and running around. They are past that stage now, and I convinced my husband that a trampoline would be the cure for all that ails us.

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It arrived in pieces on Friday and my husband and I spent four hours on Saturday putting it together. FOUR HOURS. It was well worth it though, since it has been fairly mild for the past couple of weeks. We’ve all enjoyed it so much already and I’m looking forward to summer, when our house can become the neighbourhood hangout. I’m sure my kitchen time will increase substantially with a group of teen boys in my backyard, but it will be well worth it.

Be well, friends. xo

If it’s not Scottish it’s crap.

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I have been browsing through a Facebook page for a brand-new, just-opened-in-November, Mexican resort. On the page are the sort of reviews one might expect: terribly bitter complaints about some small bit of incomplete construction or a delay in service on opening week, complaints about having to walk fifty steps from the pool in order to obtain nachos and margaritas, anger over the Teen Club being restricted to 13-17 year-old people when one’s son is 10 and wanted to enter said Teen Club to play video games, and extreme disappointment in the resort upholding a dress code for the fancy restaurants despite said dress code being clearly indicated on the website.

However, this morning I came across this glowing review:

“Our group has experienced many resorts and this is by far the best for me, lots to do…food is great, room service food is good, food at the restaurants is good, top shelf booze, pools are amazing. Put your anxiety and worries away, you’ll love it. If you need anything the brown shirt people will help you with almost anything to make your stay as enjoyable as possible.”

Ah yes, put your anxiety away because the brown shirt people are there.

I feel that this review could have been better worded.

Today was Parent-Teacher Interviews for the junior high, and believe me when I say that there is no injustice faced like that of a grade six student heading off to class with the knowledge that his brother is home for the day. Life, as we all know very well, is not fair. In an attempt to assuage these resentful feelings, I whipped up a batch of cherry muffins, to be eaten warm when the long-suffering sixth grader came home.

Small digression: I have, on many occasions, poked fun at my old copy of the Lutheran Ladies’ Family Favourites, particularly because of their truly astonishing variety of Meat and Macaroni Jello Salads – an actual section in the book – and also their head-tilting casserole recipes, such as Vera’s Wiener Pie. The latter is a melange of cream sauce, a variety of root vegetables, and a package of wieners and a pie crust. It is hard to take a recipe seriously when the main ingredient is a package of wieners, in an unspecified size and quantity. Well, it’s hard to take it seriously when the main ingredient is a package of wieners, period.

But I will tell you this much: when it comes to baked goods, the Lutheran Ladies do NOT fuck around. I have yet to try a muffin, square, slice, cookie, or sweet loaf that has not worked out well. The beleaguered sixth grader had gone through it and marked off every recipe he thought we should try out, and one of those was Cherry Muffins. I was all for it until I read the recipe; it was bizarrely complicated and involved immediate pan inversions. It seemed more like an upside down cake, in muffin form, and so I took Dorothy’s Basic Muffin, added some vanilla and a cup of frozen cherries and voila! Cherry muffins. They have been pronounced “great!” and so my work here is done.

As those of you of Scottish heritage will no doubt know, this Wednesday was Robbie Burns Day. Actually, I forget it every year, and am reminded by my father, who texted me to wish me a Happy Robbie Burns Day. Since I was chaperoning a field trip to the Astrophysics Observatory with fifty-seven fifth-and-sixth graders, which was an interesting and informative trip but sadly involved over ninety minutes on an overheated and stinky school bus, sitting beside a student who had little to no concept of personal space, I did think my dad’s suggestion of a dram of single malt did not seem amiss. However, the day passed mostly unmarked, since I do not actually like Scotch. It tastes like burning.

However, I did consider my Scottish heritage as I was faced with the unmistakable fact that my life has been greatly improved by three small things: a vegetable peeler, garlic press, and spatula. I purchased all three of those things, at the absolutely lowest cost, in the late Nineties, when I moved out of my parents’ house. For the most part, these humble kitchen items were a lesson in You Get What You Pay For, as the blade often popped off of the handle of the vegetable peeler, the garlic press was mediocre at best and the white, probably-carcinogenic enamel had started to chip off, and the spatula? Well, the spatula was fine but after nearly twenty years of use the rubber had cracked, rendering it fairly useless.

My mother, probably at the end of her rope watching me with my substandard equipment, bought me a new peeler and garlic press and people, PEOPLE. The difference is obscene. I feel like a super-fancy lady, peeling even butternut squash with ease and using the reverse-action to get the weird garlic remnants out of the press. It’s the most luxurious thing and I had the sad realization that I could have done this earlier, I could have purchased these items years ago and thus would have been living my best life.

And the spatula? For less than four dollars, I am now living the life of luxury, spatula-wise. Things are scraped out of mixing bowls with ease, the last tiny bits of cashew cheese are easily removed from the Vitamix. I feel like I’ve entered into a new era: my post-crappy-kitchen-utensils era. I am now looking around the kitchen for items that I bought on the cheap for my first apartment and maybe, MAYBE by next Robbie Burns Day I will replace them.

I’m still half-Scottish, you know.

Disney’s EPCOT: I’m sorry, but I’m just not into you.

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I remember the dance unit in my Grade Seven gym class perfectly: we learned all sorts of arcane dance moves, like the box step, the polka, and the jive. That is not to say that it wasn’t fun to learn how to jive while listening to Jailhouse Rock, but it was information that wasn’t exactly pertinent for 12 and 13 year olds, in the late Eighties. It’s not pertinent now, either. Other than the occasional family wedding where I have forced my male cousins to jive with me, or my dad to do the Beer Barrel Polka, I have never required those skills that I so carefully honed, back in 1987.

“Carefully honed” is a massive overstatement.

Yesterday I found out that the current crop of Grade Sevens are learning how to do the Cadillac Ranch line dance, along with a routine for Cotton Eyed Joe, and the verdict – from my Grade Seven, at least – is “lame.” I cannot blame him. I mean, CADILLAC RANCH? That line dance wasn’t even cool when it was cool. Cadillac, Cadillac. Long and dark. Shiny and black. Anyway, it got me wondering if it’s a rule, in gym class, that all dances learned must be at least twenty years out of date. It also had me feeling somewhat aged, as I could remember – fuzzily – many nights in which my girlfriends and I would be tearing up the dance floor at the Fox and Firken, fueled by jugs of Vodka Slimes and Long Island Iced Teas, wearing our high-waisted jeans and one-piece bodysuits. Cotton Eyed Joe was always played, and the dance floor was never empty. God, did we love that song.

Sunrise, sunset.

I complain a lot about our long, cold winters, but one benefit of a cold climate is that you will essentially never come across a sign like this while taking a morning constitutional:

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Silver linings! This is my LAST Orlando post, and it’s all about Epcot. But first: this was our view while walking around “Hourglass Lake” one morning:

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I just really, really loved those bowling pins.

We went to Epcot on the last day of our trip. I was quite keen to go because the last time we were at Disney World, we were at Epcot only for a short time, and in the evening, so I didn’t feel like I got to really experience it. Now, I don’t know if it’s because we were kind of getting tired, this being our last day on vacation and every day was spent going all out at the parks, but I didn’t really love it. I know! I know! I’m in the minority. Everyone loves Epcot, but I didn’t, really. This is not to say I didn’t LIKE it, I did, but it wasn’t my favourite by a long shot.

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My kids were very keen to go on Mission: Space, which is a fun ride but not for the claustrophobic. After they had done that a few times, with me once and the rest on their own, we went exploring to the pavilions. The pavilions are very beautiful but if you’re not really into shopping, it’s a bit of a letdown. For me, anyway, please don’t attack me, EPCOT lovers. The Canadian pavilion was lovely, of course, and we chatted with a girl working there who was from Calgary! It’s a small world after all…

We admired the replica of Butchart Gardens, and watched the 360 degree film about Canada, which in many scenes appeared to have been filmed in the 80s. For one thing, it was narrated by Martin Short. The whole thing reminded me of classroom films that were actually on reels, that our teachers would put on for educational value while they marked tests.

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We wandered around the other pavilions, admiringly, but we obviously had not explained things well to the children who were disappointed that pavilions were pavilions and not some very cool roller coaster ride. Sorry guys!

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One very interesting thing about Epcot is that there are students working there from all over the world, and who are anxious to tell you all about their home country. We discovered this at the Moroccan pavilion, where I cursed the fact that we had already eaten because the menu was to die for, and a lot of it vegetarian. The Moroccan student talked a bit about his country, and the tourism degree that he was earning, while on this semester in Disney.

We managed to walk 13.3 kilometers, a lot of it with beer in our hands. Not to sound too much like Homer Simpson, but beer made things better. Not for the kids, who were cheerful but frankly, not that into it.

I’m SORRY, EPCOT. I wanted to love you. I just…like you as a friend. Or a casual acquaintance. Or that sixty-plus man who always checks my cart at Costco who I flirt with shamelessly. It’s not you. It’s me. I swear.

Uh oh! Looks like someone’s got a case of the Blue Mondays!

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Welcome to Blue Monday, statistically the saddest day of the year. According to the professor who came up with the formula, this could be the bluest Monday on record due to well-known political events, along recent death of childhood heroes, which serve to remind us all of our own mortality. Well.

I will say that I don’t feel particularly blue today, but because statistics don’t lie, I shall endeavor to write a blues-combating post of all the fun things going on around here. Right? We do not have to be victims here! Let’s revolt!

In Praise of the Astronaut

I am reading Commander Hadfield’s An Astronaut’s Guide to Life on Earth and it is simply wonderful: full of humour, inspiration, and background information on training to become an astronaut. He talks about preparation and learning, just in case, even when the odds of success are nearly zero. That’s a really interesting concept, to me. Just learn for the sake of learning, on the off chance that you might need it someday; there’s no such thing as being over-prepared when striving for excellence.

I keep reading little tidbits from the book out loud to my kids, and I think they are taking it in. Maybe I should take up cross-stitch and make a wall-hanging: What Would Commander Hadfield Do? He wouldn’t slack off on any of his obligations, that’s for sure.

In A Committed Relationship With Avocados

My friend Allison (HI ALLISON) sent me this makeup bag and it is my everything.

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We Are Living In The Future

I was having coffee with my friend Lyn the other day (HI LYN) and she mentioned how paying for coffee via an app on her phone feels like living in the future. I, for one, embrace it. I mean, I’ve been reading Allison’s annual book review posts, and every time something sounds interesting, I put it on hold at the library using my app. How much easier does it get? Plus, as I’ve mentioned before, and probably will mention many more times, ROOMBA. Roomba is whirring away right now. The only way life could be improved is if Roomba could somehow do stairs. Or, if I finally got around to making a DJ Roomba:

What’s hot, DJ Roomba?

Aging Gracelessly

For a few months last year, I decided to try an expert’s advice and NOT use eye cream but instead use a very good regular moisturizer around my eyes. My Kiehl’s had run out and I was feeling a bit, well, Scottish. IF YOU KNOW WHAT I’M SAYING HERE.

Suffice it to say that not using eye-specific cream wasn’t a good plan for me. One day I looked in the mirror and…well, I looked like a cross between a raccoon and the Crypt Keeper. I did a little research and decided to go to the Clinique counter to buy a little pot of All About Eyes. Do I have to say this isn’t a sponsored post? It’s not.

Anyway, I went to the Clinique counter, mentioned I was looking for something for puffiness and undereye circles. The sweet, pretty girl at the counter directed me to All About Eyes “Rich” for, as she put it, “all my wrinkles, too.” I have to say it’s worked fairly well, although for $45 I was hoping for something a little more dramatic: like I would instantly look 15 years younger or something. I guess what I really need is an Instagram filter, but for life. However, I shall take what I can get.

Okay, deep breath. Here’s the before and after. The first photo was taken in mid-November, the second after a week of use.

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I mean, it’s an improvement to be sure, but it’s not cosmetic surgery results or anything. And frankly, I wanted cosmetic surgery results. But the search continues and I will be sure to let you know how it goes. First, I need to finish my Clinique stuff because, Scottish. I am open to suggestions!

My You Tube Search History Really Says Something About Me

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I’m just not sure what that “something” is.

I Love My Hair Therapist

This is how my relationship is with my hair therapist: I walk in and sit at her chair. Without talking about it, she mixes my colour, applies it, rinses it, uses special strengthening treatment, dries it and trims the ends in what is always the perfect amount. WE NEVER TALK ABOUT IT. There is something so comforting and freeing about this relationship. I always leave happy, and usually rested since I almost always fall asleep in the shampoo chair and then startle myself awake. I was there just last week and, as usual, she brought me Hello! magazine without judgement. What can I say, I like to catch up on all the news about the British Royal Family.

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That’s about all I can think of for Blue Monday! Why not pay it forward and be extra nice to everyone you see – they might be blue. xo

Fear of Flying, and turning into a flower

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Ninety minutes ago, I considered sitting down to write, but instead sat on the comfortable couch for a few minutes. I promptly fell asleep to the tune of Roomba noisily vacuuming my floors for me – welcome to the future, Mrs. Jetson – and the kids playing the loudest game possible downstairs. I could hear them, through my dozing, excitedly yelling about whatever it was they were doing. I did not investigate.

I feel incredibly refreshed from this unusual and unexpected nap. Maybe it’s some kind of Friday the 13th voodoo going on. The bitter weather has suddenly broken, as it was apparently expected to, according to my mail carrier. I was chatting with him on Wednesday and he, positive and happy soul that he is, informed me that this was the END of the cold weather FOR THE WHOLE WINTER. I confess I looked at him with the kind of smiling face that you give a child who tells you that she is going to be a pony when she grows up.

Have I ever mentioned that there was a period in my childhood where I believed I would grow up to be a flower? Like, an actual plant. I clearly remember reading a story about plant cycles and becoming devastated on the discovery that I would die in the winter. This seems like it might be an allegory for my life but it isn’t, really. I guess I just really liked flowers and aimed to be one. I still like flowers, although it’s not my life goal to be a daisy or a rose anymore.

Speaking of blooming, I just finished reading Fear of Flying. I first read it in my twenties, and even then I did not find it to be the sexually liberating book that it is celebrated as. I didn’t remember it in its entirety, although I did remember grim details like I worried that I got the clap from having sex with all those uncircumcised Florentines. Ew. I found it much more interesting on a historical basis, as much of it takes place in Heidelberg, Germany in the 1960s, which would be a very strange place, post-war. There is much description about Europe in general at that time, and I am just going to come out and say it: I realize that the pendulum swings, and revolutions serve a purpose, but the Sexual Revolution and the concept of Free Love were both pretty gross. I mean, really. Not to mention the descriptions of the lack of hygiene WHILE having all this unprotected sex. Maybe it’s because I grew up in the 80s, when we were all indoctrinated about the importance of safe sex, but IMAGINE all the STDs. Or don’t imagine it.

There is a description about when the narrator has been camping on roadsides in Europe with the man she’s having an affair with. It has been QUITE SOME TIME since she’s showered, they have sex daily, and when she finally gets to an actual (seedy) hotel that has a bathroom, the dirt comes off her arms in streaks. But she can’t take an actual bath because she has her period and somehow does not have any tampons, so no bath for her. What? Why? Ew.

I have really talked about this enough and must change the subject, however gracelessly. Here, take a look at what I found at Superstore!

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This takes me back to the early 90s, when I, along with many of my teenaged peers, wore vanilla perfume. We were like a horde of cookie-scented darlings.

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This brought back memories too! I think I got some of these for Christmas, back in the day. Who knew they still made them?

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I remember everyone who was anyone wore Exclamation back in junior high school, along with their Salon Selectives hairspray holding up their teased bangs. It went well with Levi’s 501 jeans and gargantuan sweatshirts from Beaver Canoe and Roots. Canadiana nostalgia!

In line with my New Year’s Goals/ Resolutions/ Whatever We Are Calling Them These Days, I am reading a lot more and am currently devouring Tamarind Mem. I had read it years ago and it is still wonderful. Bonus for local people: there is a big Calgary connection in the book, even though the mother refers to it as “Calgary North Pole place.” Anyway, it’s a gorgeous read – maybe not as groundbreaking and earth-shattering as Fear of Flying, but it contains no hygienic descriptions that make the reader shudder in horror.

Have a lovely weekend everyone! xo