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Scaredy Nicole Wears Blue. This Was Not Part Of The Plan!

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This weekend I got on my bike for the first time since 2003. I know! It felt like quite the undertaking. I stopped going for bike rides when I was pregnant with Mark, and then I never started again. My husband rides with the kids, but the truth is I’m not a strong rider, I cannot ride in traffic without panicking, and I just can’t deal with worrying about the kids riding WHILE I’m riding. But the kids are now at an age where they are perfectly competent, and they’ve expressed interest in “family bike rides” and so I thought riding up at the lake, where there is little traffic and few things to worry about, might be just the ticket. I also remembered how shocked the kids were to learn that I actually know how to swim, and so I thought in some way I should show them that their mother is actually capable of riding a bike.

So my husband dragged my bike out of storage, and tuned it up a bit. I went out and bought a bike skirt because if I’m going to spend any amount of time doing an athletic activity, I want to do it looking nice.

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My friend Alice (HI ALICE) expressed concern about the colour. She thought the blue was too bright for me, and that I resemble a flower, and will get swarmed by marauding butterflies. If this happens, I will probably die. Or scream.

Anyway, I nervously rode with the boys and it was pretty fun, so I guess we are going on family bike rides now. It’s one of my goals to be more sporty and active with the kids, and as long as I have a cute outfit, I’m good to go. Right?

A friend (HI JOANNE) posted a long quote about embracing yourself as you are and I just have to share the last part:

 I don’t want to waste one more precious, livable moment being anything other than totally thrilled that I’m here! I’m alive! I get to live every day in this body that my soul chose and my only job is to honor it with a full life!”
~ Christina Vanvuren

So I guess I’ll be bike riding more often. I’m not sure if ANYONE is capable of being in a state of thrill every second of every day, but it’s good to remember that it is good to be alive.

Social media is a funny thing, isn’t it? For the most part, I love it, and not just because I have a job based on it. I really like to peek into other people’s lives and celebrate their little victories and happiness. I love photos of pets, kids, and vacations. I love selfies, recipes, pictures of what someone had for dinner, and links to funny or interesting stories. Most of all, I love personal stories. The other day, a woman I know from yoga (HI LAURA) posted an anecdote in which she and her one year old son were in Starbucks and were approached by an elderly lady with dementia. This elderly lady thought that Laura’s baby was her own grandson, and instead of correcting her, Laura sat down and had visited with her. Not one out of one hundred people would do that, I think. What a kindness. This has stayed in my thoughts and has given me a goal to be more open and kind. Think about it – what a gift she gave that lady, the gift of dignity and kindness. I want to be more like Laura.

Then there’s the flip side of social media, the passive aggressive updates, the angry link posting and the threads that follow, the invitations to express differing views followed by the total rage that results from people expressing differing views. I’ve actually seen friendships – actual, real-life friendships – disintegrate over vaccination discussions and political decisions. Just this weekend, someone posted a piece about the price of starter homes. The thread that followed was basically many people agreeing that no one but the very rich can afford to buy a house, and buying a house is stupid anyway. Then one of my friends very reasonably and calmly commented that, by making informed decisions and figuring out where one’s priorities lie, most people can in fact purchase a home. He also – very reasonably – pointed out that the definition of “starter home” is possibly flawed; a 2500 square foot house with all new appliances might not fit this description.

I strongly agree with this last point. My husband and I bought this house in 2000, and it was in terrible shape at the time. The living room was bright pink with shiny forest green trim, and featured a giant fireplace with gold-toned rock work. The basement was panel board and linoleum, the kitchen had five different – but coordinated! – patterns of wallpaper, and the bathroom had BROWN FIXTURES. The kitchen cupboards and drawers were homemade in 1962 and required a great deal of strength to open and close them. The linen cupboards smelled like ginger and garlic had gone in there to die and the gardens were completely overrun by weeds and grass. That, my friends, is a starter home.

But I digress. After my friend made these very reasonable points, and also drew on his own experiences and setbacks, he was immediately attacked by the other commenters. People said some really mean, cutting things, and THAT is what I hate about social media. I hate the pretence that everyone is open minded and can express opinions freely, but if someone does that, then they get attacked. I hate that people say things that they very likely would not say face to face, and most of all, I hate when people follow up a mean comment with a smiley emoticon and/ or an “lol!”. THE LOL DOES NOT CANCEL OUT WHAT YOU SAID, PEOPLE.

Well, we can’t control what others do, we can only control our own reactions and behaviour, and that’s why there’s the “I don’t want to see this” option. And in the meantime, I will be thinking to myself “What Would Laura Do?” Laura probably wouldn’t write a blog post about what she hates about social media. Hmm. Too late now, and so if I do get swarmed by marauding butterflies, it will be karma, I guess. xo

I’ve got 99 problems, but after tonight chairing the School Council/ Parent Association will not be one of them.

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The long weekend is so early this year! It’s really thrown me off my game. I just realized that this is the earliest it can possibly be, so it’s not just me and my “What? Already?” feelings.

Adding to the panic-at-the-disco feeling is that – in addition to my husband being away earlier this week, and dealing with work deadlines – I’m scrambling to prepare for the last School Council/ Parent Association meeting of the school year, which is tonight. This is significant because it’s also the last meeting that I will chair, putting an end to my four years of tyranny and bossiness.

I have to say, I’m relieved. I felt like I was spread much too thin this year, and also that four years is a long time to chair anything, but especially a council that can be fraught at times. I did love doing it, though, don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing like getting all the insider information, developing relationships with all the school staff, and being the liaison between parents and the administration. It’s good stuff! But four years – as a friend just reminded me, that’s the length of a US presidency. Bush, Carter, Ford, and me – four-year presidents.

Unrelatedly, I have a hair appointment this afternoon. On the weekend, I caught my husband looking at me strangely. I initially assumed he was looking at me with adoration and lust, but that idea faded when he asked if I had a hair appointment scheduled for this week. WHAT ARE YOU SAYING. Maybe he had adoration and lust too, I don’t know.

Speaking of my life of glamour, this morning I was walking through the kitchen carrying a full laundry basket, and I slipped on a tiny puddle of water, left there from when Barkley drinks from his water dish and his fuzzy face drips on the floor. I wrenched my ankle a bit, but managed not to actually fall. My ankle’s a bit sore, but imagine if I had really hurt myself? That would have been embarrassing. How did you break your ankle again?

In any case, this afternoon I’ll be resting my ankle at the hair salon, while catching up on all of the gossip about unknown-to-me celebrities.

It’s like I’m suddenly alive with colour.

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The other day I got a piece of mail from a random energy company that wants to offer me fixed natural gas rates, which is annoying in itself. I mean, I worked in the energy industry. I have a master’s degree in economics. I used to price options and structured products, and I have a very good understanding of hedging. I do not want fixed natural gas rates, so please stop sending mail/ knocking on my door/ phoning me.

But the piece of mail was addressed to Mr. Nicole MacPherson, which was odd. It made me wonder if I needed an upper lip wax, or if Nicole was simply the latest name to become androgynous in the manner of Ryan or Taylor. Then I thought that perhaps this was a new, feminist way to refer to my husband! My husband – now known as Mr. Me. It’s about time!

Recently I read about a woman who wore the same thing to work every single day for three years, which I thought was interesting. My initial thought was that she wore the same clothes every day for three years, which made me wonder what the state of those clothes were like after so much wear, and, presumably, washing, but the reality is she bought fifteen white silk shirts, some black pants, a blazer, and a little black ribbon necktie. Essentially it was a work uniform.

I had a lot of thoughts about this, once I realized that no, this isn’t based on a sole outfit that ended up grimy and stinky by the end of the week. My first reaction was that taking this approach to fashion seems really boring, if you like clothes like I do. Boring or not, this is similar to what many – maybe even most – men do in the workplace: think guys in suits, or men like Steve Jobs who have a signature “look.” The premise of having a “work uniform,” so to speak, is that it takes the decision making out of your hands, and frees up your time and thoughts for more important things. I do this for meals; I plan meals for the week and I do not deviate from that schedule, ever. It takes all the decisions out of my hands; there’s no waffling around at five o’clock. I like to think that it gives me more time to contemplate important things like should I plant tulip bulbs this year, or if Don Draper ends up jumping off a building it is going to be very anticlimactic.

Slight digression: I almost always make some sort of stir fry/ Pad Thai/ Kung Pao dish on Monday nights, but on Sunday I realized I had some romaine lettuce that I didn’t have a chance to use on the weekend, since we ended up being out of town. Last night I made up a big Caesar salad with pine nuts, baked two crusty loaves of bread, and sautéed some chicken breasts for the guys with a barbeque sauce. Great, right? My husband came home and was completely befuddled. It’s good, he said, But I was thinking about stir fry all day.

Anyway, it got me thinking about how much time I spend thinking about clothes, and the answer, surprisingly enough, is not much. I set out my outfit the day before based on anticipated activities and weather forecasts, and like the meal plan, I do not deviate from it. This is because if I had to make that decision in the morning, who knows what would happen. I’d probably end up standing in my underwear, staring at my overstuffed dresser full of black clothing, until the children were late for school. So I spend a minute or two the day before setting out clothing, end of story.

That’s when I realized that I already HAVE a uniform of sorts. It’s called the work-from-home-but-still-leave-the-house-enough-that-I-want-to-look-nice uniform. Black sweaters/ tops/ t-shirts and jeans. Various scarves. Sometimes I vary it with a grey top under a black sweater, maybe, or – like today – a pink yoga top underneath a meshy black sweater. This is why I spend no brain power on clothing, it’s because my clothing all looks largely the same. Granted, I probably don’t NEED 22 black sweaters and an equal or greater number of black tops and t-shirts, but I have a uniform. I’m on trend with this whole thing and I didn’t even know it!

Realizing that I’m already kind of like that woman who wears the same outfit all the time was an exercise in self-awareness. On the one hand, I was congratulating myself on spending minimal time actually thinking about what I wear every day; I put on the clothes I set out, and I go about my business. Sometimes I admire how it looks, sometimes I don’t notice. On the other hand, maybe I’m much too boring in my clothing choices. Maybe, fashion wise, I’m just like Steve Jobs, but with much less money and fame.

This weekend we were at my parents’ place, and my mom and I went shopping to this interesting little shop in the small town she lives in. I’ve bought a few things there before; it largely deals with yoga clothes, but there are some cute dresses and things in there as well.

People, I got a tunic-length top with pockets, and it is PURPLE AND GREY. I feel kind of conspicuous, but also kind of pretty in it. Is this a turning point for me? Probably not, but I’m going to enjoy my small foray into peacock-like flamboyancy.

Never Surrender

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One day last week I heard Never Surrender twice, on two separate radio stations. Twice in one day! I felt like it was a sign, a sign that I shouldn’t let a little uncertainty bring me down, and that no one can take away my right to fight.

Because I am fighting the power, the power that seems to be conspiring to turn parking lots into chaos and cesspools of disarray. I pulled into Costco for a quick, but somehow expensive, trip. Right in front of me was a cart left all on its own.

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The cart corral is literally twenty steps away, OMG.

My extreme dislike of this phenomenon of “just leaving your cart wherever you feel like it” is well documented, but I decided to employ Alice’s (HI ALICE) Shopping Cart Karma mentality, and took the cart for my own use in the store. Upon returning to my car, this was the scene:

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THEY’RE MULTIPLYING!

So that felt a bit deflating, but I guess it’s like the story of the kid throwing the starfish back into the ocean; maybe one person can’t save every starfish/ cart, but one person made a difference to that particular starfish/ cart. Or something.

I know, there are many, many other causes to get worked up about, but apparently random carts left in the parking lot is MY cause.

In other, semi-interesting news, I am only a few weeks away from not being the chair of the School Council/ Parent Association! I know! I can’t believe it either! Four years, and I am definitely feeling DONE. When the mere thought of creating JUST ONE MORE AGENDA is completely deflating, it’s time to pass the torch. My husband thinks it will only be a matter of time before I start chairing something else, but I don’t think so. I need to stay strong. And never surrender.

Speaking of songs that get stuck in my head for days on end, I’ve had First Kiss by Kid Rock going through my head since Saturday. It is now Tuesday. That is a lot of Kid Rock. The shameful thing is that I really do love that song, in all its cheesy glory; it reminds me of my teen years in the best possible way. I turn the stereo up and roll the windows dowwwwwwnnnnn…

Not even Billy Joel can squeeze First Kiss out of my brain. I was in the lineup at Walmart, with my glamourous basket full of eight items or less, including three different kinds of seasonal allergy medication, mascara, and cleanser for the kitchen sink. (Digression: the variety of things that people buy at Walmart is astounding, and the examination of their baskets and carts could be an entire social experiment. Or perhaps a still-life piece of art depicting the many limbs of modern life.) The Longest Time by Billy Joel came over the speakers, and I found myself at first humming, then singing under my breath. I know! It’s terrible, but I cannot seem to stop myself. Then, I realized that I was not alone in my song: both the cashier, and a man behind me in line, riding one of those Walmart scooters, were also “whoa-ooh-ooh-ooh”-ing along. It felt like a bringing-together moment, in the Walmart lineup, not unlike the time I found myself in a duet with an elderly man in the liquor store, singing Baby, It’s Cold Outside.

Taking back stranded shopping carts and singing with strangers; it seems to be my master plan for peace and happiness. That, or a sign that I’m losing my mind, I’m not really sure which.

Do you feel lucky, punk?

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Yesterday I got an email saying that I was the possible recipient of $6.5 million dollars, due to the passing of someone who MAY be related to me. All the money was in a Tongan bank just waiting to be transferred. Then, this morning I got TWO emails from “China Shenhua” saying that “company picked your email as a lucky person for $1,000,000 and a new car.” All I could think of was Bob Barker’s voice: A NEW CAR.

By the way, have you seen Jesse Paul on a 2008 episode of The Price Is Right? I love The Price Is Right (PLINKO!) and I absolutely adore the super-excited audience members. Jesse Paul, however, takes the cake. Watch the clip and tell me if you don’t think he’s the single greatest contestant to be on the show. I still get to spin the wheel, right, Bob?

Anyway, I’m feeling pretty lucky, with my super-exciting inbox of winning today. Plus, you guys, it’s almost my birthday! I love birthdays. I love that I’m turning forty. It feels like this exciting new era, and also that I’ve joined a super-special club of the over-forties.

So I’m having a few people over on the weekend, and last week I went to Costco to stock up on snacky things and other necessities. Since we had the painters at the house, I went to Costco after lunch and OH MY GOD YOU GUYS what was I thinking? I guess I was thinking nothing at all, since I never go to Costco in the afternoon. In fact, the only time I’ve been there not first thing in the morning was the one time I zoomed over there when the kids were in karate and I had 45 minutes to get there and back. On that occasion, I didn’t even take a cart, I just loaded up four items in my arms and popped in and out. I did not realize what afternoon Costco was like.

I expected it to be busier, but it wasn’t significantly so. The issue wasn’t with the number of people, it was with the samples.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am not hating on people getting samples. It’s cool. I’m sure they have lots of tasty treats, and for free, and fill your boots, but for the love of god, people, please move your carts. Those giant Costco carts are bad enough, but when there are six or seven of them lined up to get a free spoonful of Greek yogurt, it is impossible for the non-sampling population to get by and get on with their lives. I was literally trapped in the aisles, trying to edge past the lines of people sampling the wares. It was like a weird nightmare; I’d get to the end of the aisle and would not be able to get out. I’d turn my cart around, but by the time I did that more people were lined up on the other side for more samples. I even got a side-eye and under-the-breath muttering from some man who was under the impression that I was trying to budge in front of him, rather than get around him to get to the frozen berry section. Buddy, I’m not interested in your portion of ham on a cracker. You can have my share.

I’ve been on a kick lately where I am trying not to stock up on things; I’m trying to just use up what I have in the house, and only buy things I need. My canned goods cupboard was getting out of control. So, I’ve put myself on a buying moratorium; I make a list and I stick strictly to the list. Too many times I’ve thought maybe we need soap, bought a 12-pack of Dove, and come home to three unopened Costco-sized packages. In any case, while I was wheeling around the sampling population of Costco, I saw the giant Dove shampoo and conditioner bottles that I buy for the boys and my husband. I briefly wondered if I should buy some, but then I said to myself Nicole, it is not on the list, do not buy it, you do not need it. I stood in a giant lineup to check out and then I drove home, making several trips up and down the stairs to put things away. THIS is why Costco shopping is so exhausting – it’s the stair climbing that finishes me off.

Later that night, after his shower, Jake said to me, “By the way, Mom, the shampoo is empty.” I went downstairs to fetch another bottle and LO. There was no shampoo. There was no conditioner.

At this point, I fairly exploded. “I WAS JUST AT COSTCO!” I said. “YOU NEED TO TELL ME WHEN YOUR SHAMPOO IS ALMOST EMPTY!” I said this angrily to everyone in the house, including my husband, who said that the shampoo had a pump – he never picks it up – he didn’t know it was empty. People, I had to leave the room. I was disproportionately upset about this shampoo debacle. We did have other shampoo in the house. We just didn’t have that kind, and that was a tipping point for me. I was at Costco and I had to veer around herds of carts and people acted like I was going to take the popcorn sample right out of their mouths, and goddammit, we were out of shampoo. Kind of. I had to actually do some deep breathing, this was how upset I was. I kept trying to rationalize to myself that it wasn’t a big deal, but dammit, it was a big deal.

The very next day I got my period, which kind of cleared things up for me. It was, as Oprah says, an AHA moment. AHA! Do not shop at Costco right before ladies’ holidays, especially not in the afternoon.

Old at heart.

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I had a hair appointment this week – thank god, something had to be done about the orange straw and grey roots – and as I was getting my colour rinsed out, an older gentleman came into the salon. He explained that he was Marjorie’s son, Marjorie being an elderly lady who gets a weekly hairdo every Friday morning. He had never been in the salon before, but he drives Marjorie every week. What a good son! Except that he had made arrangements for her to go out of town to visit her granddaughter this Friday, which meant that all was ashes. How could he take her out of town with undone hair?

And so this gentleman was coming into the salon personally to see if there was any chance Marjorie could be squeezed in on Thursday. The salon I frequent is a busy one – I book my colours months in advance – but they accommodated his request. After he left, my hair therapist smiled and said, “Oh, those old ladies. They hate to have their schedules messed with. It ruins their whole week!” I nodded sympathetically, all the while thinking, I can relate.

You see, I am not elderly, and yet I too find myself getting worked up when my schedule is thrown out of whack. I can only imagine me in forty or fifty years. Changing a weekly hair appointment would be akin to burning down the nursing home or running out of hot water and lemon in the dining room. We don’t have much time left, I am not leaving this earth with messy hair.

Digression: what kind of food will they have in the Home in forty or fifty years? Will it be things that are trendy and popular now, like kale and quinoa, or will we all just start eating mashed potatoes and veal cutlets? I cannot imagine that I will ever tuck into a plate of veal cutlets, but what kind of vegetarian options will they have for the elderly, circa 2060? Also, will we all naturally just slide into Sears’ “pull on” slacks and blouses, or housedresses? Or will we be clinging to the styles we like now? Will we be a generation of skinny jean wearing, kale chip eating old people? Will I still wear coconut-scented lotion or will I just start wearing Lily of the Valley talcum powder? I’d like to think I’ll go straight to Chanel Number 5 but really, who can tell?

In any case, I don’t do well with schedule interruptions or changes. Case in point: the painters. We’ve been talking about painting the kitchen and bathrooms. We’ve had a colour consult with the painter who painted our basement and exterior. The only thing we didn’t have was a firm date. Sometime in early April, was what had been settled on, when we got an email from the painter saying that he might have to change that around. Well, we had nothing firm anyway, so I blithely went on with my life.

At least, until Tuesday night, when my husband informed me that the painters were coming the very next day at 9:00.

In retrospect, this was the best possible scenario. I had a meeting, but not until 11, the kids were staying for lunch for Tech Club, and I didn’t have time to work myself up into a frenzy about omg people working in the house! I was able to be home to let them in, the day was sunny and warm and so I could lock the dog outside, everything was fine. The colours turned out beautifully – photos to come – and as of Thursday morning everything was finished.

And yet. I am the crabbiest person to have people working in the house. Maybe it’s my Type A personality, which makes me feel like an elephant is sitting on my chest when I see drywall dust on the kitchen counters and tiny scraps of paint chips on the floor, and the furniture all askew. Maybe this is a sign that I need to look into my control-freak behaviour when I physically have to leave the room so that I don’t implode and wither to the floor when everything in the house is chaos and I cannot even get to my water bottle or use the bathroom without explaining myself.

Well, it’s all over now, and as I said, it’s beautiful. My husband claims not to be a Type A person, but he is quite a perfectionist, especially when it comes to handy work. He is very handy – if you’re not handy yourself, you are best to marry someone handy, is my motto – and has done a great deal of work in our house with his own two hands. He’s the ultimate “measure 20 times, cut once” guy, everything has to be exactly leveled and exactly centred and there is no eyeballing involved. MEASUREMENTS COUNT, PEOPLE. It works out great, because he is very exact. The only problem is that if someone ELSE does the work, then he can find fault in about thirty seconds flat. He’s the one who spots the tiny piece of roller fluff that got painted onto the wall, or the slightly-less-than-perfect paint line. And the biggest problem about this is that I am the one who is at home, so it is my job to inform the person working on our house that their work is suspect. I don’t like that job. There was a not-great job done in a not-too-prominent part of the bathroom which resulted in some coloured paint being on our cream trim, but my husband threw up his hands, decided he was going to just repaint the trim and door himself, because he could do a better job. This kind of defeats the purpose of getting painters in, but maybe it’s for the best.

Princess problems, am I right? I guess it’s time for me to work on my mental flexibility. Either that, or just continue with my deep ujjayi breathing.

Bringing Happy Home

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I flew in from Maui yesterday and boy, are my arms tired!

Sorry. I’m still pretty tired from a) flying the red eye on Monday night and b) dealing with an overtired child who was too tired to sleep last night and then had nightmares every hour or so that I’m having that weird thing where I don’t even really know what I’m doing. Yesterday I looked in the refrigerator for salt, for example, and I stared at the shelves for a good two minutes before I realized that on Planet Earth, we don’t refrigerate salt. I am less tired today – I’m not looking in the refrigerator for spices – but still in fog brain mode.

But who cares, right? I just spent twelve days in Maui and it was the best vacation we have ever had. Everything was perfect. Although it already feels like months ago when I was hanging out on the lanai drinking vodka and vitamin water:

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or wearing a giant hat

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or reassuring one of my children that the other one would not get close enough to a blowhole and get killed.

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So it’s back to reality, I guess. I’m trying to get back in the swing of things without complaining about the absence of palm trees or afternoon boozing. WHAT IS THIS BULLSHIT PLACE WITHOUT OCEAN BREEZES? It’s weird getting used to wearing socks and pants again, but here we are.

There’s been a lot of talk lately (forever?) about women wearing bikinis and getting your body bikini-ready and you know what? This was my fourth visit to Maui and I would say that 95% of the women on the beach are in bikinis, regardless of age or body shape. This is how it should be! I mean, really, look at men – they generally shirtless on the beach and we never, ever say a word about it. We don’t say “that guy has too big of a gut to wear those board shorts,” now, do we? Maybe we get a little weirded out when the elderly man wearing a brief-like swimsuit bends over near us and we see his testicles, but that doesn’t happen often (although when it does, we cannot unsee it). So why do we have a debate over whether or not women can wear bikinis?

From personal experience, I think bikinis are much more comfortable than any other kind of swimsuit. I’m kind of tall, and one-piece bathing suits never fit right. Tankinis don’t work for me for swimming because they ride up too much. So I opt for bikinis, although I’m less than three weeks away from being forty and the bottom part of my belly is a bit wrinkly from having babies and the “girls” are not what they used to be, believe me. But who cares? Why do we feel the need to look like Gisele Bundchen on the beach, or snark at other women for also not looking like Gisele Bundchen on the beach?

Maybe I’m feeling snappy today, but I’m making a vow, and that is to stop with the negativity. Not just for myself, but I’m no longer going to silently stand by while women tear down other women. We’d all love to be perfect, but no one is, and we aren’t going to get any closer to perfection by being mean and negative. Maybe, just maybe, instead of discussing someone’s flaws, we can inspire people to be better by discussing positive, happy things.

And on that note, I leave you with this: no makeup, swim hair, bug bite, and reapplied sunscreen. When I look at this photo, all I can think of is how happy I was at that very moment. xo

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 bikini