When Too Much is Too Much

I’m in the middle of doing quite a significant home renovation, and one thing I have noticed is how bogged down I feel due to endless options.

Instagram shows me every amazing possibility – decor, DIY projects, and all the stunning homes.

Wayfair shows me thousands of choices, which can be delivered right to my doorstep.

All the while, my phone is listening to my conversations and, suddenly, ads for wallpaper and tile are showing up everywhere I look on my phone.

One sexy part of the reno involves getting a new toilet.

I’ve never been faced with this task before, and so I found myself looking online at my options. What does one look for in a toilet? One thing I know for sure is I am not looking for a used one on Kijiji.

Comfort height, extended bowl, seamless bottom, dual flush, energy-efficient, 4.5 litre, 6 L… who knew a toilet had so many components to it? The prices ranged from $150 to $1,000. After a solid hour of looking at cans, I didn’t order one.

A few days later, I paid a visit to Kent. I had a return to make and I wanted to check a few bits off my list. After spending a solid half hour trying to pick out a closet door that wasn’t wildly expensive (and could be delivered within this calendar year), I broached the subject of toilets with the guy who was helping me.

It felt awkward, but I asked him if he could give me advice on buying a new throne.

There was an extensive display of toilets to be viewed – thankfully, not at floor level, I was not interested in sitting on one in public. After a crash course in toilets from Matt, the model I decided was ‘the one’ wasn’t in stock.

The toilet is just one of many elements of the renovation which I’ve found myself spending too much time contemplating. Honestly – too much is too much!

I found myself in the same predicament a few months ago after my best friend had her baby. I wanted to buy a gift for her. After perusing what could have been 27 websites, I had numerous carts with items in them – I finally made the order. After all that time spent contemplating, it ended up that the parcel went missing in action! I was refunded, as everything I had ordered was now out of stock. Back to square one.

Online dating creates the same conundrum. From the comforts of your home, the bus, your workplace, the airport, or the restaurant you are eating in, you can swipe through endless options of men.

When I was dating, the plethora of options you were faced with was debilitating! How do you ever genuinely get to know someone when everyone is operating under ‘what’s the next best thing’ mindset – the next swipe might be something better.

The next website might have a better deal.

Instagram might show me something even more fabulous if I follow this interior designer.

Tinder might bring you prince charming if you swipe just one more time.

The amount of choices we face in the run of a day is exhausting.

Last week, my brother was visiting my parents and we were talking about how complicated it is to be teenager now in comparison to when we were hormone-injected and trying to figure out who we were. When we were kids, you only knew the world in the little bubble we lived in.

If you were on a sports team, you would get to travel to schools in other districts and see other kids. 4-H camp offered a solid exposure to lots of other awkward country kids. Otherwise, you generally only knew the people who went to school with you.

The biggest deal would be if you were awarded Athlete of the Week in The Casket, or if you won Player of the Game and it was announced on the PA at school. Everyone looked at The Casket and every kid in school heard the announcements.

Now, kids are exposed to every other teenager in the world.

Crazy rich kids are celebrated.

You can be famous for opening Pokeman cards on Youtube. Photos are augmented to make everyone look beautiful. How can you be content with regular when endless options of grandeur are being thrown at you everywhere you look?

When I was in junior high, all you needed was a pair of Iketa jeans to feel pretty cool.

I also recall when my mom needed a new chair, she went to town and chose from the five options available at the store. She wasn’t spending time contemplating, surfing the web, looking at Instagram, or sharing photos with girlfriends.

More options means more time wasted. More options mean stress. More options leave you wondering if the choice you made was the right one. Is there something better?

There is a simplicity in not having too many options.

Less options mean less time wasted.

Less options mean less stress.

Less options mean a feeling of contentment.

I remember reading the book Modern Romance: An Investigation. The author did a lot of research into the level of happiness felt by someone who married someone who was also from the same small town as them or someone who, like his parents, had an arranged marriage as compared to himself, a guy who moved to a big city where the options were endless.

He said he spent more time trying to decide where to go for dinner than his parents spent deciding on who their life partner would be.

Maybe somewhere in the middle is good.

Tomorrow I am going to Kent to pick up that toilet.

As it happens, it is now on sale and in stock. Decision made.

The Fear of Missing Out

FOMO was a slang term that started being used when I was in my twenties. Fear of Missing Out – anxiety that an exciting event may currently be happening elsewhere.

Basically, if any social event was happening and you knew about it – you didn’t want to miss it for fear of missing out on something fun. It wouldn’t matter if you couldn’t afford it, or that you had to put in a great amount of effort to do it – you wanted to make it happen. Often, FOMO was centered around the prospect of meeting a man.

The worst case of FOMO I ever had happened in Grade 9. This is the story, as I recall it.

A guy we went to high school with was given the keys to a house, as he was responsible for watering the plants while the owner was away. A plan to have a party there was hatched.

Most of my best high school friends lived in the area near the house where the shaker was happening, so it wasn’t terribly difficult for them to make their way to the party palace. A few lies had them all sorted out.

My best friend Sarah and I lived on the other side of the county, so getting our party hungry selves to the location was rather complex. We had huge FOMO and the only way that made sense to us to rid ourselves of it was to steal her parent’s car.

Oh, and we didn’t yet have our driver’s licenses.

Two other friends had previously committed to babysitting that night. They figured they would be home somewhere around 10 p.m., but we couldn’t risk a phone call as we didn’t want to rouse any suspicions with whispered conversations. At that time, the phone was in the most central part of the house – you couldn’t text, talk or Facetime from your bedroom. Instead, we decided that Sarah and I would drive by one of their houses. If they had returned from babysitting, they would leave a basement light on and that meant they would be at the ballfield near their houses waiting for a pickup.

We waited until Sarah’s mother had a solid and steady snore happening. We snuck out the door and turned the engine on. We didn’t turn the lights on.

Now to set the scene a bit further. Sarah quite literally grew up in the middle of nowhere. We had to go down four dirt roads just to get to the main road. Just to make the scene even more ominous – it was pouring rain and very dark.

After successfully making our way down the dirt roads and not hitting a deer, we pulled the Cutless Sierra onto the main road. We blew by my house about a kilometre over the road. My mother (who was more of the watchdog parent in my house) was working nights as a nurse. Dad was likely watching Hockey Night in Canada and wouldn’t even think to call to be sure we were where we said we were going to be. Sarah and I are cousins, so we had special exemptions when it came to being at each other’s houses.

We made it to town.

In order to get to the Number 7, we quite literally had to drive by the RCMP station. No po-po’s in site.

As we hummed along, we nearly hydroplaned, but Sarah – being a confident, non-licensed driver – handled it with ease.

As we slowed in front of Sacha’s house, we saw the foreboding light in the basement. We made our way to the baseball field where our two friends came at us like moths to a light, out of the darkness and into the Cutless Sierra.

With a full carload, we made our way to the party house. Let’s just say what we arrived to was nothing we should have been FOMO-ing about. The house was freezing. A lot of alcohol had been consumed by the other attendees and we felt like Mother Superiors arriving at a Metallica concert.

We needed to get out of dodge, but we needed to deliver a few friends home before we could make our way back to home base. Kim, one of our besties, had come down with a flu and couldn’t climb out of her window as planned. Lara was staying at her house and had a bad need to see a guy who she was crushing on – he was going to be at the party. She climbed out Kim’s window. We delivered Lara back to Kim’s driveway. We waited a few moments to be sure she was indeed able to scale her way back in through the bedroom window.

To our dismay, she came barreling down the driveway saying, ‘They know, they know, they all know’.

OMG.

Back on the other side of the county, Sarah’s older sister was babysitting and was weirded out by some noises outside of the house. She rang home, and unfortunately, her twin brother woke up when the phone rang. He told her he would buzz over to check things out. When he went into the yard, he noticed the car wasn’t there. Confused and thinking that perhaps their car was stolen, he woke up Sarah’s sleeping mother. Upon inspection of the house, they realized us two bandits were not in bed.

Sarah’s brother called all our friend’s houses in an effort to track us down. His calls woke up sleeping parents – empty bed discoveries were made.

Upon the delivery of the news that our jig was up, Sarah began singing Bob Dylan’s How Many Roads.

What should we do? We didn’t know ‘who knew’ at this point. As we drove along the road, we needed to pull over to allow a friend to ‘evacuate her system’.

Suddenly, like the movie Gorilla’s in the Mist, out of the fog we saw something coming at us. It was Kari’s parents in their Astro Van. Hunting us down. They took the keys and drove us back to their house, where we stayed the night.

Lara’s parents came to collect her. She admitted to them that she had indeed had a drink.

I had just turned 15 a few days before our grand theft auto outing. I feared that my mother would certainly take back all of my birthday gifts.

Sarah’s brother and sister came to get us criminals in the morning. One drove us back and the other drove the impounded car home. With our tail between our legs, we made our way back to Sarah’s house.

We told an Oscar-winning story of how we were Friends in Shining Armour. Rescuing our bosom buddies from a very bad place. Not premeditated, but instead as a response to a desperate plea for rescuing.

This is what our FOMO led to. Had we just stayed at Sarah’s house, entertaining each other by passing gas, none of this would ever have happened.

FOMO has never really led me to anything really rewarding. I’m still full of fun and want to be in on the action, but with age I’ve become much more investigative of what the outcome of putting my time, money and energy into something will be.

It’s better to be content where you are than wishing you were somewhere else.

Judge Not Fear Not

My natural instinct is to see the good in people and to see possibilities and opportunities in the situations life hands me.

Just to be clear – I’m not a Pollyanna who sees the world through opaque, rose-coloured glasses.

I lean to not believing that I know more than others who have knowledge in an area I don’t.

I lean towards trusting people until they give me a reason not to.

I lean towards viewing the world with optimism instead of skepticism and pessimism.

I lean towards not overreacting before I have the right information to justify such a reaction.

I lean towards not judging others.

I lean towards assuming that most people are also just trying to do their best.

I lean towards not thinking that everyone else is an idiot.

I have noticed in the incredible volume of media (official and social) that I am exposed to, and in general conversation around me, that there is a trend of judgment, anxiety, and general broad-sweeping statements about others.

Whenever anyone says ‘teachers’, ‘students’, ‘they’, ‘government’, ‘politicians’ or ‘doctors’, I become skeptical of the opinion.

Or when I see or hear someone judge another before considering what might have led them to that moment, I become skeptical of the opinion.

I remember seeing a video from a presentation Wayne Dwyer did. For those of you who don’t know, he was a self-help guru and motivational speaker. He asked the audience, “When you squeeze an orange, what comes out of it?”

The audience was confused by the rather obvious nature of his question.

He said, “Does lemon juice come out?”

The audience said “No.”

He provoked them more to answer the question. Orange juice! Orange juice comes out when you squeeze an orange!

He continued to explain that when you squeeze something, what’s inside comes out. So, when you apply stress to humans and squeeze us a bit – what is inside us also comes out.

COVID-19 has caused a lot of squeezing for us. So much unknown, so many changes… so much stress.

So many opinions. So many judgments. So much skepticism.

Just a few days ago, I think I was ‘that person’.

In recent times, I’ve had a lot on my mind – to say the least.

COVID caused my organization to decide to close our physical remote office spaces. Moving forward, I will be working from home. I had to pack up and move out of my office. I ended up buying a house. I had to move out of my flat. Buying, and now newly owning a house, is rather consuming, to say the least.

I’ve been running around like a chicken with my head cut off! All while working full-time.

I had to run an errand at Shoppers Drug Mart. I pulled up and popped into the store. I walked through the aisles (according to the arrows) and I know I walked by a few people.

One person gave me a really dirty look and snort. It wasn’t until I asked the cosmetics gal for some help that it dawned on me. I forgot to put on my mask! I realized this because she had one on and was standing what felt like 25 feet away from me when I was asking her a question. I thought it was odd. She probably thought I was odd. I pulled my sweater over my nose and mouth and made my way to the pharmacy to get a free mask.

I am not an idiot. I am not a rebel. I am not a jerk. I am not an anti-masker. I am human, and I made mistake.

My boyfriend recently moved where my toothbrush is kept. I still go to the other sink every morning only to realize it is at the other end of the counter. It takes a while for new automatic habits to form even in basic life circumstances… let alone a pandemic!

During all of this, I also bought a new car. I have not owned a car in many years. Let’s just say there is a lot more technology in cars now. The other day, I was trying to figure out if it was possible to go to the moon in the car, when to my chagrin, I realized the light had turned green. I realized this because the guy behind me laid on his horn for a continuous, let’s say, five-second blare. After I made my way through the intersection he decided to also lay on his gas and basically come as close to my car as possible. I’m sure inside his truck he was muttering, ‘what an idiot!’.

I am not an idiot. I am not blind. I am human, and I was distracted by trying to figure out how to turn my rear window wiper on.

The topic of back to school and university students coming back to town seems to be occupying a lot of airtime.

Did you ever consider that most students feel just like anyone else – nervous about how this will all look, unsure of how their year will go, afraid that they will get COVID, and disappointed that there are so many rules and regulations.

Students are not all idiots who will disobey rules and put others at risk. That is a small number of ‘students’.

There are idiots everywhere, but a lot of times it is the people who are calling others idiots who are the idiots themselves.

Take a deep breath and look at yourself.

I bet you have been the person at the light who didn’t see it change.

I bet you have stood closer than the allotted six feet.

I bet you didn’t see the arrow before turning down an aisle.

I bet you know a teacher, a principal, a school board member, a politician, or someone who works for the government.

I bet you know a ‘student’ who is going back to university.

Just like you, they are not idiots.

Give people some grace and offer support. It goes a long way.

From the Mouths of Babes

I’ve always loved kids – The way they look at the world. Their expression of how they feel. My favourite part of littles is the funny things they say.

I am the only girl in my family – I have three older brothers. My three older brothers, however, have all had girls – seven of them, in fact. There is only one boy in the pack!
A total reversal of their testosterone-filled upbringing. My brothers are now the outnumbered ones.

Over the years, I have spent a lot of time with the kids and always have funny stories to tell about things they said or did. How many times did people say to me – you really need to write that down!
This past week my parents had two little visitors for the week – my nieces Sylvie, six, and Leni, four.

The kids look at spending time at my parents somewhat similar as they look at going to Disney World. Cookies at most any time. More shows than the usual allowance. Ice cream more often than the usual quota. Favourite dinners made on demand. Beach. Lego galore. Late bedtimes.

I am in between moving out of my place and into my new house, so I, too, have been spending extra time at Mom and Dad’s. They are a bit of a hostel this summer!
Over the course of the week, the kids said so many hilarious things.

While sitting playing Lego, Sylvie asks, “Leni, how old do you think you will be when you die?”
Leni replied, “Three.”
Sylvie: “Well, Leni, you are already older than three, so you have to pick a new number.’
Leni: ‘Four.’                                                                                                                                   Sylvie: “I hope you don’t die from drowning because it would be hard to find your body, and maybe we wouldn’t be able to have one of those things they have for    dead people.”
Standard conversation.

After putting them bed at an already late hour, I could hear laughing and high-pitched squeals coming from their room. I went in to find the bed covered small, medium and large ‘stuffies’ (teddy bears).
I told them it was time to go to sleep. To which Sylvie replied, “But we are in the middle of a stuffy wedding.”
I said, “It is too late for that, it is time to lay down and go to sleep.”
The reply? “Well, I guess the good thing is that it is an imaginary wedding. When things are in your imagination you can start and stop them whenever you want. If it was a real wedding, then people would have to go home in the middle of it and they might be hungry or have no where to stay.”
Lights out.

The next day, while driving in the car, Sylvie (who is a particularly deep child) said to Leni that she just needed her to stop asking questions because all she wanted to do in that moment was to have a daydream.

About 13 years ago, when one of my brothers moved from Ottawa to Halifax due to a job promotion, we decided to live together. His job involved a lot of travel and I could help with the kids and life.

I lived below/with them for five years, and during that time, they went from having one girl to three. So many memories.

Cora, their oldest, was particularly precocious as a child. She started talking when she was roughly 10 months old.
She had a deep love affair with all things pink, sparkly and, as she would say, ‘fancy’. One day, when I was going to the park with my dog, she wanted to come with me. It was raining, and she was wearing a dress. My sister-in-law told her that if she wanted to go, she had to put on splash pants. The notion of wearing pants, to Cora, was as offensive as some of the things Trump says.
She replied, “Mommy, you know I don’t like pants and I won’t wear them.”
Margo, her mother, said, “If you are going to the park you have to wear them, or you will ruin your dress.”
More pushback from Cora.
In the meantime, Millie (my dog) is whining and pulling to go. I said, “Cora, I am leaving now, so if you want to come you need to put the pants on or I’m going without you.”
Cora: “Fine, then, I will put on the pants, but I WILL NOT look down at them, not even once.”
As if she was so filled with pant revulsion that she was going to separate her mind from her body.

The topic of me ever getting married is always on the table.
Hilary asks, “Aunt Emilie, are you ever going to marry?”
Me: “If I met the right person.”
Hilary: “Well, you know you are a bit older than other people who get married. You spend a lot of time with your friend Kristen, why don’t you just marry her? Do you know that girls can marry girls?”
If only it was that simple, Hilary.

I’ve always done a lot of baking with the kids. Last summer, I was making a chocolate cake from scratch with three miniature assistants. While having assistants in other circumstances makes things happen more smoothly – three helpers under five made the process exponentially more complex and laborious. Can I put this in? How much of this? Spill. Wipe up. The mix master, which was filled with only dry ingredients, was turned from zero to 10 by a superhero finger. In a split second, the entire kitchen was filled with cocoa powder, sugar, flour and more. It literally took over an hour to clean up and we had to start the process all over again. Weeks later, remnants were found! Even though it was an incredible annoyance, I nearly died laughing.

Kids certainly don’t make things easier or faster, but they certainly make things a lot more entertaining.

Covid Bulge

We’ve all heard about ‘Frosh 15’. Students leave home to live on campus, where they consume loads to carbs, drink at least a few nights a week and midnight snacks before hitting the hay. Bagels, cheese, beer and chips. New habits bring new pounds.

 

When I was in university, I never really thought of it, but that term was definitely more commonly applied to men. Kidding! Of course, it was talked about by women and mostly applied to women.

Women and weight. Randy Travis said old women talk about old men… he could have added into that they are always talking about weight too.

I’ve noticed something else novel about the coronavirus – it seems it has made the general population gain weight. Including myself.

Lockdown plus a Nova Scotia winter equals a dirty combination. While I normally hit the pavement every morning and get in on average 15,000 steps a day, my step count during COVID-19 was dismal. I found myself throwing the ball for my dog Millie rather than risking getting a ticket and frost bite.

On top of not moving as much, I also got sucked into the vortex of baking, cooking and taste-tasting every appealing recipe I saw on Instagram, The Food Network or ones friends sent.

‘Just like Cinnabun’ cinnamon buns. Did that. The icing. Ate that both on the buns and by the spoonful.

The BEST chocolate chip cookies. Made those. Ate them.

To DIE for chocolate cake. Whipped that up. Ate it.

Yeast. I got a bunch of it from a shop that had it in stock. Naan bread. Pizza dough from scratch. So easy!

Butter chicken. Just typing that made my mouth water.

You get the picture. I was sweating in the kitchen, not at the gym.

Oh, and let’s not forget about drinking wine on weeknights – something I don’t normally do. I read that the NSLC sales were booming during COVID. I contributed to that.

Another contributing factor to the novel COVID weight gain is Lululemon pants. They trick you into thinking you’re skinny. They stretch – not just when you do squats or high kicks. Dr. Strang and Premier McNeil should have banned yoga pants during COVID to keep everyone in check of their waistlines.

When you’re not zipping or buttoning things up, you can really lose sight of what’s really going on around your midsection.

Of course, there are people, like my sister-in-law, who still exercised and only ‘ate to live’. Margo and I are very different in this way. For instance, if she and my brother go out to dinner, it is very likely I will ask them how it was and what they ate.

She would most likely reply, “It was good. I had scallops.”

I’d ask, “What were they like?”

She might reply, “They had lemon and maybe cauliflower under them.”

I’d say, “Oh, scallops are so yummy, and cauliflower is delicious. Did you get dessert?”

Her answer? “No.”

And the next morning, she would be up at 6 a.m. and out the door to do her 10 kilometre run.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve loved food. A large contributing factor to that is that my mother is a bit of a wizard in the kitchen.

I’m not sure if it is a chicken before the egg or the egg before the chicken kind of thing. Was I born a food lover or did my mother make me one?

I do know there is something about my genetic make up that makes me more prone to the pudge even though I am a very active person (outside of COVID).

When puberty hit for me in Grade 4, I went from being a tiny little thing to have C cup boobs overnight. This is exemplified by comparing by Grade 4 and Grade 5 class photos.

A few years ago, when I climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro, my mountain mates were sharing how they could ‘barely keep their pants up’. I, on the other hand, through all of the training and climbing, lost a measly five pounds.

That’s another curse of being a woman. Weight slyly goes on when you’re not even looking. Taking it off, on the other hand, seems to require me going on a liquid diet and training for a marathon at the same time.

Have you ever noticed that men can literally drink one less beer a day and add some broccoli to their diet – poof goes their belly!

I remember a friend who started a weight loss journey with her husband being super annoyed that he did far less exercise yet lost double the weight she did in the first month.

When I think of it – God (or whoever created men and women) really gave a lot of the challenging bits to women. Periods and all their related dramas, pregnancy and birth, breasts and breastfeeding, menopause… we really got the short end of the stick.

When you know better, you do better.

I know my pants are tight.

I know that eating Cinnabun icing by the spoonful contributed to it.

I know that throwing the ball instead of moving contributed to it.

I’m now moving and not baking.

COVID 15, be gone.

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Red Rover – Red Rover!

My Grandma Fody died this past December. She was 94 and for her entire life she was a devout, dedicated true-blue card-carrying Tory.  See picture above with her boyfriend Prime Minster Harper.

She was so blinded by her politics that it wouldn’t matter in the least what happened, or who did it – she would find a way to blame the Liberals. She never questioned anything. Everything the Conservatives did was right.

Oh, and those NDP or Green Party tree-huggers. They know nothing.

She travelled all across Canada going to Tory conventions, she worked polls and always followed the news for any political story.

Visits with her often contained a political conversation. Well, I wouldn’t so much call it a conversation. It was more of what you might call a one-sided affirmation of her opinions.

As for that old-fashioned saying “respect your elders”, well, I had to do a lot of that.

Justin Trudeau really got under her skin: his hair, he didn’t shave one day (Shoppers Drug Mart must have run out of razors, she said). it wouldn’t matter if he saved one of her great grandchildren from drowning. He had no chance of being in her good books.

COVID would have given her so much material to blast the Liberals for. I can literally hear the criticisms in my head as I am typing.

I didn’t inherit her political-devotedness gene.

Politics, for me, is similar to watching a bunch of children on a playground.

There are usually a few leaders.

There are usually groups that form.

Most tend to play soccer or baseball, some of the most common games, while others lean to the not so common task of collecting things and building something.

There are the dreamers who draw in a few floaters.

Sometimes they get along.

Sometimes they play really well together and achieve much.

Sometimes there is a bully in the group who makes fun of others for not doing things the same way as they do.

Sometimes there is a traitor in the group who decides they want to play soccer instead of baseball.

Sometimes that traitor tells the soccer group things the baseball players said about them or things they were slyly doing behind their backs.

Sometimes they fight.

When they fight, all hell can break loose and no one achieves anything.

Grudges are formed.

I’m the type who sometimes wants to play soccer, sometimes I want to build things, I like to get along with others and I’m interested in learning.

A few years ago, as part of lobbying the government for research funding for ovarian cancer, I attended a lobby day on Parliament Hill.

All of the pageantry made me chuckle! As we raced from office to office, we needed to get a Page to tell the Member of Parliament we were meeting with that we had arrived. The photo ops were so structured. There were so many ‘handlers’. There were certain chairs you weren’t allowed to sit in.

As part of the experience, we were able to attend Question Period. We filed into the upper viewing area and were given a list of instructions.

On that particular day it was particularly dramatic. If I recall correctly, Trudeau was being accused by the NDPs of pushing an MP and maybe even something to do with crossing the floor.

Thomas Mulcair, in an effort to mock the Prime Minister, put his hands up behind his head and stretched his legs out. When the Prime Minister would speak, he shouted, “Blah, blah, blah, blah.”

It was pure and utter craziness! I tried to imagine if myself and my colleagues acted this way in a meeting. What a complete waste of time!

I’m not a huge consumer of news media. The stories are all about pointing fingers, accusations, agenda setting and ego. Trump! Covid! Trudeau! One scandal after another! The sky is falling!

A few years ago, I made a decision to not watch the news before I go to sleep. This decision was made after I had a dream in which I was pregnant and in labour. I was in an operating room. Jian Ghomeshi and Rob Ford were the nurse and doctor. I didn’t want Jian to touch me and I wasn’t convinced that Rob Ford knew how to deliver a baby.

I really don’t know what heads or tails is anymore when it comes to politics.

What is real? What is true? What is right? Who is actually being honest? What is being done? Who is paying who?

You know what, maybe Grandma was onto something. It is easier to be one sided, to not question things and just unequivocally believe that one party is right.

Home

A group of my girlfriends and I have a group chat, where we chat a lot. Most days: photos are shared, social outings are scheduled, laughs are had, and a wide variety of topics are discussed.

I read somewhere that women speak an average of 20,000 words a day, while men utter a mere 7,000. Seeing as typing isn’t included in the count, we are blowing those numbers out of the water!

Covid has certainly been the topic that has consumed a lot of the screen in recent months. What does home schooling look like? How are you doing with your kids? Do you have any meal ideas? How much wine did you drink this week? How much is your husband annoying you?

Probably the most talked about subject is home and the desire to get here.

Many of the girls are from Nova Scotia, one is from Newfoundland and a few others went to university here, so they understand the desire.

Once upon a moon, after university, we all migrated to Toronto in search of jobs, high heels and, of course, sexy men.

I found a job and high heels, but not a man – I migrated back.

Ally also made her way back.

Many of the other girls met their partners and have stayed in the Toronto area. But as we all know, East Coasters only live in other places, but they are always from the East Coast.

Sarah had a baby just weeks before Covid started. Louise started her life in lockdown.

Three of us turned 40 in May. Our plans for getaways were cancelled.

Heartbreakingly, Alexis lost her wonderful father on Canada Day. He lived on Prince Edward Island, and so they were unable to come home or have a service right away.

Kelly had a baby just a few weeks ago.

Everyone is literally itching to get home to see their families. To see each other.

This past weekend I made my way to beautiful Cape Breton. My Dad is from Margaree Forks, so we decided to rent a cottage at Whale Cove. One hundred dollars a night for a million-dollar view!

I had plans of touring around The Cabot Trail, followed by some good old-fashioned “drop-ins”.

As you would expect, we made a stop in Cheticamp for a coffee on our way to the trail, where we ran into my uncle Theodore. You’re not safe anywhere!

He has five children, and all but one of them live away from Cape Breton. Like everyone else he is longing to see his kids, and of course, his beautiful grandchildren.

I told him a poem that one of his daughters wrote had come to my mind in recent days.

When I lived in Toronto, Mom sent it to me and I recall longing for home when I read it.

I knew that I had saved it but couldn’t remember where. A quick search of my Yahoo mail . . . presto! There it was in an email from 2006.

I had already reread it a few times but decided to read it aloud to him that morning:

 

Where Am I?

I wave at the gas attendant, smile at the clerk

I saunter down the aisles of the store where I used to work

I wave to everyone . . . don’t know them? So what!

I drive up the driveway, with one too many a rut.

I sleep like a baby, though the house is creaky and old

I’ve finally found a place where I can be loud, silly and bold

My laundry’s done, accommodations and food are free!

Sounds of children laughing, doors slamming and good ol’ CBC

Fresh berries on the counter, picked by patient aunts

Dad enters from the garden, bug bitten with soiled pants

An aroma of salt, sunscreen, barbecue and bread

Mom scurries around the kitchen, preparing another spread

Miles from Wal-Mart yet sometimes busier than one

Phones ringing, people planning and kids are on the run

A place where houses are left unlocked, keys are left in cars

Where the midnight sky is littered with thousands of beautiful stars

Dirt roads, no traffic lights, but the scenery is so fair!

It’s a wonder I survived this long, since heart was pumping there

I barely got through it, and he was crying too. Maybe we will make it in the Inverness Oran for crying in the parking lot of L’Abri Café and Restaurant.

Covid has certainly created that longing for home for a lot of people.

Home is so much more than the house you live in or the city where you live your life.

Home is a place a where you feel comfortable.

Home is a place where you have memories.

Home is a place where people know who you are.

Home is a place where you can relax.

Home is a place where you can laugh.

Home is a place where you can see old friends.

Home is a place where you can tell funny stories.

Home is a place where you can be yourself.

Home is a place where you can drop in.

Home is a place where you see family.

Home is a sense of freedom.

Home is a place that makes you feel at ease.

The East Coast is a place where people feel all of that.

One thing Covid has certainly done is make people realize the importance of home and how much you crave how it makes you feel when you can’t be there.

Settling In. Not Settling Down.

I’ve always been someone who values freedom greatly.

Myers Briggs, True Colours, Ennegram Test or almost any personality quiz I’ve ever taken has had the same results – I’m spontaneous, fluid, don’t want to be locked down, always on the go, seek out excitement, fun-loving and focused on immediate pleasures.

As part of my ‘want to be free’ personality, I’ve avoided making purchases that tie me down. Like a house.

I’ve watched my friends buy houses, and while I love design, décor, and the loveliness of owning a home, buying a lawnmower has never been high on my list of want-to-dos. Spending my weekends mowing a lawn hasn’t been high on my desire list. I’m more interested in attending lawn parties.

Seeing as I’ve been largely single – not only would the cost fall on me 100 per cent, but also all the upkeep, break downs, and maintenance.

Instead, I’ve opted for a cute flat downtown that allows me to come and go on a whim. I literally close my door and walk (or fly) away without a worry.

I’ve often thought of mortgage payments or housing costs in comparison to plane tickets. Spending $5,000 for a roof? OMG, that’s equal to a really fabulous trip. Or $800 for sod? That’s a ticket to London. A new toilet? I don’t need to compare that to anything to justify how lame it is.

By living downtown (and a short walk to my office), I’ve even avoided owning a car for the last number of years. No car payment, insurance, or the need to buy new winter tires. I’ve relied on my own two feet, a bike, taxis, shuttles, and car rentals.

I’m always thinking about time. How much of it will I have? I’d like to have kids – I can’t travel and be footloose and fancy-free with littles.

I value experiences and memories immensely. England, Ireland, France, Portugal, Spain, Italy, Germany, Czech Republic, Australia, Hawaii, Cuba, St. Lucia, Tanzania, New York City, Montreal, Boston – all of those experiences mean so much to me. I also can’t forget about the really fabulous shoes I’ve worn while exploring them. No Crocs or lawn-mowing sneakers for this gal. And there’s no way I can ever redo them when I retire, as banking commercials lead you to believe.

In recent months, I have been feeling a bit of an interest in real estate creep into my psyche. COVID, it seems, has grounded me in more ways than one. For sale signs have turned my head.

Another contributing factor to this interest is that my organization has decided to close our regional offices. Moving forward, I will be working from home. When I imagined what that scenario would look like, my place suddenly felt very cramped.

A random look on Viewpoint and an email to a real estate agent I know brought me into the market of ‘looking’. A short while later (like a week), I had an email saying, ‘there is a property coming onto the market and I think you will really like it. It’s unique, can be updated to your tastes and it has an apartment for income. Interested?’

‘When is it coming onto the market?’

‘Next week’.

Oh.

Deep breath.

‘I think it will sell right away. You really should look at it.’

OK.

I looked. It was very cool and has so much potential. My brother, who is a real estate aficionado of sorts, videoed in and asked a lot of questions (which I, in all honesty, would never have thought of).

By the time I got home from looking at the house, he had sent me an email with a list of ‘have to do right now’ renovations and a second list of ‘need to do’s and want to do’s’ with estimated costs of each. He also had a spreadsheet of laying out income potential, equity gains, mortgage and down payment graphs.

Thank God for him… I was stuck at ‘I really like it.’

I put an offer in and it was accepted.

Dear God.

Bank discussions. Home inspection. Insurability. Rental codes.

The home inspector told me I should investigate the boiler to see how old it is. I called the company who services it. The wonderfully friendly technician jumped between calling it a boiler and a furnace.

I said, ‘Wait, the boiler is the furnace? I had assumed it was something to do with hot water.’

He burst out laughing.

I said, ‘Please forgive me, I’m better at red lipstick and stilettoes topics than I am at furnace chat.’

In my defence, before you judge me too harshly, I’ve never lived in a house with oil heat.

Quotes from an electrician, a painter, a carpenter. Load bearing, electric panel, wiring, asbestos, plaster, drywall, window measurements, door sizes, heat pumps… I need a glass of wine just thinking of all the questions and decisions.

A strong learning curve is happening here. I more enjoy the discussion about paint colours.

I’m also someone who really pays attention to my intuition. Well, except for that time when I dated a guy who wore a pukka shell necklace and bad khakis. I really should have listened to my intuition more on that one. My intuition and energies are telling me that this is indeed a good decision.

So, it seems my travel money is instead going to be spent on not-so-sexy house-related expenses. I’ll be making memories renovating a house and becoming a landlady, rather than jetting off to a foreign land. I’ll be spending my time trimming trees, painting, repurposing, pressure washing, and perhaps even mowing a lawn.

Eventually, I’ll be doing the fun stuff like decorating and hosting dinner parties where I can wear my red lipstick and heels. I’m not settling down – I’m settling into something new.

 

People Who Love to Eat Are the Best Kind of People.

I’ve always had a love affair with food. I think it stems from the fact that, as my dad says, my mother is “powerful in the kitchen”. My taste buds were graced with grand culinary delights from a young age.

Think of it. Food has so many wonderful components to it: nostalgia, culture, connection, health, community and who can forget pleasure!

Now that COVID restrictions have been loosened, over the weekend I did one of my most favourite things – I attended a dinner party.

A few months ago BC (that’s Before COVID), I traveled to Portugal with two dear friends of mine. Our adventure brought us so much greatness: beautiful sights, conversation with wonderful people, mouth-watering food, delicious wine, and, of course, when in Portugal you must drink port! So. Much. Port. I never knew how much I could love port. Oh, and my two friends fell in love – with each other.

During our trip, we executed what we called Project Love. If we met someone who impacted us in some way, we secretly left behind a love note telling them how much we appreciated them. Servers in restaurants, café owners, wine makers, Airbnb hosts and a wonderful couple from Chicago we met at our Quinta were a few of the recipients. We left behind our Instagram handle on the notes and most of the recipients looked us up after finding their note, heart warmed and touched by the gesture.

The dinner party this past weekend was a belated love note to say thank you to my friends’ colleague, a Sommelier who set us up with some fantastic wine and port tastings while we were there.  

We decided to do a re-enactment of some of our favourite dishes we ate while in Portugal.

The table was gorgeous! Green salad, octopus salad, chickpea herb spread, spicy shrimp, marinated fish, potatoes with tomatoes and onions and grilled bread. And the piece de resistance was the dessert, Pastel de Nata.

We poured bubbly – a fantastic bottle of white wine from our trip – and a bottle of 1988 red that Mark –the aforementioned Sommelier – brought with him to dinner.

As the food hit our taste buds, we moaned with delight, conversation flowed and Fado music was played.

For those of you who might not know what Fado is, a Portuguese Fado is equivalent to an East Coast kitchen party. Traditional instruments and songs are sung.

Upon meeting the couple from Chicago who we left a love note for during our recent trip, they (well she) instructed that we MUST attend a certain Fado show in Porto. The recommendation was given to us because Ally described the lead man in the Fado as being a “Portuguese Richard Gere”.

We got the contact info and sent Ricardo a text. He responded, we laughed and we confirmed three tickets.

We had been dressing rather casually for most of the trip, but on this evening, we decided to get gussied up – just in case Richard Gere was looking.

Before going to the show we went to a special little restaurant where we ate cheese, meat, cheese, and, of course, sipped on wine.

As promised, Ricardo was indeed worth the price of admission. The music was impressive, but the visuals were even more so.

My female friend and I decided to rip out some of our East Coast charm and go meet Mr. Big.

After a conservative group shot, I said we needed something better, something memorable. Ricardo was up for the challenge. We both kissed him as our male friend snapped  – picture at top.

I’ve kept in touch with that gorgeous creature since we departed from Portugal. The Fado music we were listening to at dinner was sent to us by him that day. It made the food taste even better.

Over dinner, the seven of us discussed many important things. How was the octopus prepared? Where did you get the octopus? Did you know that an octopus actually shoots an “arm” out at a female octopus to mate and after he does so, he dies?

That topic brought me to telling stories about being on safari in Tanzania during mating season. I saw a male ostrich dance for his female prospect. At the time, black rhinoceros’s were on the brink of extinction in Tanzania, and we randomly saw two of them mating. A camera with a powerful zoom entertained us for an hour.

The rhino story brought me to Kilimanjaro stories, which led me to telling about how my hiking mate had a bad accident in her pants on the mountain, and how I had to hide behind the only rock in sight in order to relieve myself of a potential disaster. Altitude really does a number on your body.

We roared with laughter.

New houses, COVID, relationships, wine, dogs, common connections, Trump – we covered so many topics as we dined.

We departed with plans to have another get together.

You see food isn’t just about the food; it’s more about the experience you have when sharing it with others.

As a single woman, I find that to be one of the most challenging parts. Cooking for one and eating alone certainly isn’t as gratifying as sharing it with others. Plus, if I buy cilantro, it means I must eat it for four days or it will go bad.

During COVID restrictions, I’ve been exercising my culinary talents as a means of passing time and I’ve also been enjoying my mother’s immense spreads as well.

We used to say you put on “Frosh 15” when you start university. I think “COVID 15” can be a new term.

I can burn off the extra pounds, but I will never forget the experiences I had while consuming the food that brought the jiggle. 

Look for Beauty Everywhere You Go

I am a weak Canadian.

I am a complete wuss when it comes to the cold. Less like a polar bear, and more like a sun-loving orchid. Some people feel like they’ve been born into the wrong body… I was born into the wrong climate.

I think my disdain for the cold stems from the fact that my childhood home seemed to be located at the Hell’s Gate of winter.

The wind. It was insane. It could appear to be a blizzard at our house when just over the road all was calm and well.

The snow. It was relentless.

Waiting for the bus was like being in a torture chamber for me. First of all, I hate wearing layers. Second of all, I hate the cold. This combination was awful for me.

Enter summer! When summer arrives, it’s like I get a case of winter amnesia. Washed away are my hateful thoughts about salt-stained shoes, frozen cheeks, shovelling snow, falling on ice and delayed flights. Gone are my considerations of moving to a tropical island. Magically, Nova Scotia is transformed into the most wonderful place to be.

Seeing as we celebrated Father’s Day recently, I will weave my enigma of a dad into this piece. Dad is a guy who usually takes the road less travelled – figuratively and literally. He has explored most every back road (both paved and dirt) in Nova Scotia (at an astonishingly slow speed).

As kids, when other families were hitting Disney World or the CN Tower, we were driving around the Maritimes, scoping out the not-so-common sights.

With egg salad sandwiches and cookies in the cooler, we would head off to parts unknown. Our car would be packed so tight, you barely had to wear a seatbelt.

The sounds in the car also were not what a kid might be dying to hear. There were no audio tapes or video screens. Dad would blare Sean Dunphy, Anne Murray or Elvis Presley from the tape deck.

We counted licenses plates and big trucks for entertainment. You’d surely get a heavy elbow if your sleepy head fell upon your sibling. ‘Are we there yet’ was the most frequently asked question.

My dad is from Cape Breton, and it was often a destination for us. The Margarees. Doyle’s Bridge for a dip, Whale Cove Beach, Margaree Harbour Beach, Egypt Falls and campfires with cousins.

The Cabot Trail. Fortress of Louisburg, The Skyline Trail, Usiage Ban Falls, Alexander Graham Bell Museum, Ingonish, The Lone Shieling, and Fishing Cove Hike.

We also went did the South Shore, the French Shore and the Annapolis Valley. Shubenacadie River Rafting along the way from Antigonish. The Ovens, Keji Park, Balancing Rock, Brier Island for whale watching, Ross Farm, farming exhibitions in Windsor, Bay of Fundy tides, Upper Clements Park, The Land of Evangeline, Annapolis Royal and Blomidon Park.

We did Prince Edward Island many times. That 75-minute ride on the ferry brought you to what felt like a dream world as a kid. Cavendish, Anne of Green Gables, Greenwich Park, Rainbow Valley, windmills in North Cape, Charlottetown and Cows Ice Cream.

New Brunswick was also covered from entrance to exit. Magic Mountain, The Rocks Park, Fundy National Park, Kouchibouguac Park, Reversing Falls, Campbellton for alpine slides and lots of covered bridges.

One time, we expanded the boundaries and hit The Gaspe Bay in Quebec. We stopped in Maine on the way back to get a piece for Dad’s canoe. Three weeks in a minivan. Until not that many years ago, I thought the border agents could hear into our car when approaching the border.

Seeing as I have more time on my hands, I’ve gone back to my childhood and took a few road trips over the past few weeks with Ma and Pa. Closed restauants had us bringing along the cooler equipped with egg salad sandwiches and cookies.

We did parts of Cape Breton and the South Shore. We hit Creignish Mountain, explored the bowels of Mabou, strolled Inverness Beach in search of seaglass, saw Gaspereaux fishing in Margaree, Point Michaud Beach (where we found oodles of sand dollars), Bachman’s Beach, crossed the La Have River on the ferry, Crescent Beach, Risser’s Beach, and Lunenburg.

With COVID-19 causing us to stay put and not be jetting off to foreign locations, it seems we should all be taking a page from good old Leonel’s book. Explore all of the beauty that’s right at your fingertips.

A favourite author of mine said, “The difference between an ordinary life and an extraordinary one is only a matter of perspective. Pull the blinds back. Look around you. It is a weird and wonderful world and you do not require a 10-digit bank account to immerse yourself in it.”

I’m a firm believer in the notion that life isn’t about what happens to you – it is how you respond to what happens to you. If you’re bored during COVID – you’re boring.

With the sun shining, I’m going to focus on what my dad taught me to be – curious about the world around me.