About Oscar...

My favourite event of the entire frigid, non-holiday season has come and gone: THE OSCARS! If you read this blog with any regularity, you'll know I have a slight predilection for lunacy on Oscar night, which includes dressing up real fancy and serving yummy nibbles with a bottle of something bubbly. I've been meaning to post this for over a week but I think I had an Oscar hangover. Am I getting too old for my annual, stay-up-till-the-bitter-end-and-drink-2/3-of-a-bottle-of-champagne-by-myself ritual? Egads.

The Prep
After nearly eight years of marriage, D has accepted my Oscar-related eccentricities, although he continues to look bewildered when I flounce down the stairs in my gown and heels. He never dresses up, but he never drinks my champagne either. Plus he could care less about movie stars so he barely talks during the show. He's a perfect date.

One thing he finds especially bemusing is my insistence on making rich, indigestible hors d'ouvres to eat during the show. "Whatcha making tonight?" he asked as he got ready to go to the farm and help with chores. "Let me guess. Olives and eye of newt." I ignored him and continued to stuff mushrooms with parmesan-infused cream cheese. D had promised to be back in time to let me watch the opening number unhindered by children; he was welcome to his sarcasm provided he kept up his end of the deal.

Miraculously, I made the hors d'ouevres, fed the kids, and tucked them into bed and donned my Oscar finery just as D stomped through the door at 8:24 p.m. I think this was due in part to the fact that I treated myself to an extra-special dirty martini while the kids ate supper, but he doesn't have to know that.

Tipsy Toodles
The kids had experimented with all my ice cubes during the most recent stormy day, so after I measured the gin, opened the jar of olives and found the ice cube tray tragically bereft of ice, I was forced to think faster than an Oscar host after a winner drops an F-bomb. The only thing worse than a luke-warm martini was no martini. Then I remembered the smug hipsters giggling in snowbanks in an old Baileys TV commercial:

Screw you, ice cubes! Icicle martinis from now on! (Well, in the winter, at least.) At least the Prosecco was cold.

Nibbles
For some reason unknown to me, nearly all my hors d'ouvres were cheese-based this year. Maybe all these years of living within a 2km radius of my dairy farming in-laws is warping my taste buds.

Similar to the Oscar broadcast, my nibbles weren't anything spectacular, just some tried and true recipes from the Alisa Feick school of entertaining, along with a few of my own creations. I even made extra in case Carman showed up, which he didn't, because he still remembers the time I yelled at him for eating the Nacho Dip right off the serving plate. It was the one and only time Carman ever tried to watch the Oscars with me. I guess getting yelled at in his own living room by a crazy lady wearing an evening gown wasn't his cup of tea. Oh well. Nacho dip is always good for breakfast.

Who are you Wearing?
It's been a very happy winter for me for a change, which means I am also fatter than usual. When I'm unhappy or ill, I tend to look like a skeleton, all bones and angles. The better I feel though, the plumper I get. Squishy and happy or skinny and miserable? Hmmm…I think I'll take squishy. There's a treadmill around here somewhere, right? Anyway, being happy and squishy means my wardrobe choices were somewhat limited this year. I allowed the children to have a say in my choice and did a fashion show for them, which ended up, as it usually does, with both of them naked nudie and clomping around in my high heels. I went for a classier look this year, donning my silk jacket from San Francisco Chinatown and my favourite black pants. I finished the look with my mother's antique jet beads and tarted my face up considerably with more makeup than I wear at Hallowe'en. Jade was impressed; Dylan looked scared.

I know. I'm a bit silly. But couldn't everyone's life benefit from a little more silly? Oh, and I cut all my hair off. JUST LIKE J-LAW! It's totally going to get me in People magazine. Or at least the Kincardine News.

The Flicks
I managed to see several Oscar movies this year, and I'm glad that Dallas Buyer's Club was honoured appropriately, and that Sandra did NOT get best actress for Gravity. The movie itself rocked, but ugh to her performance, which was pretty much just heavy breathing and whimpers. And what's up with perfect waxing jobs in space, anyhow? Nebraska was a lovely, quiet little film and it deserved to get something just for being so hilarious and heartbreaking in such a non-explosive way. And June Squibb made me howl. With Nebraska, Alexander Payne created a handful of meaty roles for actors of a certain age, something I didn't see in any of the other films, and I'm glad he did.

Oh yeah, the Actual Show
What can I say? It was a rather mellow affair this year. Ellen was her usual pleasant and benign self. She's like the labrador retriever of hosts: kinda goofy and eager to please, hoping to get asked to sit on someone's lap. Like Douglas Adams might say, mostly harmless. I don't dislike her - how can you hate that face? - but I wasn't thrilled by her either. I suppose she's the middle ground between Billy Crystal's ancient schtick and Seth MacFarlane's acidic barbs. I just thank the Oscar gods that Anne and James will never, ever, ever be asked back.

Well friends, another year, another Oscars. See you in March 2015! Hopefully I can fit into a fancier gown by then.

PS: For a hilarious, spot-on review of the show, including fab photos and witty commentary, check out Hick Chic: http://hickchic.blogspot.ca/2014/03/2014-oscar-blog-report.html

Double or Nothing…the conclusion

My sister and I had lost the second Euchre game to the Brothers Lowry. Now we were on our second round of dirty martinis and starting to feel desperate. There was entirely too much Feick losing and Lowry winning going on for our liking. I think of myself as a liberated woman who doesn't need to prove herself in the company of men, but there's something about playing against my husband that makes my blood boil with a seething desire to win. Unfortunately, I suck at Euchre.

It was Carman's deal. The boys made smarmy remarks about expensive bottles of wine as I poured another round of drinks and shook the last of the Goldfish Pretzels into a bowl (emergency snacks - we were out of chips). Apropos of nothing, D held up Tanzi's new bikini, which she'd left out on the counter for my inspection. "What the hell is this?" he asked, holding it arm's length like it was a dead rat. When informed it was Tanzi's new bathing suit, he snorted and told her it had way too much material. Having bought seven of them for me over the years, D considers himself something of an expert on bikinis, and is of the "less is more" school of thought.

While my sister and D debated appropriate bikini sizes, I sucked on an olive and tried to think of the Euchre cheating signals my sister and I used when we were kids. That's when Tanzi proposed the most outrageous bet in the history of Someday.

"Okay boys. How about double or nothing?"

Everyone rolled their eyes.

If we win," she continued over the rim of her martini glass, "you guys have to put on my new bikini and get your picture taken in front of the Christmas tree."

A hush fell over the card table. The Lowry brothers eyed one another. I grinned; my sister was suddenly a genius. At least, three martinis made it seem like she was.

"D'you mean the outside tree?" asked Carman, looking dubious. It was -20 with the wind chill.

"Yup," said Tanzi.

"You're on," D said immediately. Clearly, he feared no loss. Carman did a kind of half-nod, half-shrug to signal his reluctant assent, then held up a finger. "Wait. What do we get if you guys lose?" he asked.

"Nothing," I said. "It's double or nothing. Get it?" I wasn't really sure that's what double or nothing meant, and I could tell Carman wasn't sure either, but for reasons best attributed to cider, he went along with it.

By now I'm sure you've guessed the outcome: the Feick girls smoked the Lowry boys and won the fateful bet. I'm proud to say that my husband and his brother said not one word of complaint, although they wore a look similar to the one they have when the Leafs fail to get into the playoffs.

I've been forbidden from posting any incriminating photos here ("Kim, I have a JOB.") but suffice it to say the boys followed through. Carman took the bottom half of the bikini, D took the top half and out they went in the frigid weather to pose with our wooden Santa in front of the Christmas tree. They were excellent sports and gracious, if humiliated, losers. Best of all, Tanzi and I have the proof to hold over their heads in all Lowry/Feick tourneys to come. Double or nothing has never been so sweet!

Hurray hurray, it's V-DAY!!!!!!

Say what you want, Valentine's Day is a happy little holiday in my books. I can't wait till the kids fall asleep so I can creep downstairs to make the kitchen table especially special. We've managed to decorate almost every room in the house so far, but I want to surprise Jade and Dylan with silly heart plates, my special red juice glasses that Jade not-so-secretly covets and heart-shaped pancakes in the morning. I blame my mother for spoiling us rotten with Valentine treats every year; even if you don't have kids or a significant other, there's gotta be SOMEONE in your school or work or life that's worthy of a little extra love on the 14th.

Here's an old post, which made me giggle a bit. As my dear old Babushka used to say, Happy Valenschtines!

Double or Nothing?

Every Christmas, my sister Tanzi comes up to Someday for a visit. This year, she was on vacation from her teaching stint in Bali, so it was extra special to have her stay over on Christmas Eve and wake up with us to witness the kids'Christmas morning frenzy.

Whenever she visits during the holidays, invite D's brother Carman over for a night of junk food, booze and euchre. Carm and Tanzi get along well, and D and I don't get many opportunities to indulge our competitive natures, so it's something I look forward to: a little brotherly/sisterly fellowship, a little marital one-upmanship. It's also a perfect opportunity to make bets, win bragging rights and generally be obnoxious to whomever loses. This year, double or nothing took on a new meaning.

Carman dutifully arrived after chores on the chosen night, freshly showered and wearing a nice sweater, which I took as a discreet compliment to Tanzi and a possible indication that my usually reticent bro-in-law actually enjoyed getting together for our social evening. Then he slumped onto the couch and asked D what the score of the Leafs game was.

"Guys!" I protested. "We're supposed to be playing cards!"

"Yeah!" Tanzi chimed in. "You're supposed to be visiting with me! Hello - I'm going back to BALI, you know."

The brothers Lowry didn't even look at us when they answered in eerie unison, "After the game."

Nonplussed, my sister and I cracked open a bottle of champagne (one of our Christmas holiday traditions) and broke out the Yahtzee dice to bide our time until the hockey was over. The Leafs were ahead by a couple of goals, then by one goal, then tied, and the boys winced and groaned as their favourite team's chances of winning diminished.

"Wanna bet on the game?" Tanzi asked D during a commercial break. The score was 3/3. D swivelled in his chair and stared at her while Carm looked skeptical. "What?" Tanzi asked, all wide-eyed innocence. "Whoever wins has to buy the other person a really expensive bottle of wine."

"Hardly a fair bet" I mumbled as I rolled the Yahtzee dice. "Leafs suck."

"I heard that," said D. "Okay, you're on." He set his mouth in a grim line, and turned back to the TV where the Leafs proceeded to win the game in a shootout.

"Whoo hoo, did I just win?" yelled my sister. She had maybe drunk a little too much champagne.

After correcting Tanzi's perception, D strutted over to the kitchen table to begin our euchre tourney with more swagger than usual. Oh great, I thought. Now they'll be extra cocky if we lose. I tried to telegraph a "let's kick their asses!" message to my sister as Carman divided the deck but she wasn't paying attention. As the cards were dealt, D uncorked a bottle of the boys' famous apple cider. The sisters Feick would need liquid courage of our own to face the smug brothers Lowry at euchre, so I made dirty martinis.

Martinis are not a common occurrence at Someday, as D loathes olives and gin with equal fervour and I'm not much for hard liquor. I seem to only drink martinis when my sisters are around, probably a throwback to watching our mom and her friends drink them by the gallon. Mom, ever the good Russkie, would take a bottle of Stolichnaya out of the freezer, pour a slow glug into one of her antique glasses, toss in a curl of lemon peel and Nastrovia! The Martini of champions was born.

I'm more of a gin-based, dirty martini kinda girl, which means pouring equal parts gin and olive juice into a martini glass and chucking a handful of olives in at the end. My sister oohed appreciatively as I set our martinis on the table, while Carman and D recoiled in disgust. They couldn't understand why anyone would refuse a glass of their beautiful cider, much less drink a glass of alcohol mixed with salty brine. At any rate, our poisons of choice only served to fuel the flames of competition as the euchre tourney of 2014 got underway.

Tanzi and I quickly and unceremoniously lost the first game in a devastating 10-3 score.

"Gimme another martini," commanded my sister before turning to Carman and D. "Okay, boys. We let you have that one."

"That's two bottles of wine," said D with a smirk as he shuffled the cards.

Tanzi waved her hand as though D was an annoying fly instead of an annoying brother-in-law. "Whatever. Quit stalling and start dealing." D obliged and we proceeded to lose the next game, which called for more cider, another round of martinis and an even more daring bet by my reckless sister.

Stay tuned for the conclusion to this startling tale of pride and debauchery...

Five Things About...a Week at the Cottage

Beach Bum (okay, just a bum)
We’ve been at my Aunt’s cottage on Bruce Beach since last Tuesday, and I’m suffering from a complete lack of motivation to do anything other than eat, read and drink a lot of coffee. Having two active kidlets with me the whole time has put the kibosh on engaging in any of these activities for more than ten minute intervals, but lemme tell you, there hasn’t been much writing, facebooking, laundry, bed making or even hair styling or underwear-wearing going on. It must be something to do with the constant rush of waves in the background. Maybe it’s the way the aspen trees whisper their secrets to one another all day. Or the feel of soft grass and warm sand on my toes. Possibly it’s the lazy drone of bumblebees, the chorus of cardinals and robins and chickadees, the rhythmic, tiny buzz-saw of cicada songs. Whatever it is, I do not want to do anything that even remotely resembles work, unless it involves eating or opening a bottle of wine. And that’s fine with me.

Good Eats
There’s something to be said for cooking in a kitchen that is not your own. You have to hunt for utensils (where IS the cheese grater, anyway?), discover which pot goes where (wow, my aunt stacks her pans together with almost architectural flair) and figure out what ingredients you have on hand before you can decide what to make. It’s fun, because cooking rarely feels like work to me, and I’m enjoying the whole scavenger hunt aspect as well. Plus the lake air gives me a huge appetite, so planning and executing supper every evening is a pleasure. Some of my favourite dishes so far:
- baby zucchinis, stuffed with onion, garlic, salty breadcrumbs and cheese, then barbecued to perfection
- walnut pesto with basil picked from the neighbour’s garden (with their permission, of course)
- vegetable ribbons with a sweet, creamy peanut sauce
- slabs of salmon glazed with maple syrup
- hot dogs and hamburgers scorched just right on the barbecue, served with thick slices of fresh tomato and sweet onion
- my friend Ruthie’s Greek salad, made with chunks of crisp, garden-grown cucumbers and juicy tomatoes
- the best ever banana muffins, thanks to the perfectly squishy bananas my aunt left behind (and the fact that I did not bring any whole wheat flour or bran to healthify them)
- a sour cream peach pie, made with slurpy Niagara peaches and my mother-in-law’s secret recipe
The only problem? Cooking = dishes, which counts as work. Which I clearly have no motivation whatsoever to do. Thank goodness for the dishwasher. And D.

Sleep, or lack thereof
Normally when I come to the cottage, I sleep like a satisfied baby. But weirdly, this year I haven’t been sleeping well at all. I chalk that up mostly to Dylan’s refusal to go to bed at a decent hour, or stay in his own bed once he does fall asleep. That kid is has become a menace after 9 p.m.. You’d think hours of sun and sand and running amok in the water would turn him into a zombie once the sun goes down, but it hasn’t. Jade, on the other hand, has built herself a nest of every spare pillow and blanket in the cottage. She staggers into her room at the end of each day, burrows into the pile and pretty much conks out until morning. Meanwhile, her brother either falls into an inconvenient coma around 6 p.m. and wakes up around 3 a.m. looking to party, or simply refuses to go to bed at all. Last night D decided he’d had enough, and physically blockaded the door to Dylan’s room. Dylan sobbed, begged, howled and finally fell asleep on the floor beside his bed. But he stayed there, miraculously, until about seven this morning. Which meant that for the first time in a week, I had a full, glorious night’s sleep. I woke up feeling sparkly and sunshiny, with enough energy to go for a long walk on the beach. A holiday at the cottage just isn’t complete without a good night’s sleep, so at least I had at least one...

Sunset and Moonrise
There are two things I’m either too sleepy or too busy to appreciate very often back at Someday: sunsets and moonrises. At the cottage, however, it’s an unspoken ritual for cottagers to come out and watch the sun melt into the horizon. We’ve had the good luck this week to have the moon waxing full, so our friend Luna appears to shine over our left shoulders as we say goodnight to the sun. Best of all, Jade and I have been taking sunset kayak rides each night, which I absolutely love. She trails her little fingers in the water, and we have conversations about this and that while I paddle, like whether we prefer the sun or the moon, and whether God is in charge of the world, and why pink really is the best colour in all of the universe. Dylan runs away every time I suggest a kayak ride; I wonder if he’s telepathically intercepted my occasional desire to dump him in the lake as payback for keeping me awake all week. No matter. It’s a special time for Jady and me, and I’m content to bid goodnight to the sun with her each night amidst the peace and stillness of the lake while Dylan regards us suspiciously from the shore.

Summer’s Almost Over...again
I can hear it in the increased volume of cricket songs at night. I can see it when the poplar leaves flip up and show me their pale underbellies. I can sense it in the sand that is cool under my feet at night instead of warm from a day’s heat. As much as I hate to admit it, summer is almost over. There is a wistfulness stirring inside me during our last few days at the cottage; even as the kids and I run and laugh until we’re breathless from playing sprinkler tag, even as we build and decorate sandcastles, even as I help them paint rocks, I know that this is the last summer we’ll be so carefree. Jady starts school in the fall; Dylan is changing and growing before my eyes; I may be going back to work before long. We’ll hopefully have more summers at the cottage together, but my kidlets won’t ever be this little, or this untroubled by responsibility again. With every leaf that swirls down and lands on the deck, and every degree the temperature drops each night, I’m reminded of how we can have enough of everything except time. This week has been fun, and tiring, and full of activity and so very precious to me. I supposed the only way to hold on to these memories is to let them happen, then let them go, knowing I can return to them whenever I need to steady myself in the whirlwind of autumn days to come.

The Kittification of Someday

(This is a revised and expanded version of a 2009 entry)

A month before we officially owned Someday, D and I went for an illicit hike through the meadow to look at the river. It was my idea; he warned me that if we were caught, we’d be in trouble, since we didn’t legally have possession of the land yet.

“Please,” I scoffed. “Who’s gonna catch us? The farming police? Don’t be such a chicken.”

So we had our tromp back to the river, Neko crashing through the undergrowth ahead of us. I was enchanted with the evergreen forest at the top of the hill, the wild apple trees and pussywillows, the swoosh of the Pine River as it flowed past our feet. I imagined lazy afternoons reading on the riverbank, envisioned taking my dad to fish there. Neko frisked around us and I jumped around in the tall grass and hugged D with delight. He patted me on the back with infinite patience. To him, the river was just an interruption in the farmland. To Neko and me, it was heaven.

As we clambered up the steep, goldenrod-choked path up from the river to the meadow, I noticed a figure leaning on the gate at the other end of the field.

“Oh good,” muttered D.

“Who’s that?” I asked, panting as we crested the hill.

“Doc Munn’s daughter. I told you we’d be in shit if we did this,” said D, grabbing Neko by the collar and clicking her leash on. “This should be fun.”

As we got closer, I put on my friendliest, most beguiling “Oh, is it wrong we’re on your land?” smile and went to introduce myself. Ms. Munn was not amused. She informed us we were trespassing and if one of us had broken a leg in the field or by the river there could have been deep legal trouble. I looked sideways at Dwain. He stood there and accepted the chastisement, although I could tell by his jaw he was about ready to give a lecture of his own. Neko, meanwhile, repeatedly choked herself in her eagerness to make new friends.

Ms. Munn had an old dog with her so we let our pets sniff each other while I attempted to make small-talk about animals and how beautiful the property was. This seemed to soften her up ever so slightly.

“I walk up here every night with my dog to feed the cats,” she informed us.

“Cats?” I asked. “What cats?”

Ms. Munn led us inside the abandoned horse stable and pointed out each of the four cats who lived there, giving us a brief history of each feline.

“This is Mummy,” she said, stroking the plump, purring black and white cat sprawled at our feet. “And that’s Black Betty,” she said, pointing to a pure black kitty reclining on some straw. “She’s named after your mother's cousin Betty Pollard,” Ms. Munn informed D tartly, “because they have the same personality.” I kept a straight face, vowing to remember this conversation word for word so I could amuse my in-laws with it later.

Next came the Teenager, so named because she was “moody,” and finally Frances, who peered at us from between a crack in the boards. “Don’t try to pick her up,” instructed Ms. Munn without further explanation. We also received detailed instructions about administering food, water and bi-annual rabies shots. She seemed so attached to the kitties that I timidly suggested she take them with her before we moved in. She looked at me as though I'd suggested we barbeque them and retorted, "It's the only home they've ever known." She went on to tell us that the cats were worth thousands of dollars, a statement that caused D to emit a choking sound Ms. Munn and I pretended to ignore. I could not wait to describe this scene to Carman.

We never ran into Ms. Munn again after that day, but she did leave us a card in the kitchen which we found the morning we moved in. “Aww, she must have left us a housewarming card,” I said, ripping it open and feeling bad that I’d found her so prickly on our first meeting. The card simply said, “Please take care of the cats. THIS IS THE ONLY HOME THEY'VE EVER KNOWN.” Two labelled photos of “the girls” were tucked inside. Apparently, Someday came pre-kittified.

My mother always had at least one cat in the house when I was growing up, a succession of different personalities named Vodka, Snowball, Velvet, Champagne, Selina, and Chaucer. Since Someday's barn cats were now mine, I decided to rename two of them a bit more creatively based on their personalities. Frances became Ricochet, because she exploded behind hay bales or under doors like a bullet as soon as I walked into the barn, and Mummy became Comfort. Mummy seemed like a silly thing to say to a cat who was fixed, and she was so cuddly and purry that Comfort just suited her.

Of the four, Comfort and Black Betty are the friendliest, the Teenager less so and Ricochet has never allowed herself to be touched. Maybe it’s because I don’t call her Frances.

It’s a lot of cats, even for a place as big as Someday. Neko is always a nose away from her food bowl, and she’s so huge it’s hard to ignore her for long. The cats are way down the lane in the barn though, and I have to mentally poke myself to remember to fill their food dishes and take water out every couple of days. They’ve all been spayed, which is awesome, but soon I’ll have to figure out how to get them rabies shots. Heaven knows they won’t easily be transported to the vet without a fight or three.

Jade took over cat-feeding duties as soon as she was able to walk back to the barn. She and Black Betty have a special bond, while my favourite is Comfort, whose mellow vibe and motorcycle engine purrs won me over from the first day I met her. It has become a morning ritual for Jady and I to walk back to the barn to visit the kitties and feed them, although it took me several days before I realized that Jade was managing to secretly eat a handful of cat food every time.


One day, we went to feed the kitties, only to find a giant, marmalade-coloured interloper in their midst. I was surprised, to say the least. Someday cats are mild-mannered, clean and friendly. This new kitty was enormous, filthy and looked like he knew cat-kwon-do. Even Jade, lover of all animals, treated him with suspicion. "Dat kitty big," she said, and gave him a wide berth.

He stared at me defiantly as I tried to figure out where he had come from and what I should do about it. I didn't recognize him from Blair's Grove or even Robbie's farm up the road. It was spring; I guessed he'd come in search of a meal and a wife, the latter in which he'd be sorely disappointed. In the end, I shrugged and scooped a little extra Barn Cat kibble. They must know him, I thought, as my kitties meowed and prowled around my legs like Mr. Marmalade was no big deal. Maybe they invited him over for supper.

Well, the moment the kibble hit the plates, Mr. Marmalade barged right in, elbowed Comfort and Black Betty out of the way and began gobbling food like a lion at a kill. The other cats ignored him and went to the other plate of food. But Mr. M. must have thought they were getting something tastier, because he flew over to the other plate, hip-checked them all out of the way and plunged into their food like...well, like Neko.

I swear I could hear the Teenager sigh as she looked up at me with an exasperated expression and trudged back to the first plate again. Apparently Mr. M. was not so much a guest as a party crasher, and a flea-ridden one at that. His table manners left much to be desired. Someday cats are mellow creatures who wait patiently for their food and eat it in delicate little crunchy bites. With the exception of Ricochet, they love to be petted and stroked, and will often curl up in my lap. Mr. M’s eyes get all squinty and serial-killer-ish if I try to come near him, and the one time I snuck up and laid my hand on his back, he jumped a foot in the air and glared at me like I’d just tasered him.

So Mr. M. has got to go. He eats too much and doesn't want to make friends. He bullies my foursome of genteel kitties and I don't like it. Herein lies the proverbial rub: how do I get rid of the creature? I’ve tried to shoo him away. He runs two feet and then stops, as if daring me to chase him. I’ve yelled at him, made weird noises, stomped my feet and threatened to let Neko finish him off - all to no avail. Mr. M. has established himself as the newest, greediest resident of Someday Farm and I have absolutely no idea how to get rid of him humanely.

I asked a few friends, who suggested raccoon traps, calling the local vet or just putting up with him. I have absolutely no desire to trap a cat, much less a raccoon by accident. The local vet would laugh at me. So I guess I’m left with a grudging acceptance of our new resident and the fact that Someday may become increasingly kittified. But at least I don’t have to worry about the Teenager getting pregnant.

Hey Shorty, it's your Birthday...

I'm 43.



43!!!

Which is kinda awesome, in my opinion. No longer in my carefree, naive 20's, or my semi-tragic, semi-romantic 30's. Nope, now I'm in my ever-evolving 40's. Mother, daughter, sister, wife, writer, unrepentant coffee addict, and looking to gain ten pounds, I'm adjusting my Aries horns and ready to ram my way into my 44th year. Look out, Bruce County.

Having dealt with so much nastiness these past three years, you'd think I'd be less than thrilled with this decade of life so far. Not so. I've been able to occasionally grasp that ephemeral sense of peace people have been encouraging me to seek. It's fleeting, but now at least I know it's there. Plus I'm filled with relief that the worst seems to be behind me, thankful for the funny, cosy, healthy moments that make regular appearances in my life now that I'm taking the time to notice them. Mindfulness, living in the moment, blah blah blah. I hate all that Oprah-speak, but the concepts are surprisingly great when you discover they're real and not just some crap Dr. Phil made up.

"So what do you want for your birthday, Kimmy?" is the question from D that starts getting asked in mid-February and usually lets up around April 1st, the day before my birthday. It's weird. This year, I didn't really want anything, not even a get-together with friends or a fancy dinner out. The absence of anxiety seems like gift enough. I was treated to cake and gifts by my family and in-laws on the weekend, and Jade drew me the cutest card, complete with a giant green balloon and a portrait of me with enormous ears. That fit the bill.

Then I found out that for the last two weeks, D had been frantically trying to buy me a 150 CC motorbike. What the what?? He'd put in three separate offers that all fell through, which explains his extra grumpiness lately. He told me he was going to put it in the garage with a big pink bow on it and make me take out the recycling. I was tickled by his covert plan, even though I don't really need a motorbike. I convinced him to buy me a non-fiction book I've been wanting to read called An Inconvenient Indian instead. Somehow, I don't think he was overly thrilled with the substitution. Motorbike vs. book? He just rolled his eyes.

"It was very sweet of you to try and buy me a bike," I whispered to D in bed on April Fool's night. He grunted, still ticked off at his bad luck. As I drifted off to sleep, my mind wandered over to that back shelf of my brain where I keep my (clean) fantasies. If I could have anything I wanted for my 43rd birthday, besides a motorbike, what would I want? How about..

- a plane ticket to Calgary and a rental car so I could drive out to Banff for a week of writing at the Banff Centre. I soooo miss the mountains and the smell of the air there. And the food at the Banff Centre canteen. Banff always makes me feel like a writer.

- rent a horse and go riding for a couple of hours along a wooded trail. I'd hear the jingle of the bridle, the squeak of the saddle, the whoosh of horse breath and the clump-clump of horse feet. There would be warm flanks under my legs, cold air on my nose, sunshine in my hair. There would be birdsong and blue sky. Yeah.

- hole up at the cottage on the couch with the fireplace cranked up and a dozen blankets on me. I'd sip coffee and Baileys, read the paper and my books, snooze, order pizza from Ripley for supper and drink wine with D as we devoured each gooey slice. We'd curl up together on the couch and watch the fire after the kids went to bed and listen to the waves, newly released from their icy shackles. And, um. You know. "Cuddle."

- go back to Florida for another 10 days!

The reality of my 43rd birthday was pleasant, if not as exciting as some of my fantasies. I had a lazy morning with the kids, where we cuddled and tickled and teased, before Grandma took over for the rest of the day. Sushi was on the menu for lunch, with a great girl from my Mom's group for company. We had some good laughs together about hapless husbands and wacky preschoolers. I went for a pedicure to get rid of my hideous hobbit feet, after which I foolishly ruined the polish job with a long hike in what the kids call "The Muddy Woods" (aka the Kincardine trails). I discovered a new trail that led me up a steep hill flanked with cedars and reminded me of the trail that connects the town of Banff to the Banff Centre. It even had icy spots and coyote tracks. All it was missing was elk poop. On my way back into town, I grabbed a mochaccino at Books N Beans, snuck into the library with it and my laptop to blog and write and Facebook the afternoon away. Sunshine on the desk, dude reading a Wolverine comic in the corner, a collection of sweet birthday greetings online, peace and quiet. In a word: lovely.

After a few flirty texts, I packed up and met D for supper at the dim, cosy room at the back of the Governor's Inn. The food's always great there and the servers are sweet. After that, kid pick-up and tuck-in, a few glasses of wine in front of the fireplace and 43 spanks. (Okay, I made that last part up) (Sort of)

Let's hope the rest of 2013 perks up for this ol' lady, cause the first half hasn't been a laugh riot. I guess that's my biggest birthday wish.

Be the Hausfrau you want to see in the world...

This time of year, days fly by like panicked geese trying to outdistance a snowstorm. One minute you’re flopped on the couch thinking, “I’ll just watch TV for twenty minutes, Christmas isn’t for another six weeks yet,” the next you’re staring in horror at the calendar, realizing you still haven’t taken the kids’ Christmas photo or done up your cards or mailed your sister’s present or taken down the last of the Hallowe’en decorations and holy crap where did we put all the freaking snow brushes?

As the holiday tasks pile up on top of all my regular domestic chores, I tend to fight feelings of rising panic by using self-talk. You know, helpful cognitive-therapy-type stuff like:

Kim, just do one bloody thing at a time.
or,
Kim, focus. FOCUS! Right now you are doing the dishes. Leave the Christmas cards alone. And Facebook. And - ooh, was that your phone?
or,
Kim, the Baileys is in the liquor cabinet. Go and drink some.

On Mondays I try to do as much domestic goddess stuff as possible so that I can free up my other sans kids days for writing, and my nights for Christmassy things. I’m one of those people who has five lists going on any given day; I’m convinced that without these lists, my head would explode. Grocery lists, Christmas gift lists, Christmas card lists, stuff-I-want-to-do-today lists...they lay scattered about the house, stuffed into pants and coat pockets, jammed into my purse. I even found an old list from last year at the bottom of one of my Christmas decoration bins on the weekend, and it looks so good I might use it again this year. Lists help me empty my busy brain and keep track of what I think I should be doing on a particular day. Plus I get an almost post-coital satisfaction out of ripping them up once I’ve checked everything off.

This week my Monday list grew faster than Pinnochio’s nose. Holy geez, I thought after adding item number 14. How am I going to get all this done before I pick up the kids? I wasn’t feeling great to begin with, and just writing everything out made me want to crawl back into bed. Snap out of it, I thought. Get all this crap done before 3 p.m. and you’ll have time for a nap. There’s your reward. Now get going!

I don’t know why I drill sergeant myself on Mondays. I can’t imagine D ordering himself around like this if he were home; but then again, D likes to be busy. I think many women have this crazed instinct to GET STUFF DONE, especially those of us who work at home and are thereby expected to keep the good ship household afloat all by our capable little selves. There’s a deep vein of domestic guilt running through all my thoughts ever since I left my job: I’m home, so therefore I should be GETTING STUFF DONE. So I do.

D does help - he takes the kids to daycare, he picks them up, he takes out the garbage, etc. There were simply a lot of things that had to be done on Monday that I couldn’t skip, put off, or artfully delegate to someone else. Such as:
- collect Jade’s dance class outfit, shoes, snack and registration form; place by front door so as not to show up to dance class with a wailing child wearing track pants and winter boots
- write cheque for daycare
- pick up Jade, take her to dance class without Dylan seeing us
- return Jade to daycare after dance class without Dylan seeing us
- plan weekly meals
- shop for weekly meals
- unload & unpack groceries for weekly meals (which always culminates in the unpleasant task of cleaning out last week’s expired lunchmeat and squishy fruit from the fridge)
- dry laundry forgotten in washing machine from the night before
- fold laundry
- sort & put away laundry
- engage in battle of wits with crockpot to make baked beans (because for some reason I thought it would be a good idea to soak 2 lbs of white beans the night before)
- buy flowers and chocolate for mother-in-law’s birthday
- make apple tart for mother-in-law’s birthday (which sounds fancy, but is easy peasy and I didn’t have the energy for cupcakes)
- make spaghetti sauce for mother in law’s birthday (because both Kincardine Chinese restaurants are closed on Mondays)
- load car with birthday stuff
- pick up kids from daycare
- drive to mother-in-law’s for birthday supper

Yeah.

I was busy smacking my crockpot with a wooden spoon because the beans did not look like baked beans, but rather like loose stool with white beans flowing in it, when my “time for a nap, deserving hausfrau” alarm went off. Apart from the wretched beans, I’d finished almost everything else on the list. Yay me! But instead of feeling pleased with myself, I felt exhausted and mopey and lonely. I could be a housefrau with a vengeance, and most of the time I was pretty good at it. I just wasn’t sure whether or not I liked it.

I looked at the clock. 3:02 p.m. I looked out the window. Chickadee party at the bird feeder. I looked at my coffee maker. I swear it winked at me.

Suddenly, I knew what I needed. It wasn’t a stupid nap.

I made a pot of Kicking Horse coffee, poured it into my beloved thermos and doused it with Baileys. Got my favourite little mug out of the cupboard - an antiquey looking blue cup I got from a Waterloo neighbour who was cleaning out her basement - loaded up the car with the sauce, presents, galette and flowers, and drove down to the cottage.

Man, I love the cottage. Even when the windows are boarded up and the blinds are all drawn, it welcomes me. I plunked my thermos and mug down on the deck and took a few photos to show my Aunt and cousins, who never get to visit the cottage between October and May.

It was 11 degrees out with hardly any wind, which is very weird for December. The lake had receded so far that the rock my cousins had christened Diving Rock stood completely out of the water, awkward as a stranded whale. The beach was predictably deserted.

I uncorked my thermos and poured some coffee, then sat on the deck and took a deep swallow of caffeinated, Bailey-fied goodness. I knew I only had about half an hour before I needed to pack up and get the kidlets, but half an hour was plenty of time to do what I needed to do: chill out. Stop doing stuff. Take off my imaginary hausfrau helmet of invincibility - I picture it having big golden horns and a lightning bolt sticking out of the top - and suck in a big breath of damp, beachy air.

All that “just be” and “live in the moment” crap can jump the gap between corny and downright annoying pretty quickly. But sometimes a girl just needs to be and not do. For minds that tend to race from one thing to the next, not doing stuff, even for just a few minutes, is a sanctuary. It takes cultivation. It takes a willingness to be kind to yourself. Sometimes, it takes Baileys and coffee and the lake.

And you know what? The darned beans turned out all right in the end.

Date Night, Someday Style

My friend Ruth and I have our wedding anniversaries on the same day. We both have two young children and know how precious a night out with our hubbies can be. Last year, a few days before my fifth anniversary and her eleventh, we were talking on the phone and comparing battle plans.

“What are you guys doing to celebrate?” I asked her.

“Oh, I think we’re going out for dinner to Bhima's and then to a movie. We’re going to try to get away for a weekend too. What are you and D up to?”

“Well,” I said, “We’re going to the Legion in Lucknow. They’re having a dance.”

It’s not often that I can make Ruth go completely silent. Most of my city pals have never darkened the door of a Legion, much less celebrated a special occasion by dancing there. What can I say? Date night in the country can be a unique experience.

Don't get me wrong; there is a wide variety of stuff to do up here, just as there is in the city. You can still take your sweetheart to a movie, eat out at a posh restaurant, or see a live show. The difference is that the movie theatre is cosy and has fabulous popcorn, you can probably get into the restaurant without making a reservation a month in advance, and you're likely to recognize a relative performing at the theatre. But why bother with these boring old choices when there are so many other opportunities to get your romance on, country style?

Take the dump, for instance. A place often relegated to husbandly duty, the dump was a revelation to me the first time I was invited to come along. Yes, the smell in the summer is fit to gag you and sometimes you see rotting stuff you wish you hadn’t. But there are so many good things about the dump that cancel out the nastier bits. Like the dress code. No high heels, Spanx or hairspray are necessary. I simply pull on my grungiest jeans, D’s oldest sweatshirt, my trusty rubber boots and I’m good to go.

Then there's the truck. Many Bruce County women own trucks, or are used to driving them regularly, but riding in - or better yet, driving - a pickup is still a novelty to me. Especially when D says, “Your turn to back ‘er up, Kimmy,” and I have to navigate the truck backwards to the (gulp) edge of the dump pit, which is a gaping hole in the earth that looks big enough to swallow three tractor-trailers whole. Nothing gets the heart pumping like the thought of demolishing your spouse’s beloved vehicle, and nothing makes a country boy randier than watching a woman back up a large piece of machinery.

To me, the best part of the dump is when I have to clamber over the tailgate to help chuck stuff into the pit. There’s something incredibly freeing about getting rid of all the accumulated crap that’s built up over a season by sending it sailing as far as your skinny arms can throw. I also get wicked satisfaction from tossing armfuls of the twigs and brush I’ve cleared out of the gardens in the spring and fall; it feels good to trim it, but it’s even more gratifying to pitch it into the pit. And don’t underestimate the goofy, childish high you get when you throw in something breakable that makes a glorious smash. When your man raises an eyebrow and remarks, "Good one, hon'," you know your country romance is going strong.

To be honest, I never really thought of going to the dump as a "date" until the second time we went and the friendly clerk said, "So, out on another dump date today, folks?" My husband looked sheepish. "Hey, if you're out together without the kids, consider it a date," she reassured us, handing over two of her trademark lollipops. I decided she had a point. With both of us working full time and two active little ones at home, time alone with D had become a rare commodity. A dump date was fine with me.

Motorbike rides are another outing with D that I never tire of. I wouldn't have dared climb on the back of his elderly Honda in the city, but it's more exciting to bump over fields and scare seagulls than it would be to putt-putt our way through Waterloo traffic. Plus, on a motorbike we can get up close and personal with the mighty windmills, or take a mellow drive under a canopy of trees on the lower shore road. It’s just not the same in the city. We have so many motorbikey memories here, anyway; D knows that for me, the best motorbike date is a trip to the lighthouse, where we reminisce about our engagement (he knelt beside his motorbike at the foot of the lighthouse), and end up at the restaurant in Point Clark for some fries and souvlaki. It’s simple, and perfect.

Beach dates are a given, especially with my aunt’s cottage so close by. Swimming in heavily chlorinated city pools was never a favourite pastime of mine; I much prefer a stealthy skinny dip in the lake to a noisy, crowded pool that makes my hair smell like bleach for a day. I took D to the Goderich pool on a date night, since he loves swimming and it too cold for the beach, but I just can’t find my lovey dovey vibe at a public pool. D isn’t much of a beach person, so I treasure the times when he relents to a long walk on the sand without the kidlets tagging along. There’s just something about the purr of the waves beside us, the stars twinkling out above and the soft sand beneath our feet that brings out the lover in me. Even when D insists on wearing socks and shoes.

One date night I never pictured myself enjoying was spending a Saturday evening in the barn, milking cows. Now that we have two little ones in our lives, I’ve decided that pretty much any time together alone with D is an opportunity for romance, even in a stinky dairy barn. Leaning in for a quick kiss as we pass each other on the walkway, belting out our favourite songs to an audience of cows and cats and the odd squirt-of-milk fight makes our time together in the barn pleasant. There's something to be said about working side by side with the guy you love, even if you're up to your ankles in poop

We still catch the occasional movie or have supper out. But the date nights that stand out in my mind are the ones that could only happen up here in Someday land: learning to drive a tractor while cutting hay at 1 a.m.; throwing brush into the gully on a hazy September afternoon (and clocking D in the noggin with a wayward branch); taking long snowshoe tramps in snow that shone like diamonds all around us. I'll never forget the morning I wandered out onto our bedroom balcony and looked down to find my name growing in the grass; my hubby had drawn it in triple 16 fertilizer early in the spring without telling me. Stuff like that just wouldn't have happened back in Waterloo.

As D and I twirled around the creaky wooden floor of the Lucknow Legion last year on our anniversary, enjoying the familiar sounds of the Glen Boyd Orchestra, I couldn't stop smiling. Ruthie may have been skeptical of our choice of date, but she’s just never experienced romance, Someday-style.

Garlified

I come from a long line of garlic lovers. My Babushka lived to be 96, and I'm convinced it was due to her daily consumption of garlic. She grew it herself, threw it into almost every dish she cooked, and even put it in her ear during one well-intentioned but unfortunate ear-ache incident (apparently it works, but it's preferable to stick a whole clove in your ear rather than chopping it up and shoving it into your ear canal).

My father's favourite appetizer is a slice of raw garlic on top of a slice of summer sausage on top of a cracker. My sister and I tend to avoid kissing him goodbye after visits involving this snack. My mother was another famous garlic-lover; she's the one who taught me the sacred trick of mashing a clove all around the bowl before you make caeser salad dressing, and jamming little slices of it into your roast before you cook it. One of our favourite things to eat was artichokes - she'd chop up raw garlic and douse it in melted butter, and we'd swish the artichoke leaves in the golden liquid and run them through our teeth. My sister and I used to challenge each other to drink a glass of milk afterwards; milk never tastes as foul as after a spoonful or two of garlic butter.

As for myself, I used to be addicted to roasted garlic smeared over crusty bread when I was just out of university and learning to enjoy food that didn't come in a can. It was all the rage in restaurants in the 90's. And I started getting spoiled: the great dried lumps of Chinese store garlic paled in comparison to my Baba's sweeter, smaller version; I would beg some from her whenever I'd visit and go home with my precious cargo. It was almost too good to share.

If you haven't grown up with it, garlic can be something of an oddity. I can remember being shocked when making spaghetti sauce at a friend's place; when I asked him for garlic, he handed me garlic powder. He'd never even seen a bulb of garlic before. After my shock wore off, I gave him a lecture and sent him to the grocery store; I credit myself for creating a life-long love of the stuff after that first meal.

Sadly, D has a love/hate relationship with the stinky bulbs of goodness. He is of the garlic-powder generation, and while he enjoys all my garlic-infused sauces, marinades and roasts, his body can't seem to process the stuff. It oozes out of his pores, no matter how long the garlic's simmered in a pot of pasta sauce or soaked in a beef stew. God forbid I ever serve it to him raw; I think his head would explode.

So, for the sake of marital harmony, I rarely make anything with raw garlic these days. Until last night.

Last night I was glancing through my mother's old cookbooks for inspiration. I had one eye on Jade as she devoured her grape/crackers/cheese snack while watching Toopy and Binou, and one eye on Mom's tattered, splattered pasta cookbook when a recipe for pesto lept out at me. I checked the ingredient list: I had pine nuts. A bunch of basil. A hunk of parmesan. And of course I had garlic. Tally ho!

After a quick rummage through the fridge, and a brief tussle with the Magic Bullet, I had my pesto. I sauteed mushrooms in wine and butter, threw in some steamed asparagus and chopped up leftover chicken breast. I gooped all the pesto on top and stirred it in. I tossed the sauce, which smelled like happiness, with some spagettini, topped it with fresh parmesan, and JOY!!! Supper was served.

While my daughter ate plain noodles, asparagus and chicken and eyed me warily ("Why you eating grass, Mama?"), I tucked in to my masterpiece. The first bowl was heavenly. The basil and parsley tasted of spring, the olive oil mingled richly with the fresh parmesan. And the garlic....it had bite and spice and flavour galore. Why didn't I use raw garlic more often? I could live to be 96 too! I was going to make a caeser salad tomorrow for breakfast!

Halfway through the second bowl, I began to feel that slightly queasy, sweaty, self-loathing feeling I like to refer to as garlified. My body hadn't had raw garlic in quite some time; now it was waking up and telling me so. I drank two glasses of water and packed away the leftovers unceremoniously in the fridge.

Strangely, my husband ate his garlicky pasta without a word of complaint. Then again he did top it with more chicken and a handful of the salad I'd made; perhaps this downplayed the effects. At any rate, I brushed, flossed and even mouthwashed that night to no avail. Every exhalation turned into a cloud of noxious nastiness that seemed to hang over my head. After a fitful sleep, I woke up feeling like our septic tank had leaked into my mouth. Even hanging my mouth open in the shower didn't help much.

So the pesto was delicious, but the aftermath - the garlic hangover - is too gross to repeat anytime soon. And the irony that my husband is suffering no ill effects at all is just plain annoying.

I'm sure that somewhere in the afterlife, my mother is rolling her eyes Baba is shaking her head at her daft granddaughter. And somewhere, a garlic bulb is laughing.

A Maple Syrup Hissy Fit

If there's one thing I adore, it's maple syrup. And if there's one thing I adore about maple syrup, it's maple syrup festivals. Oh, the walk through the woods, the smell of wood fires, the pleasant people dressed in period costumes, the kettle corn line ups, and best of all, the pancakes and sausages and syrup...I think it's just great.

My loving husband, however, has a slightly different viewpoint, as evidenced by our conversation the other night.

Me: (bouncing around in an annoying fashion): Guess what time of year it is???
D: (grimly) What?
Me: MAPLE SYRUP TIME!!!! It's the old time maple syrup festival this weekend and-
D: No.
Me: But-
D: NO.
Me: What do you mean, no?
D: I AM NOT GOING TO THAT $#@^& THING EVER AGAIN.
Me: (pouting) But you went last year.
D: Yes. And I'm not going this year.
Me: But the kids will love it!
D: I don't care.
Me: (batting eyelashes and making wanton gestures in his direction) Don't you love me anymore?
D: Yes. (holds his hand up high in measurement) I love you THIS much. (holds other hand significantly lower) And this is how much I love that stupid sh*tty festival. I'm NOT GOING. EVER. AGAIN.

Well. At least he got it out of his system. The question is, do I attempt to take two children under the age of three to an outdoor festival myself, or do I stay home and sulk? Or (and this is the idea that really appeals to me) do I run away and leave D with the kids, and go by myself, gorge on pancakes and kettle corn and come home when I'm satisfied?

Hmmmm....

Hullo again, Oscar

Chris Rock presented, Sheila E percussed, J-Lo nipplegated, Clooney kissed Crystal, French dudes kissed each other, James Earl Jones smiled, Tina Fey glamourpussed...now THAT was a good show.

Yup, it's that time again. MY time. My goofy, long-awaited, eagerly anticipated, make-D-shake-his-head-but-admire-my-legs night: the OSCARS!

I didn't have time to run out to the store to buy anything fancy for my hors d'ouevres this year, so I had to make do with what I had in the fridge. So the menu was as follows:
- roasted sugared almonds & walnuts
- roasted garlic and apple wrapped in hungarian salami
- cheese & grapes
- olives
- veggies and baba ganouj
- chinese dumplings and sesame chicken
- teeny tiny leftover valentine's cookies

And of course the requisite champers, sipped (okay glugged) from my hand-painted Perrier-Jouet glasses. Not an overly fancy spread, but delicious all the same. I'd include a recipe, but it's all pretty easy stuff. Except the cookies but they're a family secret. Although I do highly recommend Canadian garlic if you're going to bother roasting any - the sweetness is leagues above the imported Chinese stuff.

Best of all, I had an excuse to wear the new silk coat D brought me from San Francisco Chinatown. It's so glamourous - shot silk, blue in one light, green in another, embroidered with tiny rosebuds. Paired with my old black dress, it made me wish for a red carpet.

Another Oscars, another night of silly fun.

In Praise Of....Naps

Ah, the nap. One of my favourite mid-life discoveries. I was too energetic, antsy and - let's face it - caffeine fueled to appreciate the art of napping until I hit my 30's; now that I'm in my 41st year, I find that napping is one of those under appreciated pleasures I simply cannot live without.

To those of you who might say that napping's not an art, or that it's a luxury few can afford, I acknowledge that the pursuit of the perfect nap is not unlike the pursuit of the perfect cup of coffee: elusive and often disappointing, but oh so satisfying when you do find it.

To me, a really good nap has to be unplanned. It's not something you thumb into your BlackBerry calendar or block off on your day planner. A truly gratifying nap can only occur when you stumble upon a block of time in your day that you suddenly realize can in fact be sacrificed to the gods of slumber.

A nap should be at least 20 minutes long. But snore for longer than an hour and you'll wake up feeling more sloggy than refreshed. Snoozing should enhance your evening sleep, not supplant it. But the 20 minute thing is what makes napping so accessible. We can all find 20 minutes in our day. We just have to be willing to look for it, and sacrifice it on the altar of sleep.

I don't think you have to have kids to fully appreciate the restorative powers of a good nap, but it helps. After Jade came along, I quickly learned that crusty dishes, mountains of laundry, dust elephants and full email inboxes all paled in comparison to a snooze on the couch with her nestled snugly on my chest. I couldn't have survived the long nightly nursing sessions without those treasured daily naps. Baby Dylan's arrival has helped me rediscover the beauty of a good sleep, housework be damned! When I spy him snoring away with his arms thrown over his head in that utterly vulnerable, utterly content way only children have, I remember the inherent pleasure of a good nap and lay down beside him to partake of some zzzzs.

There's a good deal of guilt one has to overcome in order to perfect the art of napping. In this age of addictive social networking, high self-expectations and super-parenting, it's hard to stay offline, pursue a career, keep the house looking beautiful and dream up new ways to educationally entertain your kids. Naps? Ha! Those are for lonely, lazy people! Underachieving slackers! People who don't eat right or work out enough! Right?

Well, all I can tell you is that even on my most energetic days, naps have saved my sanity countless times and become a simple act of self-preservation. I come up with some of my most creative ideas as I'm drifting off to happy nappy land. I'm a better spouse and mother when I've taken that precious time out of my day to recharge. Trust me: napping is more than just an art we should all attempt to master. It's a life preserver in our hectic, scary-busy sea of life.

In praise of...the bath

I keep forgetting to contribute to my "In praise of" blog series. It was supposed to be a monthly homage to the good stuff in life, but I think I missed November entirely. Oopsie. It certainly isn't because I don't have enough good stuff in my life, either. Nope, life is rife with the good stuff; just not rife with writing/blogging time it seems.

Anyway, today I will wax poetic about THE BATH. Last week D and I stayed at the London Armories hotel, and there was a glorious, deep, marble tub in our room that we promptly made use of. I'd almost forgotten how amazing it is to float shoulder-deep in hot water for an hour. We've been having some water issues at Someday, so I've avoided the bath because I don't want my skin to turn a brilliant rusty orange the way our toilets have from the iron in the water. But spending some time in the bath has inspired me to sing its praises...

- A bath is the ultimate mood enhancer. Anxious about the presentation you have to give tomorrow? Upset about a romance gone sour? Screaming baby making your hair fall out? The bath is the answer, my friend. As soon as you start running the water, your shoulders will release themselves from their hiding place beside your ears. Drop your clothing on the floor and you'll feel your breath start to deepen. Sink into the luxurious warmth of a full tub and all the nastiness of life seems to disappear, if only for an hour or two. Add a few candles and a glass of wine, and you've got yourself a few hours of pure, simple bliss. Ahhhhh....

- Food tastes better in the bath. Eat in the bath, you say? Oh yes. And somehow, eating and drinking in the bathtub makes everything taste better. Red wine becomes silkier, popcorn is crispier, apple slices are tangier, chocolate is...um...chocolate-y-er. I think it's because eating in the tub is a bit taboo, kind of like eating in bed. And we all know that doing something slightly naughty is just plain fun. Don't believe me? Try floating a plastic bowl of buttered popcorn beside you in the tub next time you climb in and see if you don't agree. The only downside is fishing out the mushy bits that don't make it to your mouth.

- You get to be naked. There just aren't enough acceptable times and places a person can be naked and feel completely relaxed; the bath is an exception. Not only are you supposed to be naked, it would be weird if you weren't. So look down, appreciate your wonderful naked self - wrinkles, hairy bits, freckles and saggies and all! Our bodies are pretty cool things and treating them to a nice, warm bath is a good way to show yourself you care.

- Your voice becomes magically enhanced. Singing in the bath is even better than singing in the shower, because your voice carries up from the depths of the tub and bounces off the water. I can easily become Beyonce when I'm in the tub. Or at least one of those nerdy kids from Glee.

- You can be alone. Perfectly, wonderfully alone. You can close the door. You can even lock it if you have such a luxury. Baths are times for solitude and reflection. Unless, of course, you have a big ol' tub with room for a friend. But that's a whole different blog entry.

Stuff I'm slightly embarrassed to admit I like

Oh come on. Everyone has a list. You're just too chicken to blog about it.

1) Baby Duck/Molson Canadian
Cheap, sweet, fizzy wine drunk out of plastic cups on the beach at midnight tastes just like Veuve Cliquot. Trust me. And I'm the beery snobbiest of beer snobs, but a bottle of Canadian so cold your lips almost stick to it is the best way to quench your thirst on a muggy August day. Plus it has fuelled more two-steps and helped me wash down more salty midnight buffets at wedding receptions, stag n' does and reunions than I can count. How can you not love a beer that does that for $2.00 a cup?

2) Friends
I really can't say why this show makes me laugh so much. I mean, it's fairly predictable and not exactly high-brow humour. But there are a few episodes (the one where Phoebe pretends to seduce Chandler, the one where Jon Lovitz is a stoned restaurant owner, the one where Joey discovers that his tailor is a pervert) that make me howl every time I see them. I guess the show is kind of like a warm blanket of sorts; you know the characters, you know the dialogue and you know what's gonna happen because you've seen the episodes a million times. It's not as acerbic as Seinfeld was. It's kind of like eating a nice, warm, fresh squishy plain doughnut. Not great for you, but it won't kill you either.

3) Zoodles
There's something to be said for limp noodles in sweet tomato sauce with a sodium content that would fill three salt shakers. Plus, it comes out of a can! I don't think the recipe or packaging has changed since I was a kid, which is impressive. And this stuff saved my life after my C-section when no other food appealed to me. Now the real question: are Alphaghetti and Zoodles just cleverly disguised fraternal twins? I must do a blind taste test someday.

4) Journey/Abba/Simon & Garfunkel
Ahhh, listening to those soothing ballads punctuated by Steve Perry's freakish high notes on a long trip home from Waterloo. The tinny melodies of Bjorn, Benny and the girls as background music while I make supper. Singing along to the warbling, angsty harmonies of Sim n' Garf as I dust the living room. These tunes are all leftover loves from my teen years when I'd play the same albums over and over and over again. Not enduring classics to any ears but mine, probably. It's still fun to make up words to Abba songs though.

5) The X-Files
I think I've mentioned before how obsessed I am with this show, 7 years after it ended. At first, I had to content myself with reading the episode guide books, which are mostly awful. Then my good friends lent me the entire nine-season DVD collection, which was just mean, 'cause now all I want to do during every spare minute is watch Mulder and Scully play with their flashlights. Jade probably has so much alien conspiracy dialogue embedded in her little brain from all the times I've nursed her while watching X-Files; I've no doubt that someday, I'll be lamely trying to explain why she insists on drawing green men with big eyes during a parent-teacher interview.

Guilty Pleasures

1) Sometimes I spend the whole morning wearing nothing but one of D's shirts and some socks. Why? Because I can. (I love working from home!)

2) Once every couple of weeks, I take myself out for lunch. I'll either gorge on the Chinese buffet at New Seasons, or indulge in goat cheese & black bean quesadillas at Watercress Cafe. Then I drive home, stuffed and happy. My afternoon productivity is all the better for it.

3) Quite often when I cook supper, I throw on my favourite Bollywood CD and wind around the kitchen. (Admittedly, this is getting harder to do the bigger my belly gets...)

4) There is nothing more satisfying than taking a good hot shower in the middle of the day. On my break, of course.

5) I've given up buying no-name ice cream. It's either Haagen-Daaz, or it ain't in my freezer.

6) I'm a rabid X-Files fan. Yes, I know David Duchovny is now a balding sex addict. And yes - I know the last two seasons were bad enough to make even the most loyal fans want to poke their own eyes out. Don't even get me started on the latest movie. Call me uncool, passe, even a bit nerdy. I don't care. That's why I just finished reading the Season 6 episode guide from cover to cover. I cannot wait till my friends are finished with their DVD collection - seasons 4-8.

7) Sometimes I'll eat lunch at my desk, then use my allotted 1/2 hour to have a powernap. My heavens, it feels gooooood.

8) When I'm on a conference call, I sit in the beanbag D bought me a few years ago for Christmas. It feels so naughty to be chin-deep in softness when I know other people are stuck in an uncomfortable conference room.

9) Every year, without fail, I re-read every single one of the books in my extensive L.M. Montgomery collection. I find them comforting.

10) When I'm not Bollywooding, I listen to Ryan Seacrest's top 40 countdown while making supper. It kills brain cells, but I find it strangely addictive. There's only so much CBC downer show content I can take.

Now, I've gotta know: what are YOUR guilty pleasures?