Today’s excitement? Tree removal. 🌳

Remember when we were younger and thought being a grown-up meant staying up late, eating whatever we wanted, and doing whatever we pleased?

Nobody warned us it meant standing outside in your slippers, pointing at a tree and saying, “I think that branch looks suspicious.” 😂

So you call someone to remove it, thinking, “It’s a tree. How bad can it be?”

Then the quote comes in.

And suddenly you’re staring at that tree thinking… “For that price, you better have a retirement plan and a tiny suitcase packed.”

When did trees become so expensive? Did I miss the memo? Are they removing it branch by branch while whispering goodbye and thanking it for its service?

Apparently it’s not just “a guy with a chainsaw.” Oh no. There are ropes, machines, safety gear, insurance, cleanup… basically a full tree eviction team.

And now I find myself doing what every practical homeowner does — walking around it saying…

“Maybe it’s not leaning THAT much.”
“Maybe trees are supposed to make cracking sounds.”
“Maybe we can become friends.” 🤣

Owning a home is funny. One minute you’re buying cute decorations and making everything cozy… the next minute you’re spending money on something that won’t even be there when they’re done.

The joys of homeownership: where even getting rid of something costs a fortune. 🌳💸😂

Well, here I am… another glamorous chapter of adulthood.

Today’s excitement? Tree removal. 🌳

Remember when we were younger and thought being a grown-up meant staying up late, eating whatever we wanted, and doing whatever we pleased?

Nobody warned us it meant standing outside in your slippers, pointing at a tree and saying, “I think that branch looks suspicious.” 😂

So you call someone to remove it, thinking, “It’s a tree. How bad can it be?”

Then the quote comes in.

And suddenly you’re staring at that tree thinking… “For that price, you better have a retirement plan and a tiny suitcase packed.”

When did trees become so expensive? Did I miss the memo? Are they removing it branch by branch while whispering goodbye and thanking it for its service?

Apparently it’s not just “a guy with a chainsaw.” Oh no. There are ropes, machines, safety gear, insurance, cleanup… basically a full tree eviction team.

And now I find myself doing what every practical homeowner does — walking around it saying…

“Maybe it’s not leaning THAT much.”
“Maybe trees are supposed to make cracking sounds.”
“Maybe we can become friends.” 🤣

Owning a home is funny. One minute you’re buying cute decorations and making everything cozy… the next minute you’re spending money on something that won’t even be there when they’re done.

The joys of homeownership: where even getting rid of something costs a fortune. 🌳💸😂

Hello.

I’m a Canada goose.

Yes… THAT kind of goose.

The kind humans usually cross the street to avoid.

The kind that can clear a park path with one look.

The kind with a reputation.

I was supposed to stand proudly in Susan’s garden looking majestic and slightly intimidating.

Then one day she looked at me and said…

“You need an outfit.”

Excuse me?

An outfit?

Lady… I’m a Canada goose. My ancestors chased golfers, stopped traffic, and took over entire beaches.

And now I’m wearing a little scarf?

At first, I resisted.

I stood there with my serious goose face thinking, “This is embarrassing.”

Then the compliments started.

“Oh my gosh, look at the goose!”

“Where did you get him?”

“He’s adorable!”

Adorable?

Me?

A Canada goose?

Fine. I’ll admit it… the plaid does bring out my feathers.

Now I have accepted my fate.

Spring outfit? Sure.

Raincoat? Why not.

Christmas sweater? I’ll allow it.

But let’s be clear…

I am not one of those ordinary porch geese.

I am Canadian.

I’m polite, but I still reserve the right to silently judge the neighbours.

So if you walk past Susan’s house and see me dressed for the season, just remember…

Behind this cute little outfit is still a goose who could ruin a picnic if he wanted to.

I’m not just a porch goose.

I’m a Canada porch goose.

And apparently… I’m fabulous. 🪿❤️🇨🇦

Just when I thought I had survived menopause…

The hot flashes.

The mood swings.

The mysterious aches and pains.

The inability to remember why I walked into a room…

…my doctor hit me with five words I never wanted to hear.

“We need an ultrasound… internally.”

Internally?!

I swear my legs crossed on their own.

Now, if you’re a man reading this, congratulations. This is where you should probably stop. Go mow the lawn or something. This conversation isn’t for you.

For the ladies…

You know exactly what I’m talking about.

The transvaginal ultrasound.

Or, as I like to call it…

The World’s Most Invasive Selfie.

I arrived at the clinic thinking this would take five minutes.

Instead, I was handed a gown the size of a napkin and told, “Everything off from the waist down.”

Why do they always say it so casually?

Like they’re asking you to remove your jacket.

Then they leave the room, giving you approximately 12 seconds to get undressed while trying not to make eye contact with the chair in the corner that’s silently judging your life choices.

Then comes…

The wand.

Calling it a “wand” is the biggest marketing scam since “diet ice cream.”

When I hear the word wand, I’m thinking Harry Potter.

Expelliarmus!

Not…

“Well… this is awkward.”

And can we talk about the amount of gel?

Good grief.

It looked like they were preparing to lube up a canoe.

The technician was lovely.

Very kind.

Very professional.

Meanwhile, I’m lying there staring at the ceiling, trying to count the holes in the acoustic tiles because making eye contact with anyone at that point just seemed inappropriate.

Then she says…

“I’m just going to put a little pressure here.”

Ladies…

When has a little pressure ever actually meant a little pressure?

Never.

Not once.

The entire time I kept thinking…

“I really hope she’s finding something interesting because if I’m going through this, somebody should at least be entertained.”

The best part is the silence.

They’re looking at the screen.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Typing.

Click.

And you’re lying there trying to read their face like you’re on a game show.

Was that a good click?

A bad click?

Too many clicks?

Should I be worried about the clicking?

By the end, I was ready to ask, “Can I see the pictures? If we’re taking family photos, I’d at least like to approve them.”

Then it was over.

She smiled and said…

“You’re all done.”

Really?

Because emotionally, I don’t think I’ll ever be all done.

The good news is these ultrasounds are incredibly important, and they help doctors make sure everything is okay.

So yes…

They’re worth doing.

But I still think women deserve a medal afterward.

Or at the very least…

A coffee.

Maybe a donut.

Definitely a donut.

Because menopause is already rude enough.

It doesn’t need to send a camera crew in after it.

Growing older certainly keeps life interesting.

One day you’re buying anti-aging cream…

The next day you’re scheduling a date with The Wand.

Nobody puts that on their vision board.

After moving into our new place, I quickly discovered that not all toilets are created equal.

The previous owners must have been training for a career in competitive squatting because this toilet was tiny. Every time I sat down, I felt like I was attempting a deep knee bend at the gym. At 62 years old, that’s not exactly the kind of exercise program I signed up for.

I’m convinced this toilet was designed for:

• A toddler
• A garden gnome
• One of the seven dwarfs
• Anyone under 4 feet tall

Getting on it was one challenge. Getting back up was another. There were times I considered installing a grab bar, a winch, and possibly a small crane.

After a few weeks, I finally waved the white flag and upgraded to a proper comfort-height toilet. What a difference! Now I can sit down and stand up without sounding like an old pickup truck trying to start on a cold January morning.

Some people spend their money on fancy vacations or designer handbags. Me? I’m out here living the dream with a taller toilet.

Moving teaches you a lot about a house. Sometimes it’s the layout. Sometimes it’s the storage space. And sometimes it’s discovering that the previous owners apparently belonged to a travelling circus of very short people.

The new toilet is installed, my knees have forgiven me, and I can officially say I’ve reached that stage of life where a toilet upgrade is exciting enough to write a blog about.

And honestly?

No regrets. 😂🚽✨

I have survived raising children, menopause, workplace deadlines, and a global pandemic.

Yet somehow, a move has nearly taken me out.

Five days ago, I arrived at my new house with six carloads of belongings and one fully packed 26-foot moving truck. At the time, I thought, “This won’t be too bad.”

I was an idiot.

Day One was exciting. New house! New beginning! Fresh start!

Day Two involved opening boxes labelled “Kitchen” only to discover Christmas decorations, extension cords, and a lone spatula.

Day Three was spent wandering from room to room carrying the same decorative basket while repeatedly asking myself, “Where would a normal person put this?”

Day Four was dedicated to finding things I had already unpacked.

Today, Day Five, I spent four hours assembling a bathroom cabinet.

Four.

Hours.

The instructions consisted of seventeen pages, no words, and tiny stick figures that looked like they were mocking me.

At one point I had three screws left over, two shelves upside down, and a growing suspicion that the cabinet was actually designed by a committee of sadists.

I eventually finished it, stepped back proudly, and realized I had installed the door backwards.

I may have cried a little.

The hardest part of moving isn’t lifting boxes.

It’s deciding where everything goes.

Every object suddenly becomes a major life decision.

Where should the scissors live?

What drawer gets the batteries?

How many throw blankets does one woman actually need?

Why do I own seventeen coffee mugs when I only drink from the same two?

Every room currently contains random piles labelled:

• Things I need.
• Things I might need.
• Things I should donate.
• Things I forgot I owned.
• Things I have absolutely no idea why I own.

At this point, I don’t live in a house.

I live in a very organized storage unit.

Friends keep asking, “Are you settled in yet?”

No.

I am not settled.

I am wandering around looking for my phone while talking on it.

I am eating supper with a serving spoon because I can’t find the cutlery tray.

I am sleeping perfectly because I am too exhausted to be awake.

The good news is that every box I unpack means I’m one step closer to being done.

The bad news is that I just found three more boxes in the garage.

If I ever decide to move again, please remind me of this moment.

Better yet, just leave me here.

I don’t care if this becomes my forever home, a museum, or an archaeological dig site.

I am staying put.

Forever.

---

100 years ago, people woke up, got dressed, and started their day — without checking phones, emails, or an app judging their sleep.

Wild times.

Back then, stress was:

• Weather
• Work
• Food
• The neighbour’s cow

Today, stress is:

• Notifications
• Group chats
• News cycles
• Comparing your life to strangers on the internet

In the 1920s, when work ended, it ended.
Now work lives in your phone, your couch, and sometimes your dreams.

People socialized on porches.
Now we “like” photos, forget to reply, and feel guilty about it.

They walked because they had to.
We track steps and still feel bad about it.

They ate when hungry.
We count calories and feel stressed doing math before dinner.

Life used to be physically harder.
Now it’s mentally louder.

So if you’re exhausted but can’t explain why —
You’re not lazy.
You’re just living in 2026.

☕😮‍💨

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I Came to Pet-Sit Two Dogs. I Accidentally Moved Into a Snow Globe.

I arrived in Milverton for a nice, quiet week of pet-sitting. Two dogs. Fresh country air. Maybe a peaceful walk or two. A little light snow would be cozy, I thought.

That was Thursday.

Today is also Thursday.

Because the snow has not stopped since.

At some point, time ceased to exist. Days became irrelevant. All I know is that it has been snowing continuously, aggressively, and with personal vendetta energy. This isn’t snowfall—this is snow committing. Like it signed a lease.

Every time I look out the window, it’s the same scene: white flakes gently falling like it’s the opening credits of a Hallmark movie… except I’m the side character who hasn’t seen pavement since last week and is emotionally attached to a shovel.

The dogs? Thrilled.
Absolutely living their best lives.

They bounce outside like woodland creatures summoned by winter magic, while I trudge behind them wearing every piece of clothing I own, questioning my life choices. One of them stares into the swirling snow like, Yes. This is where I was meant to be. The other tries to eat it.

Walks have become expeditions. I don’t walk the dogs anymore—I lead an Arctic research team. We head out, disappear into the white abyss, and return 10 minutes later looking like we lost a bet.

Inside the house, it’s cozy in that I may never leave again kind of way. I’ve accepted that this is my home now. I live here. The snow lives here. The dogs are my roommates. Society is a distant memory.

I keep thinking, Surely today is the day it stops.
Narrator voice: It was not.

If you shook this house right now, glitter would fall out. I am one tiny figurine away from being permanently sealed in glass with a label that reads:

“Canadian Winter: Observe, But Do Not Attempt.”

Anyway, if anyone needs me, I’ll be here—watching the snow fall, again, on Thursday… which has apparently decided to last a full week. ❄️😐

🇨🇦 2025: A Very Canadian Happy New Year (Eh?)

As we gently place 2025 on the shelf next to “that year everyone bought sourdough starters” and “the year we all argued about house prices,” it’s time to reflect on what really happened in Canada this year.

Grab a mug of something hot ☕, put on your thickest socks, and let’s review 2025 — the most Canadian year to ever apologize for itself.

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❄️ Winter Continued Its Long-Term Residency

Scientists once again confirmed that Canada technically has four seasons:
Winter, Still Winter, Construction, and Surprise Winter.

Snow arrived early, stayed late, and occasionally popped back in like an ex who “just wanted to check in.” Every Canadian perfected the art of scraping ice inside the windshield while muttering, “It’s not even that cold.”

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🏠 The Housing Market: Still a Group Project Nobody Understands

In 2025, Canadians continued to ask the same daily questions:

• “How much did THAT sell for?!”
• “Who is buying these?”
• “Is the shed included or is that extra?”

Experts said the market was “cooling,” which Canadians interpreted as “still wildly unaffordable but with nicer listing photos.”

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🍁 Politics: Heated, Polite, and Mildly Confusing

Canadian politics remained exactly as expected:

• Passionate debates
• Calm delivery
• Apologies sprinkled generously throughout

No matter which side you were on, everyone agreed on one thing:
“I don’t fully understand it, but I’m tired.”

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🛒 Grocery Prices Became a Personality Trait

By mid-2025, grocery shopping evolved into a competitive sport.
Canadians proudly announced savings like:

“I got butter on sale AND points.”

You didn’t buy groceries — you survived them.
Leaving the store under $100 felt like winning the lottery 🎉.

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📱 Social Media: Still Unhinged, Still Canadian

2025 brought:

• Even more “day in my life” videos
• Even more dogs with jobs
• Even more Canadians reminding the internet that yes, it gets cold here

Somewhere, a Canadian creator whispered:

“I’m not complaining, I’m just saying.”

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🌿 Self-Care, Canadian Edition

Canadians leaned hard into self-care this year:

• Walking anyway, even though it was windy
• Saying “no” and immediately explaining why
• Buying plants and emotionally depending on them

Therapy was embraced, naps were normalized, and everyone agreed that staying home is a perfectly acceptable personality.

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❤️ What 2025 Really Gave Us

Despite everything — inflation, snow, opinions, and the mysterious disappearance of affordable cheese — 2025 reminded us that Canadians are:

• Resilient
• Sarcastic
• Comfort-seeking professionals

We complained together, laughed together, and politely waited our turn… even when there was no line.

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🥂 Here’s to 2026

May the new year bring:

• Lower grocery bills
• Fewer snow surprises
• Houses priced like houses again
• And a little more peace, patience, and poutine

Happy New Year, Canada 🇨🇦
Same chaos. Same kindness. Slightly better snacks. 🥳✨

Every year, January 1st arrives like an overly enthusiastic motivational speaker who doesn’t know me at all.

“THIS is the year!” it shouts.
“This is your fresh start!”
“This time you’ll follow through!”

Sure, Jan. Let’s calm down.

By December 31st, I’m full of leftovers, regret, and the dangerous belief that buying a new planner will magically turn me into someone who loves mornings and enjoys kale. I make resolutions with the confidence of someone who has already failed them many times before.

This year will be different, I tell myself, while eating cheese directly from the fridge at 11:58 p.m.

The Traditional Resolutions (That Won’t Survive January)

Every New Year begins with the same lies:

• I will exercise every day
• I will eat clean
• I will drink more water
• I will go to bed earlier
• I will stop procrastinating

By January 3rd, I’m sore, tired, thirsty, cranky, and Googling “Is cheese a protein?”

Somewhere around January 7th, the gym membership is emotionally ghosting me, the salad drawer has become a vegetable graveyard, and my “early bedtime” means I fell asleep on the couch at 9:15 with my glasses still on.

Progress.

A More Honest New Year

This year, I’m trying something radical: realistic goals.

• I will move my body… mostly to get snacks
• I will drink water… after coffee
• I will rest when I’m tired instead of pretending I’m 25
• I will stop apologizing for being done with nonsense
• I will embrace comfort, joy, naps, and saying “no” without a follow-up explanation

And if I accomplish nothing else, I will absolutely succeed at writing the wrong year on cheques and forms until at least March.

The Truth About Fresh Starts

A new year doesn’t mean a new personality. It doesn’t erase last year’s chaos, wrinkles, or unfinished to-do lists. It just gives us permission to try again — gently, imperfectly, and preferably in sweatpants.

So here’s to a new beginning:
Not louder.
Not stricter.
Not thinner.
Not busier.

Just kinder, calmer, and maybe a little more sarcastic.

Happy New Year.
May your coffee be strong, your expectations be low, and your pants be forgiving 🥂✨

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Ah, Christmas. That enchanting season when we all pretend we’re joyful and organized… while quietly having a meltdown over missing tape, burnt cookies, and tangled lights that look like they were rolled down a hill by a caffeinated squirrel.

Let’s unwrap the chaos, shall we?

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🎁 The Gifts: AKA December’s CrossFit Workout

Every year, I tell myself I’ll start my Christmas shopping early. And every year, I find myself in Walmart on December 23rd, wrestling a cart with one broken wheel, looking for gifts for people I swear weren’t on my list yesterday.

Gift bags save lives. Wrapping paper ruins them.

If you’ve ever tried to wrap a present with cheap tape, you know the moment when you question every life choice that led you here. The tape won’t stick, the corners are crunchy, and suddenly you’re sweating like you’re on stage at a Beyoncé concert.

But hey — slap a bow on it. No one cares.

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🎄 The Tree: Nature’s Way of Judging Us

Real or fake, the Christmas tree lives to humble you.

A real tree drops more needles than a porcupine on anxiety pills. A fake tree has 14,000 branches that must be individually “fluffed,” which is ironic because by the end you are the one who needs fluffing — as in a pillow, a blanket, and a two-hour nap.

And the lights? Oh, the lights.

If you plug them in and every single bulb works, congratulations — you have been personally blessed by Santa Claus himself. The rest of us plug them in only to discover one rogue bulb has taken out the whole strand out of spite.

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🍪 Baking: Where Hope Goes to Die

Christmas baking looks so easy online. “Just make gingerbread men!” they say.

Sure. Mine came out looking like they saw something traumatic.

Meanwhile, Pinterest wants me to create delicate snowflake cookies with royal icing. Honey… I’m lucky if I can frost a cookie without getting icing in my hair and on the cat.

But do people still eat them?

Yes. Because it’s sugar. And it’s December. Standards are low.

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🎶 Christmas Music: You Will Hear Mariah Carey Whether You Like it or Not

Look, I love a good Christmas tune… for about three days. After that, hearing “All I Want For Christmas Is You” for the 400th time has me questioning if peace on earth is even possible when retail stores are doing this to people.

And if you’ve ever tried to decorate while listening to Christmas music, you know the emotional rollercoaster:

• “Jingle Bell Rock” — Yay! How festive!
• “Silent Night” — And now I’m crying for no reason?
• “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer” — Emotional whiplash.

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🎅 Family Gatherings: The Olympic Games of Patience

This is where every family member magically becomes a professional critic:

• “Are those the mashed potatoes?”
• “Is the turkey supposed to be that colour?”
• “Have you considered cutting back on carbs?”

I swear, Christmas dinner is 80% food, 20% emotional recovery.

But then… someone passes the gravy and suddenly we remember why we gather: food. And love. And because it’s rude to block family members on Christmas.

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✨ The Magic of It All

Yet despite the chaos, the mess, the burnt cookies, the glitter in places glitter should never be — something about Christmas still warms us right to the soul.

Maybe it’s the twinkling lights.
Maybe it’s the nostalgic music.
Maybe it’s the rum in the eggnog.

But mostly, it’s the fact that even the craziest Christmas becomes a memory we laugh about later — once the credit card bill has been paid and the decorations are back in the basement until June, when we finally put them away.