When I was 25, excitement meant going out on a Saturday night, buying new clothes, staying up until 2 a.m., and making plans without once wondering what time I’d be home.

At 62?

I recently got excited about a really good parking spot.

Not regular excited, either.

I’m talking:

“OH! LOOK! RIGHT BY THE DOOR!”

And that’s when it occurred to me…

25-year-old me would be absolutely horrified by the woman I’ve become.

At 25, I wanted excitement.

At 62, I want convenience, comfort, and a bathroom nearby.

And I’m perfectly happy about it.

A New Household Appliance

Twenty-five-year-old me:

“You bought a WHAT?”

Sixty-two-year-old me:

“IT’S CORDLESS!”

Give me a vacuum that practically drives itself, and I’m telling everyone about it.

I’ll demonstrate it.

I’ll show you the attachments.

I’ll tell you how long the battery lasts.

I have apparently become the person appliance manufacturers have been waiting for my entire life.

Fresh Sheets

There was a time when fresh sheets were just… sheets.

Now?

Freshly washed sheets, a shower, and clean pajamas?

That’s an EVENT.

Don’t call me.

Don’t invite me anywhere.

I’ve got plans.

And those plans involve getting into bed at an embarrassingly early hour and rubbing my feet around under the sheets like a cricket.

Cancelled Plans

At 25:

“Oh no! They cancelled!” 😭

At 62:

“Oh no! They cancelled!” 😏

Then I immediately take my bra off.

There is no happiness quite like realizing you don’t have to leave your house after you’ve already mentally prepared to leave.

It’s basically getting your evening handed back to you.

A Really Good Grocery Cart

Younger people will not understand this.

But when you grab a grocery cart and all four wheels go in the same direction?

Ohhhhh, baby.

No squeaking.

No pulling violently to the left.

No wheel flapping around like it has a personal vendetta against you.

You just glide through that store like you’ve been upgraded to first class.

That’s luxury.

Finding Something on Sale

At 25, I wanted expensive things because they were expensive.

Now I’ll buy something for $29.99 that was originally $79.99 and spend the rest of the day telling people:

“Do you know how much I paid for this?”

They don’t care.

Doesn’t matter.

I’m telling them anyway.

Because paying full price is no longer shopping.

It’s a personal failure.

Going to the Bathroom Before Leaving the House

At some point, your mother said:

“Does everyone have to go before we leave?”

And you rolled your eyes.

Then one day…

You become your mother.

Now I’m the one standing at the door thinking:

“I’d better pee before we go.”

Even if I don’t have to.

Because we’re going to be gone for 20 minutes.

And apparently we’re preparing for an expedition across the Arctic.

Getting Home Early

Twenty-five-year-old me wanted to know:

“Where are we going after this?”

Sixty-two-year-old me wants to know:

“What time do you think we’ll be home?”

If someone says 8:30?

Perfect.

Nine?

Acceptable.

Ten?

What kind of wild lifestyle are you trying to drag me into?

A Brand-New Purse

We’ve already established this one.

A new purse still brings joy at any age.

The difference is that at 25, I cared whether it looked cute.

Now I’m standing in the store opening compartments like I’m conducting a building inspection.

“How many pockets?”

“Does my phone fit?”

“Is the strap adjustable?”

“Will this hold my glasses, sunglasses, wallet, Kleenex, medication, hand sanitizer, receipts, emergency snacks and 14 other things I apparently cannot leave home without?”

Fashion matters.

But pockets matter more.

When Someone Says, “You Don’t Have to Come.”

There may be no sweeter collection of words in the English language.

You mean…

I can stay home?

In my comfortable clothes?

With my dog?

And nobody is going to be offended?

THANK YOU FOR THIS BEAUTIFUL GIFT.

And Finally… A Quiet House

At 25, silence was boring.

At 62?

Silence is premium entertainment.

Coffee in my favourite mug.

Dog beside me.

Phone not ringing.

Nobody needing anything.

Nothing scheduled.

And nowhere I have to be.

Twenty-five-year-old me would look at this life and probably think:

“My God. We’ve become boring.”

And I’d look right back at her and say:

“Honey, you have no idea how good this is.”

Because maybe getting older isn’t about losing your excitement.

Maybe it’s finally figuring out which things are actually worth getting excited about.

And apparently…

one of them is a grocery cart with four functioning wheels. 😂

Welcome to the Arctic Blonde Society. ❄️

Where a wild Friday night can involve fresh sheets, a new purse and being home before dark.

And we wouldn’t have it any other way. ❤️

There are certain things men will simply never understand.

Why we need decorative pillows nobody is allowed to lie on.

Why there are 14 different bottles in the shower.

And why a woman who already owns several perfectly good purses can suddenly announce:

“I need a new purse.”

Notice I said NEED.

Not want. Not would like. Not might consider purchasing if the price is right.

NEED.

Because somewhere along the way, buying a new purse stopped being shopping and became a form of emotional healthcare.

I recently bought a new purse.

Did I already have a purse?

Yes.

Was there anything wrong with it?

No.

Did it still zip up, hold my belongings and perform all of the duties traditionally expected of a purse?

Absolutely.

Completely irrelevant.

Because I saw the one.

Ladies, you know the moment.

You pick it up.

You feel it.

You open it.

And then…

POCKETS.

Ohhhhhhh.

It has pockets.

Suddenly you’re not just looking at a purse. You’re looking at an entirely new life.

This purse is going to change you.

You’ll be organized.

You’ll know exactly where your keys are.

You’ll never again stand beside your car digging through Kleenex, receipts, lip balm, loose change and something sticky trying to find them.

New Purse Me has her shit together.

Then you get home and begin the sacred ceremony known as:

The Purse Transfer.

Out comes everything from the old purse.

Wallet.

Keys.

Sunglasses.

Hand sanitizer.

Kleenex.

Tylenol.

Lip balm.

Phone charger.

Three pens — two of which don’t work.

Seven receipts.

A grocery list from six months ago.

A mint with no wrapper.

And one unidentified object from the bottom that you’re fairly certain wasn’t originally that colour.

You throw half of it away.

You carefully organize everything else into your beautiful new purse.

And for approximately 36 hours, you are a changed woman.

Then something terrible happens.

You realize…

THE NEW PURSE IS TOO SMALL.

Apparently, while standing in the store admiring it, you forgot that you don’t carry a purse.

You operate a mobile emergency preparedness centre.

Need a Band-Aid?

I’ve got one.

Need Advil?

Absolutely.

Need a Canadian Tire receipt from 2024?

Give me a minute.

Need a charging cable for a phone nobody has owned since 2017?

You’re in luck.

And yet we continue searching.

Somewhere out there is The Perfect Purse.

Not too big.

Not too small.

Enough pockets, but not so many that you spend 20 minutes checking every single one looking for your debit card.

A strap that stays on your shoulder.

A zipper that doesn’t require two hands and a minor engineering degree.

And enough room for everything we apparently need to survive a 45-minute trip to Walmart.

And then, eventually, you’ll see another one.

You’ll stop.

You’ll touch it.

You’ll open it.

You’ll discover a little zippered compartment.

And you’ll whisper:

“Ohhhh… I like this.”

Your husband will look at you and say:

“Don’t you already have a purse?”

And that, ladies, is when you realize…

After all these years together…

The man still knows absolutely nothing about you.

😂👜

Welcome to the Arctic Blonde Society. ❄️

Where we don’t own too many purses.

We simply haven’t found the perfect one yet.

Apparently, I’m 62.

I’m not entirely sure how that happened because in my head I’m somewhere around 38… until I try to get up off the floor.

Welcome to Arctic Blonde Society — a little corner of the internet for women who are getting older, getting wiser, and getting considerably less interested in putting up with nonsense.

Around here, we talk about real life.

Menopause. Mammograms. Marriage. Grandkids. Pets. Getting excited about a new purse. Decorating a tiny house. Wondering why everything hurts when you wake up. And discovering that at this age, a really good bowel movement can genuinely improve your entire outlook on life.

😂 Yep. We’re going there.

I’m the Arctic Blonde — 62 years old, salt-and-pepper hair (heavy on the salt these days), green eyes, oversized glasses, and absolutely no intention of pretending aging is always elegant.

Some days I feel fabulous.

Other days I make a noise getting out of a chair that sounds like someone stepping on a bagpipe.

But here’s what I’m learning:

Getting older doesn’t mean becoming invisible.

We can still laugh at ourselves.
Try new things.
Wear what we want.
Change our minds.
Start something completely new.
And occasionally walk into a room and forget why we’re there.

The Arctic Blonde Society is for women who have lived enough life to have stories, scars, opinions, laugh lines and absolutely no patience for uncomfortable bras.

So pour yourself a coffee, pull up a chair and stay awhile.

There are no membership fees.

Although snacks are appreciated.

Welcome to the Society. ❄️❤️

Growing older is mandatory. Growing boring is absolutely not.

You can feel it, can’t you?

It’s not quite fall yet, but it’s coming.

The mornings are a little cooler. The evenings are getting darker just a little earlier. The garden is starting to look like it has given up trying to impress anyone, and every once in a while you catch that smell in the air.

Fall.

And I LOVE it.

I know there are people out there desperately hanging onto summer. They’re still wearing flip-flops, sitting on patios and talking about how we have “lots of summer left.”

Those people are in denial.

I’m over here mentally unpacking the sweaters.

Bring On the Sweater Weather

There is something wonderful about that first morning when you walk outside and think:

“Ohhhh… I need a sweater.”

Not a winter coat.

Let’s not get carried away.

Just a sweater.

Preferably a big comfy one that hides everything you enjoyed at the summer barbecues.

Fall clothing is very forgiving.

Summer says, “Here are your arms, legs and every lump you own.”

Fall says, “Here. Put on this oversized cardigan. Nobody needs to know anything.”

Fall understands women.

The House Gets Cozy Again

This is probably my favourite part.

Once fall arrives, suddenly I want blankets everywhere.

Blanket on the couch.

Blanket on the chair.

Blanket folded over another blanket because apparently one blanket cannot possibly handle the enormous responsibility of making a room look cozy.

Then come the candles.

Apple.

Cinnamon.

Pumpkin.

Vanilla.

Anything that makes the house smell like I’ve been baking all day when, in reality, I’ve done absolutely nothing.

That is what I call efficiency.

And Then There’s the Food

Oh, fall food.

We’ve missed you.

Soup suddenly becomes exciting again.

Stew comes back.

Chili returns.

Fresh bread with butter becomes practically a food group.

And the Crock-Pot comes out of summer retirement like an old employee who knows exactly what needs to be done.

Throw everything in at 8:00 in the morning and by 5:00 the whole house smells amazing.

You walk into the kitchen feeling like some kind of pioneer woman.

Meanwhile, the Crock-Pot did all the work.

Pumpkin Spice Takes Over the Country

Whether you love pumpkin spice or think it tastes like somebody dropped a candle into your coffee, you have to admit one thing:

Pumpkin spice has incredible marketing.

September arrives and suddenly pumpkin spice is everywhere.

Coffee.

Muffins.

Cookies.

Candles.

Creamer.

Cereal.

Probably motor oil by now.

I don’t even need everything to taste like pumpkin.

I just like the idea of pumpkin.

Put three little pumpkins on my porch, toss a plaid blanket over something and I am ridiculously happy.

Fall Decorating Is the Best Decorating

Fall is also when the house starts getting dressed for the season.

A wreath goes on the door.

A few mums appear.

There are pumpkins on the porch.

Maybe a lantern.

Maybe a cute sign.

Maybe one little scarecrow.

Then somehow you go to the store for milk and come home with another pumpkin.

Because apparently the seven pumpkins you already own weren’t quite enough.

And don’t even get me started on those adorable little velvet pumpkins.

Nobody needs them.

I want twelve.

The Trees Put On Their Big Show

Living in Canada, we sometimes forget just how beautiful fall really is.

For a few glorious weeks, the trees absolutely show off.

Red.

Orange.

Gold.

Yellow.

Entire roads look like paintings.

You can drive the same road you’ve driven a hundred times and suddenly find yourself saying:

“Look at those trees!”

And whoever is in the car with you says:

“Yes. I see them.”

Then five minutes later:

“OH! Look at THOSE ones!”

Because apparently we have never seen leaves change colour before.

But it never gets old.

The Bugs Finally Leave

Can we also take a moment to appreciate this?

The mosquitoes start packing their tiny suitcases.

The flies calm down.

The wasps stop behaving like they own the patio.

You can sit outside without becoming dinner.

Thank you, fall.

Your service is appreciated.

The Best Sleeping Weather Returns

There is nothing better than crawling into bed on a cool fall night.

Window cracked open.

Fresh air coming in.

Warm blankets pulled up.

Maybe you can hear the wind outside.

That is sleeping weather.

Summer sleeping is just lying there with one leg outside the blankets, flipping the pillow over every fifteen minutes and wondering if putting your head in the freezer would be considered unreasonable.

Fall?

Fall tucks you in.

Of Course, We Know What’s Coming Next…

Now, as Canadians, we understand that fall comes with a slight problem.

It doesn’t last nearly long enough.

One minute we’re admiring colourful leaves and drinking coffee on the porch in our cute sweaters.

Then we wake up one morning and somebody has apparently replaced the entire country with a freezer.

The beautiful leaves are gone.

The pumpkins are frozen solid.

And we’re standing in the driveway scraping the windshield saying words that probably shouldn’t be printed on the Arctic Blonde website.

But we’re not there yet.

Right now, we have fall.

And I intend to enjoy every minute of it.

The cool mornings.

The sweaters.

The colourful trees.

The candles.

The soups.

The pumpkins.

The crunchy leaves.

The cozy evenings at home.

And that wonderful feeling that comes when the seasons start to change and life seems to slow down just a little.

So goodbye summer.

You were lovely.

You were hot.

You were sweaty.

And frankly, you stayed long enough.

Arctic Blonde is ready for fall. 🍁

Now excuse me.

I need to go buy a pumpkin I absolutely do not need.

— The Arctic Blonde

There’s something terribly unfair about our fluff-ones.

They come into our lives, take over the couch, leave hair on absolutely everything, convince us that they haven’t eaten in at least three weeks (even though we fed them twenty minutes ago), and somehow become one of the most important parts of our family.

And then one day, much too soon, they have to leave us.

Recently, a very special little dog named Diva made her way across the Rainbow Bridge. 🌈🐾

Diva was a scruffy little tan-blonde mix—and with a name like Diva, I have a feeling she probably knew she was pretty special.

So instead of thinking about the sad part, I started wondering…

What actually happens when our dogs get to the Rainbow Bridge?

I have a few ideas.

🌈 First, I Think Someone Is Waiting

I don’t believe any dog arrives there alone.

The minute those little paws touch the other side, there’s a welcoming committee.

Dogs they knew years ago. Dogs they never met. Big dogs, little dogs, mutts, purebreds and at least one Labrador who is probably carrying a tennis ball.

They sniff each other for approximately three seconds and then decide they have been best friends their entire lives.

And when Diva arrived?

I’m pretty sure someone took one look at her and said:

“Oh good. The Diva is here.”

🐾 Everything Works Again

Old legs become young legs.

Tired bodies aren’t tired anymore.

Nothing hurts.

Eyes are bright, ears can hear the treat bag opening from three clouds away, and everyone can run as fast as they did when they were puppies.

There are no medications.

No vet appointments.

And absolutely no cones of shame.

🦴 The Treat Situation Is Excellent

I have it on good authority that treats at the Rainbow Bridge are unlimited.

There are no calories.

Nobody says, “You’ve already had one.”

Nobody hides pills inside them.

And apparently there is an entire section containing all the foods dogs spent their earthly lives being told:

“NO! You can’t have that!”

Diva is probably still checking that section out.

☀️ There Are Perfect Napping Spots

Every dog gets their own favourite kind of bed.

There are fluffy blankets, warm patches of sunshine and couches where nobody ever says:

“Move over.”

Of course, Diva probably found the best spot within the first ten minutes.

She is a Diva, after all.

🐿️ The Squirrels Are Involved

I’m not entirely sure what the arrangement is with the squirrels at the Rainbow Bridge.

Perhaps they’ve finally agreed to cooperate.

Maybe they let the dogs chase them but are never actually caught.

Basically, it’s one enormous game that lasts forever.

And somewhere in the distance you can occasionally hear:

“DIVA! LEAVE THE SQUIRREL ALONE!”

Some things probably don’t change. 😂

❤️ But Here’s the Most Important Part

I don’t think our dogs forget us when they leave.

Not for one second.

I think they carry every walk, every cuddle, every car ride, every belly rub and every ridiculous nickname we ever gave them.

They remember the sound of our voice.

They remember where they slept.

They remember being loved.

And every once in a while, when you’re thinking about them and suddenly find yourself smiling instead of crying, maybe that’s their way of checking in.

A little hello from the other side of the bridge.

🌈 So, Miss Diva…

Run as fast as you want.

Eat all the treats.

Find the softest blanket.

Make some new friends.

Chase a squirrel or two.

And if there happens to be a dress-up department up there, I’m fairly certain there’s already a little crown waiting with your name on it. 👑

Your people down here are going to miss you terribly.

But don’t worry about them.

They know something important:

Love doesn’t disappear when a dog crosses the Rainbow Bridge.

It just has to stretch a little farther.

Until we meet again, sweet Diva. 🐾🌈

You were loved here.
You are loved there.
And you’ll be loved forever.

❤️

Dedicated to Diva — a very special little dog who earned her wings and, quite possibly, immediately requested an upgrade to first class.

— Arctic Blonde

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.