Lately I find myself in a catch 22 and don’t know which direction to move in. My circumstance is obviously not life or death (although everyone interviewed in Minimalism mentioned a significant decrease in stress levels as a bi-product of their new, minimalist lifestyle, which in turn, directly coordinates to the length of one’s life, right?), but it is weighing on me. You might have gleaned from the parenthetical statement above, that I recently watched the Netflix doc, Minimalism, chronicling the lifestyle of “the Minimalists” and others after they committed

So things have been kind of slow on the blog because holiday preparations have taken over my life (in the best possible way). And while I’d love to be organized enough to write about the holiday extravaganza I’m planning, (I need to manage my expectations just a little because it is, afterall, the first family Christmas dinner I have ever hosted), I’m too busy writing lists (and checking them twice –really more like ten times because I’m a compulsive over-planner), and shopping and taking care of Viggo and Gigi to do

It is a well-known fact among my family and friends, that I LOVE Christmas. So much so that for me, the year is ten regular months and then after October, it’s “Pre-Christmas,” followed by “Christmas!” But this year I’m riding an even bigger holiday high because I am hosting my first ever real Christmas dinner (on the actual day), at our apartment. I feel like Clark W. Griswold in Christmas Vacation–my expectations of what this “perfect” family Christmas is going to look like are set pretty high. And things get

As a kid, nothing excited me more than a trip to the Pen Centre (it was the good mall in Niagara), in the evening after school. My mom and sisters and I would pile into the car and we were off. And on extra special occasions, we’d make the road trip to Toronto for Christmas shopping at the Eaton Centre and I mean, I think that’s one of the reasons I still love going there–the smell of TEC (pardon my retail lingo but it will forever be referred to as “TEC”

Yesterday I had the pleasure of trying one of the prix fixe beauty packages offered by Beautylicious. In its eighth year, the event, which runs from October 20-30 this year, sees over 50 salons in the Bloor-Yorkville area offering specially-priced hair, spa, skin, and health and wellness service packages for both women and men. I took the plunge and finally tried eyelash extensions from Deco De Mode. I had never done so until now because my eyelashes have always been decent for the most part, but mostly, because I knew it

Hair Story

Even though, previous to my recent cut, I had the same hair style for what seemed like forever (barring some slight colour variations courtesy of balayage by my go-to mane man), my hair is the subject of relentless conflict. The dispute is internal, of course, because let’s face it, no one else really gives a shit about what you do to your hair, but you. Even your husband who is resolute in his preference for long hair, will come around if you decide to go for the chop. And I

Viggo went back to school for the first time today and that officially marks the end of summer (if you qualify summer as long, lazy days spent at the park, by the pool, or in the sun–and we do). We’ve been reflecting on what a whirlwind of adventure these last two months have  been and we all feel like we made the most of the season and can happily look forward to fall. I should mention that beyond wearing sweaters, I love fall because it’s at once a return to the comfort

I think it’s a combination of the impending school year (half of my school-related angst is from knowing that I’m going to miss my Viggo, and half–like every September–is wishing that I, myself, was starting a new academic chapter. I seriously can’t even be around U of T without getting depressed at this time of year), and my constantly-shifting feelings about what it is I do for a living. I’m a stay-at-home mom (deemed necessary at first, by the would-be reality of my meagre income being almost completely consumed by

I HATE humidity. It probably started back when I wore my hair (naturally) curly and the moisture, thick in the air, would bloat my ‘do up to 10 times the size it was when I had left the house. Now that pushing a double stroller around the city is a big part of our entertainment around here, I still hate it–but at least a few passes with the straightener means that my hair stays at bay! For an early dinner with friends the other evening in the hot, wet, heat,

We’ve got it bad over here–or I guess I have it bad, (although I’m doing my best to turn Viggo into an Olympics enthusiast–and I’m succeeding). For some reason, in my house growing up, the Olympics was always a big deal, which is ironic because my family is SO unathletic. And I really can’t stress our unathleticism enough. None of us played sports (minus one summer of softball for my sister),  but when the Olympics were underway (back when the games only took place every four years), they were central to

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