Kelly Waterhouse

I don’t know if you can read the joy in this column. I can’t convey it accurately with words, but I want you to feel it, experience it and share it with me when you read the following statement. Ready? I have chickens (insert squeal). Yep, my wannabe farmer dream of a country life has…

It’s fair to say that when it comes to communication by text (or any other form of written conversation, or like, conversation in general), my spouse, the Carpenter, is monosyllabic. If a response to a text message requires more than a one character response, forget it. For example, if I ask my husband if he…

There are two things I will experience every Christmas season without fail: mixed nuts and mixed emotions. Come to think of it, that’s what I’m going to call my holiday music playlist. It will be a mish-mash of musical tastes that harmonize my complicated personal perception of seasonal bliss.

A spark. A wink shared at your parade last year in town spoke volumes.

I began writing this column from my bed a week ago, propped up with pillows, tucked between my flannel polar bear sheets and my duvet, levelled with a weighted blanket, in my cozy flannel jammies. Little balls of used up tissues created a small mountain beside me. Let that image settle for a minute.

I am so excited for this weekend I’m not sure how I’ll get through the next few days with any focus, except that of wishing time would fly faster, because this coming weekend promises several rough spectator sports, like watching the Carpenter sit through the Super Bowl.

With Valentine’s Day upon us, I am reminded that I really don’t enjoy this romantic pseudo-holiday tradition, despite being very much in love with my spouse, the Carpenter. It’s not the sentiment of the day I don’t love, it’s the expectations.

I have a few tell-tale signs of a full moon rising that are based solely on my behaviour, thus, I’d like to apologize to my beloved Carpenter for the volatile week, (who am I kidding? Two weeks) leading up to the big, beautiful moon on Feb. 24.

March has come into season like a lamb, nice and easy, which, for all of us afflicted with superstitious sentiments, means it will surely go out like a lion (kind of like the drunk uncle forcibly removed from a family reunion).

The Easter Bunny lives with us. It turns out he lives in a den beneath the deck that was the former residence of the groundhog, also known as Winston the Whistle Pig, who had zero consideration for my morning meditations on the patio last summer. What a racket.