Today is just a day. It is neither a holiday nor a holiday eve, and after weeks of gatherings and countdowns to other gatherings, it hits like a truck.

“In the new year, maybe I'll be a vegetarian. They can eat fish, right?” This was said at Christmas dinner over plates heaped with turkey and filet mignon. The actual vegetarians had teamed up to cook the bird for everyone else's sake.

It doesn't feel like Christmas. Sure, it feels Christmas-ish, and I'm digging the lights, and the folks out buying gifts are a chipper bunch, but it's different, too.

Raquel Maestre is soft-spoken and poised, on stage and off. Her presence on stage captivates your attention from the start, then you’re hit by her jokes that are filled with wit and misdirection, making you explode with laughter.

These days, I'm really into my gut. (Hey, Editor, don't be a dick.) No, not my microbiome, though I do think about that quite a bit (hello, Magnificent Microorganisms! Keep up the good work!). I'm talking about The Gut, where butterflies and instincts live, the thing we follow, or ignore, at our own peril.

It's officially the season. Bows and bells, lights and sparkles, gifting and getting. And sure, the population at large is counting down to the 25th, but the cool kids (um, and me) are stoked for Andrew Jamieson's Sleazy Christmas Volume 2.

It happened. And it happened suddenly.

Friday night, Andrew Jamieson and I were walking through what seemed like a harmless mist (it was deceptive, and we were drenched). By Sunday we were trudging through sticky snow, carrying Christmas decorations, leaking sparkles everywhere we went.

It’s a mild November afternoon and I’ve come to visit Gallery Parfois for the first time (and a day prior to their latest vernissage, no less). Arriving at 4064 Saint-Laurent, I make my way up to the gallery, which is nestled above several small shops.

Man, do we respect hustle. I'm speaking in the societal we of course, as I'm wont to do. We venerate those who work 26 hours a day only to return home to care for an ailing parent, a house full of foster animals and a crafts-based side gig.

My husband’s a painter. And he talks about how a painting is not just a snapshot of where you are as an artist; it’s a record of you becoming a better artist—and that’s why you start with broad strokes and go down to details, basically, as you go through it.