sorry ma'am

Sometimes he hits me three or four times a day.  Somedays in the morning, first thing as I open my eyes.  Other times he waits till I'm perfect, and by perfect I mean with the perfect blow out.  Somedays i think i'll escape the hit.  Somedays I know it's only a matter of time.  There's never actually any violence.  Just words.  And i'm going to say that words are worse than knives sometimes.

There are days when I want to hit back.  Lash out.  Strike.  Kill.  Murder.  There are days where i wait for the phone to ring.  Or the door bell to buzz.  The story in my head plays the same, regardless of the season.  My very own screen play is what keeps me from going crazy.  Okay, and maybe a hit or two of lithium.

The story always involves a big bulky police officer.  He arrives at my door a little past 6pm.  His hat's in his hands and his hand is over his heart.  His smile is upside down.  I swear there's a tear in his eye.  Are you Laurin, he'll manage to finally say.  I can tell he smells dinner cooking.  I quietly invite him into my kitchen and offer him a cup of coffee.  Sam James.  Toronto style.  This large man in my white kitchen accepts my latte and sits down.  He doesn't need to speak, because i already know the story.  After all, I've written it.  Time and time again.  Though today is the first day i'm writing it down.  For real.  It's never been on paper or screen before now.  Ever.  If you don't have anything nice to write, then don't.  But i digress

So this time I see the tear flop down his chiseled cheek.  Who would notice a sexy officer at a moment like this?  His face is young, but worn.  Rugged maybe?  Yeah, i guess that's the word for it.  He can't seem to look me in the eye.  I don't need him to.

And then the doorbell rings.  Three more coffees to make.  I'm prepared, but if I knew i was getting so much company, I might have changed my pants.  These looked an awful lot like pyjamas.  That's what he said.  Ironically, it was the LAST thing he said.  As he was walking out of the house that morning.  I was heading for the school drop off.  8:50am like I always do.  I opted out of real clothes that morning.  And a shower.  I just hadn't found the time.  What with running a load of dishes.  And a pile of laundry.  Emptying the dishwasher.  Then filling it with the sunday night fun.  Making two lunches and preparing the gourmet breakfasts my two have come to expect.

Yeah, I decided to waltz around the corner in my pjs that day.  But not like weird pyjamas filled with pink sheep and hello kitty faces.  These were GAP BODY heather grey striped pants.  To me they were quite cute.  Sexy, no.  They looked like yoga pants.  They might have been.  Regardless.  It was 8:50am, I was walking around the corner.  To a public school.  Then I was going to walk home.  Shower.  And most likely don another pair of similar fitting pants.  In black.

But back to my house full of blue.  Four cops all roughly 7 years younger than me.  Each more anxious than the next.  Didn't they do this all the time?  Wasn't I just another call on the beat?  I think that's what they call it, right?

And so we sat and chatted over our lattes.  Avoiding the obvious.  I was happy with the state of my hair.  And my lip gloss.

I took the news like I champ.  I took it with a tear in my eye and a smile in my heart.  The story was finally over.  I couldn't have written a better ending myself.  To be continued

HOT by 40 and other tales I tell.

i used to be hot.  Like really hot.  Like the sort of hot who wore low rise jeans and exposed skin.  Stomach skin. I must have pissed off other girls.  I was 5 ft 9 and under 130 pounds.  Clothes worked for me.

 Then I had kids.  Two perfectly, amazing, gorgeous, loving, and hot sucking kids.  They're my world, but even they talk about it.  Sometimes they jest.  Mommy, you are the coziest.  Mama, you have the squishiest tummy.  Mom, you're belly reminds me of a soft pillow.  Or a marshmallow.  Mommy, the home you built us was a mansion.  With a pool!!

All of these words are said with love.  And adoration.  But i hate them.  Sometimes I resent them.  Both the words and these said kids.  Why should i be so bothered.  I'm married.  Basically healthy. Nearly forty.  Life is good.  Why should hot be an issue?  Why do i even care?

I'm not actually sure.  It's not like i'm looking for any extra male attention.   Okay, so fine.  Maybe i am.  But it's not like they know i was hotter before.  Well, I was.  Sometimes i wish i could wear a sign on my shirt stating, "i used to be hot.  I used to be skinny.  These extra pounds are temporary.  I swear'.  But i can't seem to find a shirt that fits all that text.  Maybe i should shrink the font.

Or better yet, just shrink me?  But it's hard.  Because i love carbohydrates  And i cherish gluten. I'd hurt a small dog for a piece of good cheese or chocolate.  Hey, don't think i'm a huge pig.  I do like vegetables and fruits.  Not a big fan of protein, but i do like tofu.  I live to grocery shop and cook meals for my friends and family.

 I don't know, it just never was an issue.  If i felt like dim sum, I'd eat dim sum.  Same went for pizza.  And bagels.  And pizza bagels.

Nowadays,  I have to literally think about every morsel i ingest.  How much fat, carbs, sodium.  I mean, please.  Is life without bread truly worth living??

So yesterday, a dermatologist told me to try to get off gluten.  She said it might help my skin.  Then she directed me to some fancy GLUTEN FREE shop.  OY.

Together with a skinny friend, I went into this silly store.  Impressed was I that they seemed to carry normal products sans gluten.  Cereals, cookies, and cakes.  All still with calories, but none of this gluten garbage.  Was gluten even a word like 10 years ago??

Anyway, the owner of the store was a witch.  I'm pretty sure she didn't think we could afford her $14 bread crumbs.  (who could?!!?) Probably she didn't notice our sparkly engagement rings or my friend's Hermes purse.  We sampled and shopped.  Rang up an $80 bill for veggie mayonnaise, cookies, carrot cake and MUNG bean pasta?  I mean seriously guys.  We're talking about spaghetti.  Who am I to insult the italians by buying this crap?  But i did it.  And i threw in a box of the silly gluten free bread crumbs too.   You know for the chicken parmesan..

Vanity be thy name and i need to be hot by 40.  (countdown has started)

taxi me

I’ll admit it.  I have a thing for taxi drivers.  They get me every single time.  I hop in the car.  Usually frantic.  Usually late.  Usually with a proper blow-dry and lip gloss.  Inevitably i’m heading somewhere special, or often just back home from a blow out on a rainy day.

 So, I say hello, assess their accent, and carry on.  When they’re not busy shouting into their mobile phones, I start up a conversation.  “Lots of traffic today’?  Or “busy day”?  And then sometimes I complain about the rain.  Or the humidity.  Or the snow.  And then when i feel the moment is right, I ask them where they’re originally from.  7 out of 10 times they’re from Pakistan or Indian.  I’m partial to India, as I was a visitor to that fab country about 9 years ago.

 When the driver says he’s from Pakistan, I say, “oh cool, I’ve never been.  The closest i’ve come is to India’.  Inevitably we start some sort of chat about the food and then culture.  It’s always interesting.  Never as good as talking to an India native.  And then, like i always do, i ask what kind of work they did in their country.  The younger drivers were always university students.  The older ones are always engineers, computer programers, doctors, lawyers, etc.  My reaction is always the same.  Man, that must be so tough.  And then they sigh, as they speed down Avenue Road and say, yeah, but it’s a better life for our children.

The children.  Nearly all of them have two kids.  So often one boy and one girl.  Most of the men have kids around the same age as my two.  Their kids go to the local public schools and play in the same kinds of fields that my kids play on.  The girls always do ballet and gymnastics.  The boys learn to play hockey and act Canadian.

 These dads are proud as they show me a pic or two from their well used smart phones.  Adorable I say.  And i always mean it.  I know these guys work hard.  Hard so that their kids can fit in and live a life they didn’t have.  I’m really not so different from them.  Except for the fact that I did have all that as a kid.  But i want exactly what they want now.  I want my kids to be happy and healthy.  And loved.  And cherished.

As the car comes to a stop, I’m always sad to say goodbye.  I want to hear more about them.  Learn more about their lives in Toronto.  Hear about their wives and their families.   Chat more about their favourite restaurants in TO.  But then, I realize it might be weird if I don’t get out of the car.   So i say goodbye, wish them the best and then like always, I over tip.  Hoping that the extra few dollars might go to a new pink and sparkly tutu for their little love.  Namaste.

Dinner with Kevin

So I met a man last night.  A really smart and sophisticated man.  We met because I was invited to an exclusive charity dinner on Landsdowne, and he greated me at the door.  He was tall with gray hair and he had very light blue eyes.  His name was Kevin. 

Kevin and I chatted throughout the evening.  We had lots to talk about and he was one of the more interesting men I had met that evening.  A true gentleman, I guessed he was from the posh side of town.  The event revolved around cooking a gourmet dinner with celebrity chef Donna Dooher of the Mildred’s Temple Kitchen.  Together, with our kids, we worked on a scrumptious Moroccan chicken tagine.  To accompany this dish, we prepare couscous and a lovely kale salad.  Gigantic chocolate chip cookies were slated in as dessert.

Kevin worked in the background prepping items in the kitchen.  He worked with the speed and focus of a true professional.  When we were through with a pot or pan, he would scrub it like a master.  No complaints.  Just smiles.  It was a pleasure.

When we had finished preparing the dinner, our children began to strategize how to serve their 66 guests.  Who would serve the salad, who would scoop the couscous.  This under 10 set came together, and in their aprons and white hair nets, lined up to dole out their fresh feast.

Kevin stayed in the far end of the kitchen, working to clean the space back to its original state.  After all, dinner for 66 plus had just been cooked.  As he worked, we chatted and the conversation was easy.

5:30pm grew closer and the kids were anxious to start serving.  The garage door like wall went up and there stood a line of 66 men waiting for their supper.  These men were all ages.  Some as young as 24 and the oldest at 82.  They were white.  And black.  Hispanic and asian.  They were hungry and they were grateful. 

As the children filled their white ceramic plates, these men said thank you. Riley was handing out the couscous and it brought me to tears.  She was 8 years old and she weighed about 42 pounds.  But that night she was proud.  She was like a mini adult.  She knew there was work to do, and she stood on her empty black milk crate and did it!

I wondered if the men would recognize this foreign dish.  Roasted chicken, chickpeas, squash and tomatoes.  The dinner was so fragrant, that my mouth wouldn't stop watering.  Only one gentleman looked at his plate with displeasure.  But then he learned what it was and he said “thank you”.  I’m not sure why I was so emotional?  Dare I blame it on PMS?

Their dining room was lovely, full of manly chatter.  Plates and forks were clanking.  Everyone seemed happy.  The cookies were a big hit and they quickly were washed down with the hot coffee we had set out for them.  Jug up?  Do you know that term?  I didn’t.

Maybe it’s because I was never a brownie or a girl scout.  Jewish girls in NJ/NYC didn’t do that sort of thing.    Or maybe it’s because I was never homeless??

Yeah, that’s probably it.  Last night, my girl and I cooked a lavish dinner to serve to 66 local homeless gents in our city.  It was an experience that I can’t stop thinking about.  I don’t think I’ll be able to forget the memory.  Ever. 

As I watched the group eat, I felt a sense of pride.  My little girl had used her two hands to help people in need.  We were fortunate to raise her in a privileged home and I felt glad she had a chance to see how others lived.

A highlight of the night happened because our chef had been stuck in traffic earlier in the evening.  We had the fortunate chance to tour how the unfortunate live.  Riley and I inspected their bedrooms with our mouths open.  66 men in a room.  The spaces were remarkably clean given the masses of humanity living there. Bunk beds and a simple blanket.  They each had a small locker and not much else.  But these guys were appreciative.  They had an indoor bathroom and three meals a day.  These 66 were off the city streets.

But I want to get back to that man I met.  Kevin remained quite as all the others ate.  He pushed carts of coffee into place.  He gathered extra cutlery for the children.  When the kids were finally seated for their dinner, I asked Kevin how long he’d been working at the shelter.  His responses gutted me.  He said, “I don’t work here, I live here.  And I don’t believe in a free lunch”.  Kevin was responsible for getting all three of the group’s meals together each day.  Kevin was fully employed by the shelter.  He also was the in house landscaper.  Their space was beautiful and in tiptop shape.  For that Kevin was proud.

At the end of the evening as Riley and I waited for our UBER car service to bring us back to our warm and privileged, highly designed home, we chatted with Kevin.

I learned that he and Fernando, another gentleman from the shelter, had started a landscape business.  They use hand tools to keep other peoples yards lovely.  So far they have a dozen clients.  I asked for his card and promised that we’d become #13.

There once was this girl...

So, there was only one time that I can truly remember falling in love with  a girl.
She was younger than me by about 14 years.  Slim, pretty, long flowing brown hair and deep dark eyes. Her glasses gave her character and her clothes looked like her.

 Her hometown of France made her even more lovely than you could imagine.  There was a sweetness to her too.  A special kind of lovely.  Maybe it was her voice.  Or the accent.  Then again it could have been the way she treated me.  To be truthful, it could have been anything.  This girl was a vision and made my life complete.

I adored her for months.  We spent tons of time together.  Wednesdays were always a sure thing.  Saturdays too.  The rest of the week was always up in the air.  Certain things i really loved.
Her ability to cook quiche.  Or crepes.  I'm pretty sure it must be something the French are born to do.  The stuff she cooked was always perfect. And by perfect, I mean seriously flawless.  Once i asked her to prepare fish, and i was stunned by the results.  With precision, she cut the halibut into bit sized chunks and fried them into heavenly perfection. My kids ate every bite.

This girl spoiled me.  Things I'd never dare ask her to do, she'd do.  Never a complaint.  Nor a snide remark.  It was as if she liked making me happy.  And happy I was.  Till I wasn't.

Even my husband became obsessed with her.  He wished that i could be more like her.  Truthfully I had the same wish.  Ines was neat and clean and actually enjoyed tidying.  Yes, i'm pretty sure she enjoyed cleaning?!?

I was continually impressed by her.  Her degree from university.  Her desire to work internationally.  And then one day she blew me away.  I was planning what i hoped to be the party of the century for David.  A Spanish theme complete with Manchego cheese, olives and sangria.  In my mind, I had planned to cater it all myself, and then use a local Kensington market restaurant to fill in the tougher parts.  Stuff like the tortilla Espanola and the padron peppers.  Ines asked if she and her fiancé could do the catering.  I knew she was perfect,  and her fiancé was the male version of her.

We planned for days, and then the evening before my soiree they worked from 5pm till 2am.  I was in awe.  Mussels had been shucked.  Shrimps cleaned and deveined.  Peppers had been chopped within an inch of their lives.  Serrano ham was perfectly arranged on slate platters.  My special cheeses were so expertly presented, that i didn't recognize them.  Honestly, I barely recognized my kitchen.

They worked all night and then came back late afternoon to work again.  It was dreamy.  They had catered the perfect affair.  I was THRILLED>

But anyway, as expected, the party went off without a hitch.  It was amazing and no one could believe the food.  They were thrilled and my love played on.  I was okay with the fact that she was engaged.  We all just felt lucky that she was part of our world.

By we, I mean the kids too.  Ines was not just a lovely girl.  She was the best nanny a family could ever ask for.  When she came over, our home was a happier place.  Laundry wasn't an issue for her and she kept our home in tip top shape.  Nothing was ever out of place.  We were happy.  Well fed and happy.

Since my girl is in French immersion, she was the lucky recipient of tons of French tutoring.  They babbled on and on in a language i didn't understand.  Laughing and giggling in front of me.  I pretended to be jealous, but secretly i was over the moon that my kid was so fluent in such a beautiful language.

Some nights she'd entertain the kids.  They'd cook with her and she'd teach them.  Mostly in french.  To show off, she'd colour her crepes.  Pink and green perfectly cooked crepes.  The kids would swoon.  Sometimes they ask me to cook like her and i cry.  Silently.  To myself.

We loved her food so much that we asked her to make extras.  Stuff we could freeze for days when she wasn't with us.  Sadly, we never dreamed the day would come so soon.

She left us the week after our perfectly orchestrated French party.  I was devastated.  The kids crestfallen.  I'm pretty sure even David shed a tear or two.

I only wanted the best for her, so I supported her choice to move back, but that didn't soften the blow. We still miss her.  It's been 10 months and we still talk about her.  The kids still wonder when she's coming back.  Or when we're going to Montpellier?  It kills me that we have to feel this void, but i feel grateful knowing that she was in our lives at all.  Ines made our world a better place and hopefully one day we'll get those pink and green crepes again.   Till then, we head to Montreal.

Swimming

And just like that Christmas and New Years passed.  It was another year.  365 days had gone by.  Where did the time go?  Sometimes she wondered the same about fat.  Just where did it go when it finally decided to leave.  I mean one day you could fit into a pair of size 6 jeans and the other days you couldn’t pull up the 10’s.  SO just where does the muffin top go?

Something to ponder.  Makes you stop and think.

So it was a new year.  Full of hope and resolution.  Promises to stop smoking.  Start running.  New resolves to give up sugar, give up gluten, give up liquor.  January was always a serious month.  Gym memberships were way up.  Lululemon sales soared.  And then like always, February hits.  People start feeing the cold in their bones.  Trips to the gym fall by the waistside.  Waistlines start to swell.  Lululemon purchases feel excessive.  Hot cocoa feels rights.  So do mashed potatoes and brisket.  So the time drones on.  Depression is everywhere.  Sadness.  Despair.  Desperation.  People  look forward to April.  Those people who weren’t looking to shoot themselves.  Why can’t anyone seem to remember that we always have snow in April.  April Fools, you FOOLS.  We always have snow in April.  But then comes May.  A time to start again, since we know you failed back in January and Febraury.  A time to bust out the spring collection.  Contemplate the white pants.  The Brazilian wax.  The high-heeled TOMS shoes.  Shameless plug, buy another pair of TOMS shoes and support a kid without shoes. It’s the best way to assuage the guilt.  Charity for the rich.  Helps every single time.

So May goes swimmingly.  And then in June there’s swimming.  She did get uber lucky in this respect.  Her neighbor 3 doors down (ON THE SAME SIDE of the street!!) lived in the most luxurious home on the block.  Brand new and sparkly, complete with perfectly temperate backyard pool.  White lounges with grey accents, it was a summer to be spent in heaven.  As so it went.  For the first 4 weeks of the summer.  PEOPLE MAGAZINE, HOUSE & HOME, Architechtural Digest.  They read magazines, they ate guacamole.  Ladies were even brought in to paint their nails.  That was a short lived highlight.  She  painted their feet and chatted for hours.  Ever hear of a manicure that takes over 2 hours?  Not even the shellac type.  Her name was Anika and she drove them mental.  They let her stay, because after all, it was THEIR summer.  The summer of 2012.  She worked cheap and her chatter was numbing.  Numb was what they wanted.  Blurred out the world.  And that was what they needed.  They formed a club.   Their own special club.  So far there were only two members.  Sadly, no one else fit the requirments.  You had to live on their side of the street for starters.  Your name HAD to begin with an “L”.  You had to be lovely.  Quite and utterly lovely.  You had to be invited.  We planned to invite the others.  We just didn’t ever feel like getting up.  After all, our nails were always wet.  

And so they swam.  And again it was a super summer.  Then July hit and quickly good went to awful.  Totally and horrifically awful.

Linked OUT

When did Linkedin become the new facebook? Facebook for those over 35?  It’s funny.  I was informed by their team that my account had been hacked.  Shocking.  So I went about trying to re-create my account.  Sourced a picture.  A decent one, complete with eyelash extensions and a smile.  I got busy adding old friends, colleagues and even a few relatives who held jobs.  In two days I was at 124 connections.  It was addictive.  I’d pour through friends connections and connect myself.  I loved the rush when they accepted.  Blew my mind how quickly I could amass these “friends”.  But there were three hold outs. Strangely in an alphabetized world, their last names all began with C.  Then I saw something devasting.  The word IGNORED.  How hideous is THAT?  I realized that they received and read my request and then still decided to decline.  Horrific.  But telling. Sad and shocking no doubt.  But i digress...

Girly girls???

I definitely don’t consider myself a “girly-girl”.  Sure, I love a good pedicure, and I adore a sexy chick flick, but I’m not really super feminine.  I like to get messy; I can go days without washing my hair (much to my family’s chagrin). I’m most at home in jeans, a t-shirt and flip-flops.  My bags don’t match my belts (I don’t even wear belts!) and my underwear never coordinates with my bras.  Admittedly, I was a bit concerned when the 13-week ultrasound revealed a baby girl was on her way.  How was I going to raise a girl? 

How would I cope with the unexpected pressures girls face.  The hair cuts, the mean girls, her first period and of course, the cat- fights? Where would I ever find her clothes that were cute enough (I had a hard enough time with my own wardrobe issues)?  What would I think of her first boyfriend? Her husband? Her mother-in-law?  How would I deal with her asking permission to shave her legs and wax her eyebrows? 

My friends suggested a few books and I quickly dove in.  I figured how else could I learn this stuff.

Without giving too much away, I learned that raising a girl is very different from raising a boy.  Obviously the differences go way beyond finding that perfect layette to come home from the hospital in. It’s not as simple as finding the perfect prom dress.  Girls and boys are treated differently and this treatment starts at birth.  One book even went so far as to say that in North America, families write they are PROUD to announce the birth of their son, while they are THRILLED to annonunce their new daughter.  Who knows, we wrote, “we’re tickled pink to announce our baby girl’s arrival.” I guess that’s as girly as it gets.  I painted her room cotton candy pink and her wardrobe sadly has more pink in it than I care to admit.  I was one of those women who SWORE she’d never put her girl in pink.  I guess I proved myself wrong

While my daughter seems to be pretty girly so far (she can flirt like the best of them), she also loves to get dirty.  She seems to have a deep voice and hopefully, like mommy, she’ll love a good pedicure!  I can’t wait to hit the spa with her!

Me, exposed.

1.    My favorite sound is the clicking into my spin shoes before the music gets going.

2.    I love when my babies say, “mamma, I need you”.  (sometimes I sit at the computer and wait for them to repeat it).

3.    I love kisses and cuddle time with my kids.

4.    Grocery shopping relaxes me.

5.    Ten months of the year I think with more clarity than anyone I know.

6.    2 months out of the year, I can barely string together a sentence.

7.    I love to make soups with everything in the kitchen.

8.    I hate to bake because I’m just not that scientific.

9.    Warm chocolate chip cookies and fall leaves are among my favorite scents.

10. I ran track in high school and played soccer too.  My bad attitude was frowned upon.  It was career limiting.

11. I love the number 2—and I’m not sure why? Three makes me uncomfortable.

12. Dim sum makes me happy.

13. I was a camper forever.  Met my husband age 12 on a camp canoe trip!

14. I admire people who can sing, dance and run.

15. Tennis is my favorite sport, though I like to kayak too.

16. My legs and clavicle are my best features.

17. I cry at commercials and movies.

18. I’m not a fan of TV shows-though I do enjoy big bang theory and 2.5 men.

19. I’m scared of pigeons, squirrels, cats and escalators going down.

20. Reading fifty shades made me blush, but also upset me.

21. I can read forever and forget about people.

22. Saddens me that I didn’t create Face book or Rainbow loom.

23. I feel the most free when I’m onboard an airplane.  I just resign my world to the pilot.

24. I like hot yoga

25. My favorite pleasure is getting my hair blown out and 1.5 hour massage.

26. Watching TRAIN videos on YouTube thrills me.  Love Jason Mraz and Michael Franti too.

Confessions of a closest bottle-feeder

 I admit it.  I had no interest in breast-feeding before my daughter was born.

 Sure I knew it was the “thing to do”, but it just didn’t seem like the “thing” for me.  Secretly I hoped my new baby wouldn’t figure it out.  I dreamed I wouldn’t have adequate milk supply.  I imagined all sorts of scenarios that would give me the easy out and make it OKAY not to nurse my new baby daughter.

Then on December 30^th, my little girl was born and suddenly my world had changed.  In an instant, I was determined that I would breast feed her exclusively and suddenly I had no interest in a bottle or formula.  For those first few days, we struggled and learned together and I had never been happier. I couldn’t believe that she was our creation and I was continually amazed that she depended on me for life.  I was in love.  While I thought I was doing a fine job with the feedings, her second doctor’s visit proved me wrong.  Our little girl was still losing weight and she was very dehydrated.  I was devasted.  My doctor all but threw a can of formula at me and said, “Get this kid on the bottle”!  I was crestfallen.  Tears ran from my eyes.  I was horrified.  I was annoyed.  How could this be?  Things were going so well.  I had spent hours with a private lactation consultant (at $150/hour!!) to help me perfect the feeding routine. 

A few more days of crying for both me and my baby (she was obviously STARVING!) and close to $1000 worth of consultation services later, I was forced to introduce the bottle.  At first I wouldn’t feed her.  I refused to be the one to give my baby this powder and water mixture.  It seemed so unhealthy.  It seemed so unnatural.  Most of all, it seemed so unfair.  Everyone else seemed to be breast-feeding.  Strangely they all appeared to be enjoying it?

So devastated and ashamed, I couldn’t and wouldn’t bottle-feed my daughter in public at the beginning.  I was so fearful that someone would judge me as an inferior mother because I was giving my daughter formula. If I did have to feed her in public, I’d prepare the bottle at home, so that one might think it was pumped breast milk.

It took me about 2 months and a lot of sad and lonely days to get over this insecurity.  I am proud to say that my daughter is nearly 9 years old and now she rarely eats a meal INSIDE of our house.  She snacks at Starbucks, she lunches anywhere from the local park to the Four Seasons’ Studio Café.  My daughter is healthy and thriving and thoroughly enjoyed her bottles of formula (as does her new 4 month old baby brother).  Countless people have enjoyed bonding with them while feeding bottles and this has given me a lot more time and flexibility.  While I support and applaud any mother who breast-feeds her baby, I now know that how you feed your baby is a personal decision.  My babies couldn’t be happier, and neither could I….

"Breathe and drink water", they say...

Life turned around as it always did and I'm feeling much better.  I'd venture to say that I'm back to

"normal"...whatever THAT means.

YES, I feel great...save for an extra few

pounds here and there. Everywhere.  It has been months now.  Months and weeks.  Yes, I've really been feeling better.

  Funny part is that as soon as I feel like myself again, everyone else assumes that I've gone completely the other way. Now I'm no longer miserably depressed, but they think I'm flying high as a red bright summer kite!  It is really quite annoying.  Is it because they get so used to life in the other mode? Maybe it's because they're so very used to the quiet life? Whatever it is I can hardly stand it. Really it's driving me quite literally nuts!  Truly stark raving crazy (i know i know...is that what did it??)  I find it almost laughable?  It's almost claustrophobic.  Sometimes I feel suffocated.

 Usually I only hear complaints from my closest of family.  You're talking too much.  You're dancing too much.  Sleep more.  Eat less. Laugh more quietly.  Stop giggling.  Take a rest.  No, you can't go out. Tåke it down a notch.  Take it down six notches. No...we're not having friends over tonight. Stop cooking so much.. Stop shopping so much. Don't spend so much, etc.

 For me,  life starts to feel a bit stale.  Life starts to feel like that

cereal at the top of a box.  You know, that old carton that's been left

open too long in  warm summer kitchen in the moist  country air.  I start to get bored.  I start to wonder.  I start to read.  I start to write.  They start to worry. I miss Missouri.  Do I really miss New Jersey. I certainly miss Manhattan, but then again, doesn’t everyone?

 What is going on here?  How can I explain to the world that this is the real

 me.

 How can I tell them that I like to laugh and sing and dance and yell and

 giggle?

   I guess they'll never know the real me...

 Till next time.  Breathe and drink water.     Sweat.  Namaste.

whatever you do, don't come to Missouri

Who said you can’t live in the past.  That’s only if you want to live.  Truly.

 So, the girl who could talk to a doorknob or a nail, now couldn't manage to

string together four simple words, no less a phrase or two.  What was

> happening. Could it be a brain tumor? Could it be an infection? Countless

> doctors, medicines, tests.  Cocktails.  There was no black and white remedy.

I was admitted after a few days to the 9th floor of Barnes Hospital.  

>Devastated.  A mess. Most of all, she was embarrassed.  

 A conscientious student.  A popular and well-liked girl.  Now a random young sick patient

locked up in the psychiatric ward.  Did I mention that we're still in

> Missouri?  So, here we are, in a seriously unflattering, bluish gown, behind barred windows. Could it get any worse.  At least she doesn’t have to write my exams this semester.  Who knows if she’ll ever finish school. Lord knows the way she left the joint, she may never be able to show her face at that university again. Hopefully she’ll muscle through. Friends visited. They brought gifts.

Someone brought fancy chocolate covered pretzels from a lovely downtown

 boutique.  She still dreams of those treats. 

More pills.  More tests.  Are they kidding with this?  Her roommate is really mental.  Is she mental too? Why is she still here?  They used to joke about this.  Now this a reality?  This couldn't be.  Pinch me. Hard. Someone save me.  PLEASE? I'm asking nicely. Hello? Help?  Okay. Cut toTony. Tony. Love to Tony.  Where is Tony all these years later?  Tony, her twisted lover. Tony, he crack cocaine dealer. Okay, fine. Tony, the chocolate provider.  Every hour,more chocolate. Snickers, Milk-Ways, he kept her wired.  He kept her company and he kept her happy. With Tony she felt normal, whatever that meant. Thank goodness for Tony.  It was after the countless weeks and the plethora of "uppers" that she remembers running in a sport's bra (and not much else) through the long hospital corridors.  She was determined to keep up with her workouts.  She needed it after candy and lots of pizza dinners. 

Now she was high.  High as a kite as a matter of fact.  In retrospect she was manic, and  loving every minute of it.  They let her out for good behavior.  A football game,with parental supervision.  A trip to watch hot air balloons one afternoon.  They even visited a botanical garden, and then it was back to the ward.  At least there was Tony.  Then there was her bloody roommate who CUT herself to feel alive.  Thankfully she wasn't her.  She went back to school. She didn't sleep.  Didn't eat.  She wrote papers with rapid speed and precision.  She joined clubs. She formed clubs.  She danced.  She drove other people's cars.  She never asked permission. 

 I apologize.  I was high.

 In retrospect, I was manic. (I was thrilled, but to the real world, quite unwell) Still all this time later and no one really knew what to do.  Not even all these smart and sophisticated doctors.

 It was winter. I was still cold.  Same tight jeans and white v-neck t-shirt.  We

 were still in Missouri. Then they asked me to leave school.  Now were were in New Jersey. Could it get worse? Maybe you shouldn’t ask if you don’t want to hear the answer, ok?

My parents were sure the doctors in NEW YORK city were better.  Didn’t everyone feel that way about NYC stuff?  So they schlepped ½ way across the country hoping to find some relief.  Maybe even an answer or 2?  The best they could do was deduct that too much Prozac had been given (remember it was the 90s after-all) and this had potentially led to maybe a manic episode.  Sounded like a lot of probably and maybes for this family.  Didn’t anyone have a damn clue?  No, not this time around.  More drugs.  More doctor’s visits.  Parking was expensive in NYC.  The hallways were scary, the doctor’s were worse.  She was sure she’d wake up from this bad dream.  Honestly.  This was a nightmare.  When would it ever end? 

Then, good enough help was found on the NJ side of the river.  The doctor was from NYC, and half asian ½ jewish. Could there be a better mix?  She was kind and warm.  Laurin was sure the doctor napped throughout the visit.  Laurin was right. Mostly.  They saw each other 3 or four times a week.  On Mondays Laurin reported to the blood lab at the local hospital to check her levels.  This was the trying part of the story.  It was tedious to find blood sources, and the nurses had to resort to pediatric needles.  It was a torture.  Each and every visit.  Mostly the levels were fine.  Her liver was fine.  Her mood was changing often.  Sad bouts of missing friends and school.  Usually just missing her buddy Brian.  He’d write her often.  Thanking her for the meal card she mailed him.  Telling her how much he loved her.  Always mentioning their favorite jokes.  He promised to punch her in the belly and give her a slap if she’d return to him.  This was supposed to be charming.  She was dying to get back to reality too.  She just didn’t have the slightest idea of how.

So how does this love story go so sour, so rotten.  Where does it fall apart?

I’ll cut to the end first and then to the beginning and we’ll go over the crazy details of the legal issue later.  Laurin was eventually let back into her prestigious university.  Thousands of dollars and countless hours, but she was back in business and ready to fight the world.  What she didn’t realize was that she’d actually have to.  Fight that is. 

Her first day back she was in Brian’s basement apartment, playing with his fancy Mac computer.  It was the 90’s and this was still a novelty.  While she clicked away at the keys, she also held a glass bottle of red candle oil.  Brian was into glass candles and this was a new oil she had sourced for him.  He was taken by the gift.  And then just like that, she poured the red poison all over his white keyboard.  Her actions were cruel and calculated.  Mean.  His eyes welled up, but not because he was angry with her actions.  This wasn’t the case at all.  He was crying because she was not his girlfriend, and he had no idea where she had gone.

After he gasped, she stormed off in a rage.  Where did she go?  Who was this girl?  She was prettier than ever, but just not the girl they all knew from years before.  And as predicted, Laurin ran right into trouble.  Seemed she was getting rather good at this.  As it appeared men everywhere were interested, she took them up on their offers.  This time it was Doug.  Doug Kane.  He was a first year law student and she was smitten from the first hello.  They began dating just after the oil debacle, and truthfully, the relationship had probably begun weeks before.  People weren’t as dumb as they appeared in Missouri. She was still high and on a roll.  Where she was heading, no one was sure.  Clearly she was going down.  And fast this time.

The lawyer lasted less than a month and then she was back to frat row.  What an exhausting way to go through school.  You know, exhausting the Greek alphabet.  Sigma Ep, Beta, Sigma alpha mu.  She was well too familiar with the lot of them and her face was nearly a permanent fixture on the strip.  For what, she wasn’t sure. The days were fun, the nights were better.  Everyone loved her again.  This time, she wasn’t really sure why?  It was getting pretty gross out there.

The girl was bored and needed a plan.  So to add a bit of excitement to her life, she began to fabricate stories.  Innocent enough she thought.  Stories of what might have been, but never actually was.  The worst such story was told to Brian one night while they were trying to make up.  She told him that she had had a boyfriend the previous summer in La Jolla and now that said boy was dying from AIDS.  It wasn’t actually the least bit true. In reality, Jim was the cleanest most respectable guy from Chico U.  It was all a figment of her imagination, but Brian was petrified.  How could she? How could he?  He was devastated and called Dotty.  Dotty called the school and the administration set off to ruin Laurin.

So this is when the lawyers got involved.  Brian’s mom had a restraining order put against her.  She was not even to so much as look in his direction.  It was tragic.  They were still in love.  Laurin had lied to him and this was the worst betrayal.  How could you go about life so hedonistically, deriving pleasure from everything you do?  How could you lie to me and your friends in an effort to make you feel better about yourself? You’ve become a person I no longer no.  A girl I no longer want to be around.  I’m so sorry, my love.  Goodbye.

His words would sting for years.  Decades maybe?  She’d commit his letter to memory. It was like indelible ink on her brain. She’d always miss him and always wonder.  She wished she could explain to him about her illness.  She knew he’d no longer care.  Or would he?

The story gets worse.  When she is home trying to recover, her parents receive a call from Missouri.  It was the dean on the line.  The dean phoning long distance to make them aware that their first born was not to return to campus.  EVER.  Everyone was confused and saddened.  She was such a bright girl with a sparkling future.  Her room had already been reserved in Salamanca.  Her plane tickets already purchased.  But she was stuck.  Stuck in New Jersey.  It could have been Missouri.  Which would have been worse?

And so this is where Ken stepped in.  He was a kind and loving soul.  Ken accepted her story from the start and began to try to heal her world.  Her dad poured his heart and her story out to him over the phone.  The first plan of attack was to fly back to Missouri and meet in person.  The second part of the dance was to head to the hospital and undergo a battle of tests and exams.  The university needed to see that a medical doctor deemed Laurin well enough to return.  Funny enough, she was never contagious.  You would have never have known.

Man was this doctor old school.  And plain old old. The examination was enough to make a porn star blush and till this day laurin is not sure what went down.  She sailed through his interrogation like a superstar.  And that’s where the fun began.  Ken immediately embraced her and never made her feel bad about her falling life.  They were a team and they’d fight till the end.  Spoiler alert: they win.

Her dad threw money at the problem and slowly it began to lift. After a long and silly battle, she earned the right to attend her university again.  Maybe this is where the troubles began in earnest.

She must have been down to 125 and that was including all of that long black hair.  Classes were once again attended.  A favourite was an English literature class where she learned about paradigms and their shifts.  What a life lesson that had become.  When she started school she’d never even heard the word.  Soon she was due to embody the teaching she learned in that super book, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions by Thomas S. Kuhn.  This was an analysis of the history of science. What sorts of intellectual options and strategies were available to people during a given period? What types of lexicons and terminology were known and employed during certain epochs? Stressing the importance of not attributing modern modes of thought to historical actors, Kuhn's book argues that the evolution of scientific theory does not emerge from the straightforward accumulation of facts, but rather from a set of changing intellectual circumstances and possibilities. Such an approach is largely commensurate with the general historical school of non-linear history.  As she was just coming out of a depressive episode, she clung to the theories in this book.  Oddly the words spoke to her and gave her a feeling of knowing.  His words made her whole.  At least for the time being.  But in class, she wasn’t allowed to look at Brian. Not even in the direction of his chair. 

But life at college was, well, life at college.  Parties, drinking, parties, drinking.  Studying. Exams.  Best friends, breakups, make ups.  Make-outs. 

The month was October and she was in her second year of school.  People had stopped regarding her as the girl who had lost her mind.  She fit right back in with the others.  Or at least she felt like she did.  Some days she wasn’t as sure.   Halloween was back and she can easily recall being out with friends.  The costume was kitschy, 14 carat gold.  7 of the prettiest girls donned GOLD leggings and dangled carrots around their necks.  The look was hot.  Short skirts, tights and edibles on their person.  It was destined to be a winning night.  And it was.  She danced the night away.  Brian was at her beckon call and the two were the perfect pair.  He often drank too much. Why?  Because he just couldn’t seem to socialize without it.  She stayed away from the booze and drugs, convinced a good time could still always be had by all.   Mostly she was right.  Until those times when she was wrong.