an unwritten rule...

Ugly people breed ugly children.  Mean people breed mean kids.  Dumb people definitely create dumb offspring.  This is a fact.  A serious and sad fact.  Just ask Malcom Gladwell.  He's already done all the research.  It's compelling.  I highly recommend the read.

What must it be like to walk through life unattractive?  How must it feel to never see at head turn at your perfectly blown out hair or your pouty soft pink lips.  Must be crushing to never hear the whistle or the catcall of a buff and tan construction worker on the avenue.  How did it feel not to get asked to the prom? Or the 8th grade dance.  Were you a wall flower as a kid too?  I'm going to go with "yes".

Are you so ugly that clocks stand still when you face them?  Or do you just not really try to be all that you can be?  Once again, I'm not going to judge.  That is, until I have to.

So today, I have to.  Seriously, I'm going there.

You were actually at school drop off today ladies.  I wonder if you had some last minute party prepping to chat about?  Or did your nannies call in sick?  Perhaps they headed home for a much needed vacation from your bratty family.  Yes you were there in the shiny, screaming yoga pants.  You were wearing ballet flats, so I knew you were headed for coffee.  Never to the gym.  Be honest.

You were toting that huge bag on your slumped shoulder.  Your little friend has a similar bag.  I assume you bought it online.  Some cool and hip online store you think you've just discovered.  You're wrong.

Your hair was ratty.  In need of a shower or a comb.  And perhaps a good dye job.  You barely looked my way.  You were too busy looking for a friend.  Feels kind of weird to go to the school play ground, now doesn't it?  You're not familiar with the rules, the guidelines, the other mothers.  You hardly know from which door your son will run.  I'm smiling from ear to ear.  You look like a fish out of water.

I give you a smile and a glare and hope that your insides are burning.  Burning with the crazy, filthy bile that i know runs through  you.

You don't look my way.  Why would you.  I'm pretty sure you're not sure who I am.  And i love this.

So, why the anger? Why the rage?  Why the judgement?

I'll give you the reason.  You broke the UNWRITTEN RULE.  Clearly this is your first child.  Obviously you haven't talked to too many moms, or you would have known better.  Maybe you didn't have many friends growing up.  Pretty confident about that one...

So you understand, I sent all 29 kids in my 4 years old's class a sweet and cute birthday invite last week.  My boy will be 4.5 next month and i thought it would be great fun to celebrate.

Within minutes, we received 12 rejections?! Twelve kids actually had no interest in coming to the party of the year?  How could that be? Impossible.

So I waited.  Tried to make sense of the situation.  Suddenly, all the girls in the class replied that they'd be thrilled to join us.  Not one boy.  Then two moms of boy babes stepped forward and agreed to party with us.  But that was it.  Just two.  Out of a huge class of monsters.

When I received a 14th "no", I emailed that mom right back.  What was the "conflict" to which all these moms were referring?  Could it be?

Yup.  There was a JOINT birthday party being held at the same date, same time.  Seriously?  And my boy had been ostracized.

That bugged me, but the fact that those lame boys have been taunting my son is horrific.  Egregious.  They keep telling him that he can't come to THEIR party!  I have zero interest in this party, but i find it hard to believe that these two moms made the conscious decision to leave my son off the party list. Seriously, ladies?

For kindergarten, we have rules.  Play nice.  Share.  Smile.  Have fun.  Don't talk with your mouth full.  And when hosting a party, invite either the whole class, all the boys, or all the girls.  For a very special party, just invite a select few.

Anyway, we're not going to fight this issue.  We don't actually care.  One of the boys in question looks like a pug dog.  And not a cute pug dog.  They're not the sharpest tools in the shed.  The mom is a social climber.  I don't know her name.  I don't care to.

All i know is that there are going to be three very happy and popular boys partying with a class full of adorable little girls next week!  And, our pony and our ice cream trucks are booked for sunday!  Party on ladies... Party on.

come ON ladies...

I'm not sure when this started happening.  I didn't really notice at first.  I guess maybe i didn't actually care.  And then I did notice, and now I seem to care.  A lot.

So it appears the other mothers at school pick up seem to be looking kind of tired. Not the tired from staying up all night with newborns.  Not the sleepy from "I've been nursing a 4 week old all night".  Not the "my 11 week old refuses to be Ferberized" kind of tired.  Rather, this is the "I've resigned myself to frumpy and i don't care" variety.   Safe to say, this is the worst kind of exhausted there is.

 These ladies are not new moms. At all.   Some of their youngest are 5 or 6.  5 or 6!  That means that the last time they were pregnant was 60 months ago! Yes, 60. I did the math.  In my head.

Ok, I understand that not all kindergarten kids sleep through the night.  Some have bad dreams.  Others wake up for water.  Or to pee.  Or because they drank so much water they peed in their beds.  All over their sheets.  And pillow cases.  And duvet covers...

But i also know that there is ample time in the morning to take a shower.  Or spray that dry shampoo on your greasy roots.  Or just to comb your hair.  Maybe change out of those shiny and sort of sad yoga pants.  I know you didn't do yoga today.  I also know that you don't plan on going to yoga this afternoon.  Or tomorrow.  I'm willing to bet my lunch that you've not done yoga this year.  Or perhaps ever.  But I digress.

So, as I stand in the play yard,  waiting for  my kids to come flopping out of their public school, I look through my dark (and very fancy) sunglasses at the moms waiting around.  Now, to be clear, there are not actually that many mothers at school to pick up their offspring.  Sure, some of the moms are at work, but most of the nannies I know work for stay at home moms.  This means that the moms stay AT home while their nanny picks up their kids.  From school.  School runs from 9-3:30, but still there are moms without jobs who don't pick up their little ones after the day is out.  But I don't judge.  Much.  Anymore.  Some of these moms are my close friends.  And they're happy.  Skinny.  Happy.  And always with great hair.

Anyway, where was I going with this?  Mothers at school?  After deciding that the majority of these  ladies looked tired, I wondered why?  Sure, they were over 35, but what was keeping them up? What was keeping them from looking fresh? Happy?

Their kids were perfectly dressed and rested.  An adorable pink denim dress.  The perfect tiny white jean jacket from Joe Fresh.  And these moms were still in their yoga gear.  Not a studio or mat in sight.

Perhaps part of the problem stems from the fact that they can't seem to look up.  They're so busy staring into their iPhones that they don't have the need to make eye contact.  Certainly they don't have to smile.  Or wear make up.  Or moisturize.    Funny enough, these moms have iPhone 4s.  Not the shiny new 5s.  Not that it matters, but sometimes i wonder.

But then there's the other set of ladies at the school.  The nannies.  Not only are these women smiling and chatting, they also seem happy.  Happy with themselves.  Happy with their packs of female friends.  Happy to be picking up the kids, regardless of the weather.  Sure, they have cell phones (usually the more expensive type) but they can multitask.  They can shoot a picture and still hug the 6 year old as tightly as possible.

And these ladies are young.  They're younger than the other mothers.  They're younger than I am.  Most of them have not yet tormented their bodies with child birth, so their figures remain intact.  A lot of these dedicated and hard working ladies have earned enough money to afford name brand jeans, sweaters, Hunter boots and Canada Goose winter coats.  Their hair is longer than ours.  Most definitely it is straighter than ours.  And their smiles.  Their smiles warm up the school from  December through April.

I'm not really trying to say that these woman are taking over at the school playgrounds.  I guess i'm just taking notice.  They have time to look after our kids.  With grace and pleasure.  And still these females have found the time to shower, brush their silky hair, and even change out of their Lululemon pants.

All I'm saying is that if I notice, perhaps others are noticing too?  Maybe it's time to step it up moms?

Namaste.

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.