Speed dating.

Last night, before the hurricane came to the city, I headed downtown, in ridiculous,  traffic to meet a group of strangers at the rooftop of the THOMPSON hotel.  It had been a long day, so i didn't have time for my usually party preparation.  I did manage to spray some coconut oil into my dirty hair, run my hot pink flat iron through my dry curls, and after all that effort, the locks were thrown into a chignon.  It wasn't my best look, but it was a look.  Tom Ford's $250 fragrance from heaven was squirted liberally on my neck and other pulse points.  In my mind, that smell made up for the remnants of the earlier Air Canada flight and the hot and humid afternoon.  

I didn't have time or the inclination to worry about a sexy outfit, so i stepped into my old faithfuls.  The black crepe-y tunic and my favourite extra tight black leggings.  Mostly it's in my head, but i feel 10 pounds lighting in those said "pants".  Because tonight was extra special, I took off the birkenstocks that had so lovingly moulded to  my feet and sparked a pair of nude heels.  I was as ready as i was going to be.

When the valet took my car, he confirmed the fact that my leggings were working.  Fine, maybe it was the convertible, but he seemed to think i was all that.  Maybe and a bag of chips too.  I probably should have been more anxious.  I probably should have had my nails done. Or tried more earnestly to straighten my hair.  Actually, what i really should have tried was a shower.  But i digress.

When the host of the evening greeted me, I felt like an excited teenager.  I was only mildly disappointed when I was told that we would have to move to the basement.  Due to the inclement weather,  it wasn't a great plan to use the glamorous, swanky rooftop we've all come to know and love.  The basement was better anyway.  Darker.  More intimate.   Better A/C.

I was among the to arrive.  Together with the two hosts, I helped with a bit of last minute planning.  Where would the food go?  The music?  How would we arrange the chairs for the evening.
I was happy when my girlfriend walked in.  She looked quite lovely.  She was in her favourite outfit too(or so she said).  Unlike what I had put on, she actually managed to find a sweet skirt.  Skirts are lovely.  Definitely better than my lycra "pants".  I should find a skirt one of these days.  Note to self.

It was nice to see a familiar face.  She and I don't spend a lot of time together, so I was looking forward to the evening's activity.  Another familiar face stepped into our room.  And then another.  This was getting awkward.

Here I was.  3 months till forty.  Married.  Two kids.  Rapidly frizzing hair.  Heals.  And my first speed dating event.  Speed dating.  Yes, that's what i said.  I'd always wanted to try it, so I jumped at the chance when my invite arrived last month.  Speed dating.  The idea of going from person to person, quickly showing my best side.  Or my worst.  Or their worst.  Which is worse?

My husband didn't even seem to mind.  He even let me borrow his convertible?  Speed dating.  Thompson Hotel.  Bring it on.

So, before you think that i'm totally deranged, (wait, is it too late?) let me explain.

This SPEED DATING event was organized by a business group.  The idea was not for me to find a new husband.  Or a new boyfriend.  Or even anything in between.  The point of this delicious night was for like-minded women to get together and mingle.  WOMEN.  My first attempt to speed date, and not a straight man in sight.  Sigh.

What seemed like a silly idea was actually quite wonderful.  Our evening started out with a young and talented 26 year old playing his guitar and singing his heart out to us.  As we swayed to the sounds of I'm Yours and then my personal favourite, Santeria, we nibbled on tasty victuals.  Steamed crab legs, mussels, shrimp, and oysters.  A cheese board filled the entire table.  The drinks were interesting and generous and the mood was set just so.

When the formal part of the evening began, I was a bit unsure.  Sure it was fine to chat with these ladies, but did I really want to get involved in these pre-planned questions?
1) If you could invite 6 people to dinner who would they be and why?  Um, that's a tough one.  And the answers were amazing.  Funny to hear who would include their husbands.  I surely didn't.  The woman next to me was inviting hers, and JESUS.  She said she had a great thing going.  With both of them.  She had some other very evolved and interesting guests to add to her table.   After her cool answers, I was nervous to give mine.  How shallow could i be?

I was honest.  It would definitely be my college ex, Brian. (see older posts)  I'd do anything to have an evening to clear up the mess I made in 1995.  I'd also invite my dad's older sister who passed away many years ago.  She was a fireball and would add drama to any dinner party.  Patrick from Train still melts my heart.  As does Matthew McConaughey.  I added a few others, none all that notable.

2) What one change would you make in life if you could?  That was a tough one.  Again, the ladies had interesting answers.  Mine was vain but honest.  Would NEVER have gained those crazy pounds (twice) with my babies.

The other questions were equally thought provoking and a lot of fun.  Everyone had promised a code of silence (or is it cone of silence?), so as the evening progressed, our most personal stories flowed.

At the end of the party, we were all laughing and enjoying.  We had left our spouses and offspring behind.  The night was spent chatting with old friends and  new.  The music was terrific.  The food was perfect too.  I realized as the night ended, that I had really had a terrific time.

I learned that speed dating is a cool party concept.  Even with a group of women.  And the Thompson Hotel, like NYC where I think it was born, is never a bad idea...

should i get a nanny?

Go ahead and ask me?  I dare you.  Why is your house such a wreck?  How come you can't manage to "work from home" and keep a tidy home?   What do you do all day long?

Well, for starters, I have two kids. Yes, you remember them.  The loves of my lives.  Mi vida.  Mi cielo.  Love them, but they bring mess everywhere.  Literally dirty oozes from their every pore.  Honestly.

Last night I went out to walk my friend's giant black Bouvier and when i returned home, I realized all the Elmers glue was gone.  So was the devil's dust.  And the borax.  Ten little plastic bags were missing too.  What had they created in my one hour absence?  SLIME.  Homemade squishy and glittery slime.  I'll admit, I was impressed.  Definitely there was a cool factor. Fun factor.  But the remnants of their scientific art project were everywhere.  Spoons full of GOOP.  No, not gwenyth's newsletter.  Real and sticky slimy goop.  What was SHE thinking with that silly name? Or conscious uncoupling?  Let's not digress.

So there were straws strewn about.  The counter tops were messy.  My bare feet stuck to our new hard wood floors.  It was disgusting.  One hour gone and my whole first floor was a disaster.

I didn't freak out, i didn't really care.  I'm used to it by now.  Sometimes i feel i spend my days attempting to clean the place.  Once i tried to count how many times an hour i bent to pick up stuff.  You know, small objects like lego and dried pasta shells.  Paper pieces which cover my floors.  My four year old has an obsessive issue with cutting computer paper.  Recently we found he hoards reams in his dresser!?  I'm used to the slightly white tone of our floors made so by his love of the stuff.

Don't get me started on rainbow loom elastics.  Really, don't get me started.

Everything the kids eat seems to land on the floor.  Or coat the table.  Or coat the table and then drip to those said hardwood floors.  Milk, juice, tomato sauce.  Crumbs from cookies.  Or fish and chips.  Cereal never makes it to their mouth in time.

But they're kids.  And my mom told me the house would out live me one day.  So i try not to care.

Each family member has a shoe problem.  We each possess about 190 pairs.  Running shoes, tennis shoes, sandals, flip flops, hiking boots.  Ice skates.  And then in the winter there are the ski boots.  And the skis.  I went so far as to have custom shoe closets built in our front mudroom.  I also built two coat closets.  We have a coat rack.  Yet every evening I comb the house, picking up used jackets.  Looking for the match to the silver ballet flats.

Yesterday we hit the ultimate in home mess disaster.  My boy had lovingly made the family an organic banana, strawberry, blueberry and raspberry smoothie in our new NINJA blender.  (shameless plug: best blender ever)  He was so proud of his creation and we were all enjoying.  He went upstairs to grab some, um, paper and when he came down he tripped.  And by tripped, I mean down the flight of steps.  Don't worry, he was okay.

What he managed to do next was amazing.  The fall left him unscathed, but I can't say the same for our carpet.  The runners were stained.  This fact i'm okay with as I've been longing to make the change to Missoni for a while now.  The walls were filthy.  He managed to hit the window treatments with extreme precision.  But what amazed me most was the ceiling.  I looked up as he started to cry.  This shake had found its way UP to the top of our hallway ceilings.  Big time.  What to do? Shoot, what to do? Pack up the back packs and head to school.  Well, what would YOU do?

Of course, later that day, I forgot about the state of my house and invited a friend over for lunch.  I roasted fish, cut beets, chopped egg, etc.  We had a lovely time and then went out for coffee.  Later that day, my daughter had a friend over for an ice cream playdate.  And when we left for the kids' haircuts, we left the place in disarray.  Ceilings included.

We returned close to 6 only to have another kid come over for a snack.  Surely no one else feeds their kids sugar.  Maybe that's why I'm so popular with the under ten set?  As a group we headed to gymnastics.  Came home, cooked a second dinner.  This time it was perogis and onions.  Greek salad and pita.

By nine o'clock i was ready to leave the kids and head to NYC.  I was exhausted.  Laundry had seemed to pile up everywhere.  I had loaded the dishwasher just before school pick up, but now the sink was full again.  And the countertops too.

My kids fought me about bed time.  Again.  So i took to my favourite spot to troll Instagram.  When my husband walked in, he was furious.  What had happened?  What did i do all day.  What were all the stuffies doing in the entrance way?  (i had cleared them out in an effort to donate them to the needy.  My mess could be someone's happiness, right?)

So he tried picking up stray shoes.  And loose change.  He started hanging a few spring jackets.  He was furious.

Thankfully it was too dark to notice the smoothie.  This morning's going to be a treat...no doubt.

and what have you done this am?

So far today I've boiled a dozen eggs, cut and prepared carrots, grapes, cucumbers, celery sticks, blueberries and other various fresh produce to make snacking simple.  I've done one load of laundry.  And put it away.  Two beds have been made.  Elaborate and earth friendly lunches have been completed and stored in appropriate book bags.  Ice packs included.  A chicken that i had roasted earlier has been pulled apart to a shred of itself.  Mint and lemon ice tea has been freshly brewed and bottled.  Coffee has been complete.  Two birthday gifts for this weekend's festivities have been wrapped.  Well.  I've forged my kids' signatures on homemade cards.   All of my daughter's musical dreams have been posted to her Youtube page.  I've updated Facebook.  And Twitter.  My fruit and veggie work has been uploaded to Instagram.  Of course.  I'm showered.  My hair is pretty.  Nearly dressed am I in my uniform.   Leggings and a tunic top be thy name.

It's 7am.

The joys of not sleeping past 6 in the springtime...

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)