Get lost!!!! (in Hallowe’en…)

Posted in Uncategorized by spincyclediaries

I love Halloween. Dressing up completely fuels my imagination and so I was thrilled and ecstatic when one of my best friends decided to have a Hallowe’en party – costume mandatory.

I began discussions with Mr. Niceguy about coordinating our costumes. Apparently, coordinating costumes is a foreign concept to Mr. Niceguy for while I was thinking Wills and Kate or Harry Potter and Hermione he was thinking, military guy circa before a time we were born. What would I go as? This was not a game of good guys versus bad guys. It wouldn’t make much sense for him to go as a sniper and me to go as a vampire, now would it?

In any case, after a number of no-way’s and veto’s, we agreed: we would be secret service agents, dressed in black suits, white shirts, black skinny ties, ear pieces, sleeve mics, fake guns and sunglasses – the 3 year old and 7 year old even volunteered their props! The best part of pretending to be secret service agents was our plan to make an entrance by hopping the fence into my friend’s backyard and just “materializing” in front of her glass patio doors (I even downloaded the Mission Impossible song onto my phone as the theme for our appearance!)

Alas, Mr. Niceguy came down with a terrible cold and I was left to go solo. With a wandering mind, perpetual ADD, and commitment issues, I decided! I clipped on some fake bangs, put my hair in a bun, threw on a black dress, and transformed into Holly Golightly (aka, the timeless Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s)!

The best part of Hallowe’en is entertaining people…and even freaking some people out! And though I had initially intended to do the freaking out part, I settled for being entertaining instead. Despite the lack of a pair of long black gloves and the iconic cigarette holder, I daresay, this costume was a success!

Over the years I’ve really taken advantage of Halloween. I’ve been Princess Jasmine, a Hawaiian hula dancer, an angel (complete with wings!) a 1960s go-go girl (who hasn’t?), and even a Japanese Geisha. The trick is, I think, to pick something that is not a big stretch…

At this party, there were a number of different costumes: the Queen of Hearts, her Knight in tights, a “Mad Woman” (i.e. Mad Men) a cat, 80’s girls (you can’t have a Hallowe’en party without them!), and even a pair of swashbuckling pirates…ARRRGGGGHHHH. Then the doorbell rang…and I heard a pair of voices in the front hall. The Mad Woman warned, “you do not want to see her. She’s very freaky.” What had our friend done? My adrenaline started to pump…

In walked the most grotesque “thing” accompanied by a giant, grimacing baby. The “thing” had a deformed face with weird eyes and was very obviously a mask. But the giant grimacing baby…it was so unnatural. So strange. It’s gigantic head was in proportion to the rest of its body had the baby actually been 5 feet tall. It was an abomination! It was a masterpiece! My deepest, basic instincts took over. I wanted nothing more than to scream, to push it away and to destroy it! I was at once terrorized and mesmerized by the way it danced and pranced around the room. Witnessing this costume had made repulsion and admiration, one.

Had my basic instincts taken over so much that I’d gone absolutely mad?

I recalled a Hallowe’en long before Mr. Niceguy… I had been cajoled into walking through a haunted house full of booby traps and monsters that would pop out of the shadows and try to grab you. I remember our group walking through the maze – all holding hands, moving together in the dark. Suddenly, a thing came out of the shadows and tried to grab a hold of me! There’s a saying: when you’re being chased, you only need to be faster than the slowest person (thanks Diary of a Wimpy Kid). So I broke the chain and ran screaming out, leaving the fourth behind as sacrifice. That fourth was my then boyfriend.

Though at the time I had regretted that I was willing to leave him behind for my own safety, and I had questioned and analyzed what my behavior truly said about the kind of person I was, today, I take a lighter approach. Costumes, dress up and Hallowe’en are a time for abandonment. The best part about Hallowe’en is taking advantage of the reprieve from the norm. Of not feeling like you have to be responsible. Of pretend, fear and hysterical laughter. Of imaginations running wild. Lose yourselves for one day. Happy Hallowe’en.

22Oct2013

I’m a convicted felon!

Posted in Uncategorized by spincyclediaries

Well, not quite…but I sure do feel that way…

About ten months ago I parked in a spot I really shouldn’t have, for a reason that probably wasn’t good enough…I had found the perfect dress for a very fancy wedding but when I went to pick it up, there was no parking to be found, except…

After swearing to Mr. Niceguy that I had absolutely nothing to wear, and scouring most of the stores near my work for an option (or two?), I ducked out of the house earlier than I had promised (okay, escaped) for a meeting I had to attend. Even the MOST quintessential multitasker can use a few extra minutes!

What Mr. Niceguy along with most men don’t understand is just how difficult it can be for a woman when it comes to events. No, I cannot just change my tie and therefore the whole outfit is new. I have spent literally hundreds and thousands of dollars on dresses that have only been worn once or twice – I’ve even been known to buy a replacement dress or outfit just hours before because it was more perfect than the one originally intended! But I digress…

My route was clear…no real traffic (given the horrible snowy weather) and I was in front of the store before I knew it…destiny was on my side! But, destiny knows that I like a challenge and so despite my easy travels to the store, there was nowhere to park.

At that time, I was nursing an extremely painful injury sustained after a car accident which had resulted in sciatica; on most days, the pain would be a constant reminder of that single event. So, ignoring my better judgment, I pulled the car into one many empty handicap spots rather than park significantly farther away.

I felt very guilty doing it, but the pain that radiated from my back, to my butt cheek and all the way down to my ankle was all the justification I needed – that and some quick thinking on my part as I called the store and informed the salesperson that I was going to jump in for a quick swish-swipe of my card and to please have everything packaged up for me and ready to go!

Upon entering the store I didn’t waste a single moment: I handed over my card and voila! I was with outfit. With a very large smile across my face, I started on my way out of the store…but then something shiny caught my eye…a beautiful, bejeweled belt. And surely this belt would really make my dress pop! Surely this belt was the finishing touch; the subtle green colour of the jewels would be a nice contrast to my dark hair and olive skin. And after all that I’ve been through, don’t I deserve the opportunity to look really good? Don’t I deserve the right to dazzle? Ahhhh…the way the light reflects off the belt…it’s perfect!

A second swish and a swipe later, I walked out feeling complete. Realizing that I had spent much more time picking up my outfit than originally intended, I picked up the pace and started to rush back to my car as best as I could…only, Oh. My. God. To my absolute horror, I saw a police officer the size of a house come into view after looking at the dash of my car. I could feel the red heat rise up from my chest. My hobble turned into a full-on limp run (picture Captain Hook running on his wooden leg), my garment bag dragging in the slush, bejeweled belt clasped in hand and I made it, right to my car door!!

Panting, totally out of breath, hair sticking to my face and cheeks flushed from the biting cold, I tried to compose myself and sweetly greeted the officer with a pleading look on my face…

But just one look told me that baby, although my dress was the bee’s knees and the cat’s pajamas, my goose was cooked, see. This officer was the real McCoy, totally on the level, and wasn’t about to bend any rules for this doll, you hear?

In other words, like Bridget Jones in Thailand, I was totally screwed.

And more than 11 months after the fact, I finally made it to court. The road was not easy – what with the occasional night sweats and the fear of the book being thrown at me. But more than that, I truly felt bad for what I had done – the guilt that I may have taken a spot from someone who couldn’t even hobble…the atonement felt like justice being served. But my reality was even more impactful.

On the day of my trial, I matched my demure outfit with my feelings of regret and attended court. I stood in line with all of the other rule breakers. And while I thought that I’d be surrounded by a motley crew of real evil doers, they were people just like me…my imagination had run wild and I’d forgotten – this was only traffic court. From my seat in the middle of the courtroom I shyly looked around and saw him: the house of a police officer. I remembered that moment all over again. How he wouldn’t let me explain. And next to the terror and remorse that washed over me came just a little bit of anger for not having been heard.

To my relief, the prosecutor announced a massive reduction in fines for the guilty. And while I waited to be called to the bench, relieved that I would tell my story and the “house” would have to listen, the most unexpected thing occurred…

Together with a handful of others, I was moved to a different courtroom, where a different justice of the peace was dealing harsher punishments than to what any of us had agreed. And probably against better judgment, this time I found my voice. This time I explained my situation. And feeling a renewed sense of courage I explained that although I was guilty, I’d already come to terms with the reprimand of the other court. At which point I was told that I should have simply applied for a permit and was lucky to not be receiving the full punishment of the crime.

And in a moment of absolute clarity, I agreed.

15Oct2013

Thanksgiving…thanks goodness it’s over.*

Posted in Uncategorized by spincyclediaries

Thanksgiving is not really a holiday I get all that excited about so I’m glad it’s behind me. For starters, I am not a fan of turkey – whether cooked breast up or down, wrapped in bacon, stuffed with bread or rice, nuts and berries. It just seems like a wannabe Christmas…except it’s missing the best part, PRESENTS.

And Thanksgiving in Canada has nothing to do with the pilgrims in Massachusetts celebrating their first successful harvest and breaking bread with the Native Americans – so I always find it kind of odd when I see “pilgrim inspired” decorations – like the big black hats with gold buckles or historical pilgrim costumes.

And finally, why turkey? Why not something else all together different and more delicious, like a roast? Or spaghetti? Or roast and spaghetti? Now that’s a fun and tasty meal. I mean, were there really that many turkeys roaming about that someone thought, hey! Now that’s a convenient meal? After some digging, here’s what I found…

According to an article in Slate, turkeys have taken the centre stage as they were fresh, affordable and big enough to feed a crowd. Furthermore, as cows and chickens were more useful alive and ham or pork wasn’t considered fit for special occasions, turkey became the choice by default, “because the birds could be slaughtered without a huge economic sacrifice.” Seriously? Poor turkey. And they were cheaper (and apparently easier to deal with) than geese. So these nice, sweet turkeys spend all of spring and summer eating insects and worms and grow to just the right size by Thanksgiving feast. Well now, that’s enough for this girl to maintain the current status as non-turkey-tarian.

Regardless of the main dish though, I still always find a way to eat too much, lie flat on the ground and complain ad nauseam ad infinitum of a bellyache and turkey coma (despite the fact that I don’t eat the stuff), and pretend to be at least 4 or 5 months pregnant as I drunkenly (on food, not booze) waddle about waiting for dessert. But not this year.

The weekend started early for me as fortunately, I had a reprieve from work. Though unfortunately for me, the boys also had a reprieve from school. So after we kissed Mr. Niceguy goodbye (no reprieve for him which turned out to be the reprieve…my, how twisted the universe is sometimes…wait for it) boys and I decided to get dressed and ready to start our fun filled day of monitoring my computer should a work crisis arise and shopping for the ingredients of a fancy salad I had promised to bring.

And that’s when things unraveled. Literally. Moments after Mr. Niceguy’s departure (and seconds after my too short hot shower). The 7 year old and 3 year old tore into my room, screaming with fits of laughter, all while I was trying to straighten my unruly hair…and that’s when I saw it. Or should I say, them. The 7 year old had a lump right in the middle of his forehead the size of a small quail egg. It looked like it was the result of some sort of insect bite. And while examining him, the 3 year old came in for a look when I noticed that he had a lump the size of a small chicken egg on his neck! But no sign of a bite or any other sort of trauma. What could it be? Meningitis? Mumps? Mono?

All plans on hold while we rushed to the doctor’s office. I knew we were done for (along with our plans to go up North the next day) when the doctor came in and exclaimed, “Ugh. What’s that?” Not a good sign. No. Twenty minutes later, and the explanation that it would either go away on its own (with a little help of some antihistamines) or become the size of a tennis ball requiring hospitalization, we walked out of the office – them ecstatic to be leaving and me completely panic stricken.

And in that state, we accomplished two Thanksgiving dinners. Two dinners complete with family that we hadn’t seen in such a long time. Truly lovely, yes, but these meetings always seem to give rise to the sorts of conversations that involve me having to recall people, places and events encountered at a time when I don’t even think I was sentient! Like, “remember when you were a baby and you would only drink milk after your mother would drop blue food colouring in it?” True story. My peculiar particularities started at an early age…but no, I can’t remember! Or,

did you know, we found out we were pregnant with you just months after we were married when your dad took me to the doctor because I was constantly sick to my stomach!

Great. A guilt trip on Thanksgiving… And by the way, gross! Didn’t a stork deliver me?

But I survived. And fortunately for us, the lump went down the better path, and started a slow shrink to normal, all under the extremely watchful eye of Mr. Niceguy, who was so worried that he decided to camp at the foot of the 3 year old’s bed until he drifted to sleep.

So Thanksgiving, I’m glad you’ve passed. But I haven’t forgotten what you stand for and so here goes:

I’m thankful that the chicken egg lump went away. And the quail egg lump too.

I’m thankful that my illusion of a stork delivery was blown out of the water…the truth shall set you free.

I’m thankful that time with family brings out shared history – and whether I was there or not, recall it or not, it will get passed on and form part of my legacy…and to that end, I’m also thankful that Mr. Niceguy hasn’t run for the hills!

Finally, I’m thankful to have had the luxury of not just one, but two thanksgiving dinners full of too much food, too much laughter and too much love…I know it’s much more than some will ever have.

*Not a typo…just how my mom has always said thanks. Like “Thanks God”. I love you mom. Thanks God for you! And you too, dad!

30Sep2013

I’m a GYPSY…and the sun revolves around ME!

Posted in Uncategorized by spincyclediaries

Every time I buy a lottery ticket…I get the chills. Like I know THIS is the winning ticket. This time, they’re going to talk about me, the nice girl from Toronto, mother of two sweet boys, financial advisor, married to Mr. Niceguy, as the winner of the largest jackpot in the history of the lottery. I’ve even gone so far as to buy a ticket from a small, northern Ontario town with the hopes that I will have won because after all, most of the winners did not buy their lottery ticket at Bay and King. Chances good? Chances great! And I dream of what I’d do with all my winnings…

Truth is…I hardly ever buy lottery tickets. Which makes this fantasy all the more real for when I do, it’s because “something” compelled me to buy that lottery ticket. (The most I’ve ever won was $20 and I’m just really hoping that I didn’t peak at 20 bucks…’cause that would suck.)

No matter. It turns out the start of fall is also the start of McDonald’s Monopoly!! And before you judge, YES, I LOVE McDonald’s. I’ve never been a Big Mac combo kind of girl…but a drive thru giant Diet Coke with some small fries…ah, they hit the spot! And what about piping hot chicken nuggets? Yummm…and look, it’s not like I’m clueless about chemical contents, preservatives or genetically modified excuses for food but there’s just something about them! It took me all of 5 minutes to get over being perplexed when they announced, “Chicken nuggets, now with white meat.” Five minutes and just one bite of those finger lickin’ good nuggets…oops, sorry, wrong chicken product.

In any case, just this Saturday morning, for fun (ok, sheer laziness as I was all alone while Mr. Niceguy ran another obstacle course yay, Mr. Niceguy, boo single parent with two hyperactives for 12 hours) I took the boys to the local McD’s for breakfast and who knew we would end up with 10 monopoly stickers?! TEN! Surely I would be a winner…or on the path to “winningdom”?

It took every ounce of control for me to NOT order another round of breakfast (I asked and they promptly replied, “we’re full!”…also, my rationale kicked in and I figured we could always come back for lunch, or dinner…maybe both… (Don’t scoff! We didn’t!)

In any case, I peeled the stickers off so fast and this time, I have a feeling…we’re gonna win! I mean, we got Park Place!!! $100,000 is as good as mine! Mine! Mine! Ooooh…my precious….

So what is this feeling, inherent, deep within, that drives this belief? Is it just that the world’s my stage and I’m the main character? Or am I the underdog that everyone’s rooting for to succeed? Is it just that all of my various trials, tribulations, heartaches, trials, and tribulations (not a typo, worth repeating) must have EARNED me the-something-special. Must have made me deserve the spotlight, the reward, the recognition! (My name will be in lights!!!!)

Is it wrong to have hope? Is it fallacy to believe in destiny? Is it silly to think that our guts may actually be telling us something other than “you’re hungry” or “hurry up and find a toilet”? Isn’t it true that sometimes, you just know?

Speaking of just knowing…it’s like paths. And everything happens for a reason. Or should we just go with,

Que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be, the future’s not ours to see, que sera, sera

I say NO.

The Huffington Post just recently posted an article called, “Why Generation Y Yuppies are Unhappy” and in it, refers to a fictitious person named Lucy, a GYPSY – Generation Y Protagonists & Special Yuppies – a type of unique yuppy that thinks they are the main character of a very special story. YES, YES I say! Lucy is me!! But there is a catch, GYPSYs are unhappy because they are extremely ambitious and have huge (unrealistic) expectations fuelled and taunted by peers who embellish their own realities. Add to the mix some serious entitlement issues and an over-inflated view of oneself…and therein lies the frustration which arises due to said unmet (unrealistic?) expectations. So what is a Lucy to do? The article suggests staying wildly ambitious, ignoring everyone else and stopping thinking that you’re special.

And here’s what I say. I AM SPECIAL. I’m going to keep dreaming, keep hoping, and keep wishing. True, now more than ever we can see what someone else has, what someone else has accomplished, and perceive what someone else deserves…and this “Keeping up with the Joneses” may be the cause for one or twelve of my bouts of anxiety or funky blues lately. But I herewith, forthwith, from now forward will NOT be reduced to a Lucy.

What I truly want is really out there…I just have to be patient and find it. And I. WILL. HAVE. IT. ALL. It’s just the “ALL” that needs to be defined. Now, how about a McNugget combo…like I said, I’ve got Park Place if you’ve got Boardwalk!

PS: Here’s the link to the article in the Huffington Post – http://www.huffingtonpost.com/wait-but-why/generation-y-unhappy_b_3930620.html

23Sep2013

I left my heart in….Vancouver??

Posted in Uncategorized by spincyclediaries

My sister is moving to Vancouver… and my heart is in a million pieces.

My sister, let’s call her, Alice (as in, Adventures in Wonderland), is about a year and a few months younger than I am. And given the small gap, my mom practically raised us as twins. Side-by-side playpens, then matching outfits, and when I complained that I was an individual and did NOT want to be dressed like my doppelganger, in matching outfits but with different colours. But for all this seeming closeness and similarities, we’re not very alike…

As the older sister, I have forever worried about my little Alice. I felt I had to be responsible for her well-being and her happiness. And these are all things I still do: I still worry about her, I still feel responsible and will forever believe that it’s imperative that I keep her safe.

By contrast, Alice is a fun-loving Sagittarian struck with wanderlust that seldom dwells on any one thing (unless it’s a really, really big deal…though even then…) She is the epitome of a strong character with a fun, fiery, free-willed spirit. It should be noted here that she is also at least 2 inches taller than me and basically looks like a supermodel, or Gwenyth Paltrow…either way…at times it was not fun at all to be compared to her. For example, when we were both pregnant, I looked like a very large, round beach ball…in fact, I was once told that I must be carrying twins despite the results of numerous ultrasounds and the opinions of certified medical professionals. As for Alice, well…

she looked like a stick figure that simply had a little too much to eat during dinner.

During our childhood, Alice fueled my imagination. Oftentimes, we would butt heads, to be expected when dressed E X A C T L Y A L I K E, thanks mom! Sometimes our fights would get quite physical (we were ‘tomboys’!) and during one such encounter, I recall pushing my sister who flew back about 8 or 9 feet and slammed against the wall. The fight ended immediately and I remember looking down at my hands, thinking, I have superpower strength and could do some real damage – I MUST protect Alice. She didn’t tell me that she had simply lost her balance – that crafty, devious sister of mine. So for years, I didn’t lay a finger on her…and made sure no one else did either!

Continuing on in my very own imaginative world…at one time, I begged my sister to “switch ages” with me…making her the older sister, and me the younger. In every, single, fairy tale it was the younger sister who was most beautiful, who got the prince and who was the favourite of the royal parents. No story EVER talks about the older sibling…except as the one to hold the younger one back with rationale and reason. And Alice, sweet Alice, humoured me and my obsession with fairy tales, magic and happily ever afters. Until friends of ours just said that I was being crazy…so I abandoned that scheme pretty quickly as my smarts, that had taken a backseat to my imagination, returned. But Alice never judged.

My sister and I also had some pretty wild adventures as adults…including almost getting kicked out of a 5-star hotel’s bar in a “dry town” with a curfew as we’d had one too many drinks and were chanting at the top of our voices. Or flying on a crappy prop plane to Annapolis, unbeknownst to our parents, to attend a US Naval Academy formal and go to a Broadway showing of Les Mis! Not to mention the many, many local adventures including teaching friends (including Mr. Niceguy who was then just a friend…or perhaps just a little bit more…) some very choice Arabic words that almost got us kicked out of a shawarma joint, singing at a downtown Korean karaoke bar, and many, many more…

But this taller, prettier, wittier, and cleverer sister of mine was also my savior. Her favourite story, and mine, is a darker one…

At just 6 or 7 years old, my mom had dragged the both of us to an outdoor market in Saudi Arabia. While she went from booth-to-booth looking at antiques, silks from the orient, and the latest fashion from Paris, I did what I do best…and wandered off. I’ll pause here and fill you in on a not-so-dark but typical ME story:

Picture it. Paris. Early 1980s. Me, about 9 years old, in a striped t-shirt with a bateau neck and puffy sleeves, slim, navy blue shorts, and lace up to the knee espadrilles, sporting a long, single braid, on vacation with my family. We were roaming the streets, following my mom and dad from one shop to the next…when, Madonna’s Lucky Star started playing on a TV in one of the shop windows. I stopped and watched, trying to commit every dance move to memory. The next thing I knew, the video was over and I was standing on a very, busy street, in Paris, all by myself. I started walking in the direction we had all been heading and not too long after, my parents appeared, fuming. I fumed in return that THEY were MY parents and THEY were responsible for ME. To this day, I know how to advocate…that’s a strength. But wandering, daydreaming, being attracted to shiny objects like a goldfish…well, these are my weaknesses…

In any case, in that market, all those years ago, something drew me away from my mom. Something caught my attention. And moments later, someone caught my arm…a complete stranger. Who started speaking to me in Arabic, compelling me to come with him, pretending to offer me goodies and candy if I just went along. I remember not fully understanding what he wanted. And when I started to put up a fight and say I didn’t want to go, his grip grew tighter, and his soft smile turned sinister, as he forcefully pulled me along. It was then, that my unassuming little sister, with her 1970s Dorothy Hamill bowl cut, came to my rescue. While I was still trying to pry away from that man’s grip, she bit his hand, hard. She did not hesitate, not for one moment. She was so determined that she even caused him to bleed. The man screamed and let go. And we ran for our lives and found my mom…whose face went ashen upon our retelling of the story. And all I remember afterwards was the way my sister just stood there, as sweet as ever, no panic, no drama.

And now, all this time later. I know I owe her my life. The one for whom I was to be responsible, care for, and keep safe. Though we may not speak every, single day (that would be a cruel sentence for such a free spirit, such as Alice), or see each other regularly, “my happiness is greatly bound by hers.” And although my heart is in a million pieces, I know she will be happy. So my little wanderlust bitten sister…safe and happy travels to you. I will miss you. But I look forward to when you return and in the meantime, to visiting…perhaps we can find another upscale bar to almost get kicked out of…

16Sep2013

What, me? A hypochondriac?

Posted in Uncategorized by spincyclediaries

Aging is a funny thing. Not laugh out loud funny…freaky funny. And as my speed train gets closer and closer to the big X0 mark, I’ve started to notice the “funny” a little more…like those funny little lines they call “laugh lines” and crow’s feet, or how my once full cheeks, that morphed into a more chiseled high cheek bone look (ooooh Christy Turlington) in my mid-20’s, are now just a couple of deflated balloons…speaking of which…NO, I will NOT go there but you know what I’m talking about…shh! Gravity it’s entirely your fault!!!

The seasons are turning and although I can still hold onto summer a little bit longer (read: loose summer dresses, tanks and flip flops), the reality is that I’m going to have to try and squeeze myself into last year’s skinny jeans…which incidentally, are the year’s before too-tight skinny jeans and I’m really not looking forward to an in-your-face I-told-you-so from my muffin top, thank you very much. Unless it comes with muffins…mmmm…warm, blueberry muffins…..or I could shell out and buy a new pair but since I refuse to upsize, I’m just going to find myself in the exact, same squished predicament.

At any rate, this time of year continues to mark a time of beginnings (or endings?) – like the start of a new school year – despite the fact that I’ve been out of school for a decade and a half! Somehow, I still haven’t grown out of that back to school/end of summer feeling…

Now that I think about it, with all this hindsight and wisdom that comes with age, going back to school at the end of every summer was probably more of a trauma than a “beginning”. I mean, if I break it all down, after loafing around all summer – hanging out by the pool working on my tan (these were the days of baby oil, Coppertone no. 2, and boom boxes not skin cancer or 60 SPF and iPods), not having to worry about grades and homework, or whether I’d get asked to this dance or that – it was back to the grind.

The look of utter glee (akin to the Joker’s smile) on my parents’ faces when they would remind me that tomorrow the fun would end, that tomorrow there was school, that tomorrow I had to be responsible, get up, get dressed and go get good grades in order to not totally screw up my chances at a successful life. Yay. Back to school. And now, back to work. To this day I absolutely abhor Sundays…

But it is this responsibility that fuels my view of beginnings and planning for success. And what could be more appropriate than resolutions when it comes to making plans: this year I will get that new job or promotion, this year I’m going to lose that nagging 7 lbs already, this year I’m going to plan that great South American adventure! As an aside, who doesn’t want to go to Rio? Carnivale? To see the sugar loaf mountain and the giant Jesus? To be surrounded by warm breezes and hot, Brazilian paixão?? (trans: passion in Portuguese). Ahhhh…Ipanema….

I digress…as far as resolutions are concerned…mine start grand but practicality takes over and besides taking one’s health into one’s own hands is important…don’t we have more to lose at this stage? OK, real reason? They have to get done and arranging doctor’s appointments and checkups are easier than exercise and diet. There. I admit it. And I’m just not satisfied with the attitude of those of my parents’ generation: 2 Tylenols and a good night sleep are not a good enough RX for me…particularly given my tendency towards hypochondriasis (real word, I swear!) and Googling!!

Speaking of which…I had a spot…on my back…a nagging, little, brown spot. I could’ve sworn it wasn’t there a couple of months ago. I worked myself up to the point where I asked the 7 year old what he thought of the spot…

Me: Can you take a look at this?

7 year old: What? It’s your back.

Me: THIS! This SPOT on my back.

7 year old: You have spots on your face.

Me: [IRRITATED] NOT my face!! Forget my face. And besides, those are cute freckles…well, no, not that one…or that one…oh my God, is that an age spot??? NEVERMIND THAT!!! This one, on my back. [Trying to reach over, angling to point out the spot while trying maneuvering in between two mirrors]

7 year old: Oh. It’s a spot. A brown spot.

Me: Does it look weird to you?

7 year old: Huh? I’m hungry. When’s dinner?

Hmmmppphhhfft.

And like I said, I know me…hypochondriasis. Sometimes I get worked up for no legitimate reason. Like, oh my goodness, I’ve had a headache for three days, is it a tumour? Or, oh my goodness, I can’t feel my arm, am I having a heart attack?! But while I think all of these things, somewhere deep down, I think I know that I’m overreacting – a particular gift of mine, I’m told…particularly by Mr. Niceguy.

So how do you think it all went down when the brown spot was diagnosed as a little bit unusual? Or a little bit odd? And perhaps a good idea to remove? OH BOY. And typical me, I discover that all of a sudden I’ve grown really attached to that brown spot. I realize it means more to me than I thought…like I’m that brown spot…I’m a little bit unusual, a little bit odd…I’m not worth removing, am I?

A good friend of mine who has a knack for speaking the truth and being utterly genuine – even though you wouldn’t think it at first glance given his extremely stylish exterior – once gave me probably one of the most real analogies about oneself during trying times…and in this case, during times of utter, full blown, hypochondria,

it’s like being a rolled up tube of toothpaste and ‘they’ squeeze out the last drop of you by pushing out what’s left with their thumb through your neck.

Graphic. And true, although we were talking about the proverbial “man”, “job”, etc. That’s exactly how it felt…squeezed, used to the last drop. Unappreciated. Ready to be tossed aside. A blemished model (as in car, not supermodel…)

And now, post (minor, minor) surgery I wait for this wound to heal. Now I will have yet another scar of undeniable aging. Though perhaps I should view it more like progress? An opportunity? It’s knocking…so I’m going to open that door. After all, isn’t it better to just toss that old tube of toothpaste, pay the 4 bucks and get something new and shiny? And who knows, I may even change the flavour this time.

9Sep2013

I want my cake…and I want to eat it too!

Posted in Uncategorized by spincyclediaries

It’s Saturday evening and I got a night off of preparing dinner – although I did mix the salad and made the potatoes – Mr. Niceguy took care of the main on the barbecue. It was delicious and as full as I am, all I can think of is now is pushing all that glorious food from our fantastic meal down with some cake. If it were not for the countless empty calories and extra fat, oh the pleasure of eating perfectly baked and iced fluffy, soft, spongy cake…yummm……

It’s not like I have a sweet tooth – but the idea of consuming something so delectable, so sweet, more of a treat and pure indulgence – well, it’s intoxicating. In fact, so intoxicating, that it’s enough to forget about the price that must be paid for such decadence.

A French princess (and oftentimes, Marie Antoinette) supposedly said, “let them eat cake!” to the French peasantry, then suffering from a famine and with very little or no access to bread. The ridiculousness of this statement was that cake, which requires eggs and butter, was scarcer still. She was oblivious to her peoples’ predicament – and downplayed their suffering and the price of famine. And for some reason, my mind always wanders to this when I hear, “you can’t have your cake and eat it too.”

Is it that same oblivion that makes me think that I can? Like wanting more wisdom but to still remain blissfully ignorant…

Like wanting a promotion without putting in the effort, spending more time with my kids without risking my career, wanting a toned body without giving up on ketchup chips…and what happens when the cake is right there, staring right at you, and you just can’t have it?

The 3 year old has figured out how NOT to pay the price…with a scream that is so incredibly, ear piercingly, almost cause a car accident, loud! Mr. Niceguy and I feel like hostages as soon as we’re subjected to it…it’s like someone is using mystical powers to make our brains explode within the confines of our skulls! Excruciating! But that’s his way of making sure that he gets to eat his proverbial cake.

My scream is not nearly as loud (and despite what Mr. Niceguy says when we’re in a fight, I AM NOT A TODDLER). So I have to pay a price – akin to comforting a sweet, sick child and then paying by having a debilitating cold in the aftermath. An odd example, true, but this comes to mind as earlier this morning when I escaped the insanity at home in an effort to grab a latte at the local coffee shop and pump my veins with some much needed caffeine, stood a sweet little girl right next to me, who probably just started back to school, coughing nonstop. For a moment I felt so bad and tried to make her smile, but then her mom started coughing too and one dejected, miserable look from her told me that catching a bug for wanting to get out of the house and have some peace and quiet was NOT part of the bargain.

Ugh. And now I’m caught in fantasy once again… I fantasize about what my life would be like had I taken an alternate path. Had I not had children, had I ignored Mr. Niceguy a little harder (let it be known here that HE pursued ME throughout our first year at graduate school and had it not been for his sweet temperament, sharp, witty mind, gorgeous face and washboard abs – yes I’m shallow – I may have resisted)? What if I had decided not to go to MBA school at all and instead, followed my high school dreams?

My older cousin had a poster in her room of a really cool garage full of Ferraris. And at 16 I wanted nothing more than to move to Malibu so that I could live in a beach house on the Pacific, with a Ferrari (or two) parked in the driveway. I’d be surrounded by palm trees one if which would have a red surfboard with a yellow stripe down the middle leaning against it. I would spend all of my days listening to the waves crash, looking for dolphins and surfing. To fund my adventures, I would go into work for a couple of hours only each day as I’d be a $500-an-hour criminal lawyer and really, that’s all the money I would need. THIS was MY fantasy. Forget that I didn’t have a clue about what it meant to go to law school or for that matter, to get into law school and stay in law school (too much reading…yikes!) Also, forget about the fact that I’d never surfed a day in my life…and still haven’t. Blissful ignorance…

No matter. Every girl, and I mean, every–single–girl has a Plan B. We’re smart that way. My other path would’ve led me to Paris, the city of lights. A path that I pursued more seriously in my 20’s… Ahhhhhh Paris….the city of romance, of art and fashion, architecture, music, food that’s incroyable, history, the center of times gone by and so on and so forth. And what girl does not dream of being whisked away by a Marcel, Olivier, Gaston or Jean Jacques? Having grown up far away from where I am now, I was fortunate to have parents that valued learning multiple languages: by the age of 10 my ears were filled with Armenian, English, French, Spanish and Arabic. Today, sadly I am only 100% fluent in two. In any case it was a dream of mine to get an apartment off the Champs Élysées near the Georges V hotel, live off wine and cheese and simply fulfill one of my deepest desires to become totally fluent in not only the French language, but also the culture. I would tour around the French countryside as a French girl, let’s call her Estella, and before you judge it would work! I have frequently been mistaken for French!

See, back in my 20’s, I traveled throughout Greece and Italy before going back to graduate school where, I was frequently mistaken for French – no idea why. But imagine being mistaken for a French girl at a beach side bar FULL of Italians sporting face paint in Mykonos, during one of the key final FIFA world cup games between Italy and France? Every time I got up from my seat to get a drink from the bar, I had to cross in front of all the die-hard fans and I would get the look of a million daggers. I’ve never cheered as loudly for Italy in all my life as I did then, and when they lost I flew out of the bar as fast as my tanned legs could carry me! Ever been around an angry mob of soccer fans??

Ahhhh…fantasies. They all require some form of payment, some form of sacrifice. And as vivid as my imagination is, I don’t think I could have ever dreamt up where I stand now. At times, my path has been as clear as water, while at other times, it’s led me to places so unexpected and unbelievable. Perhaps it is oblivion. I know I’ve paid along the way, and although it doesn’t always seem it, I can honestly say my cake’s been delicious.

3Sep2013

Heels, hoops and all…you better represent!!

Posted in Uncategorized by spincyclediaries

Summer is nearing its close, it’s back to school and this year I was ready! Instead of spending my two weeks of vacation sipping very expensive cocktails at a five star hotel on the French Riviera wearing a wonderful broad brimmed hat and behind large Jackie O sunglasses (so blasé), I decided to be a mature adult and tackle all sorts of important tasks around the house. OK fine, it’s not really a choice if the Riviera isn’t a real option. Anyway, as part of the “staycation” I filled my time with some much needed home renovation (and people renovation) projects: from basic gardening to full landscaping, (root) touch ups, school supplies, new wardrobes, replacing burnt light bulbs, manicures after replacing burnt light bulbs, and so on and so forth.

Although I am a renaissance woman, and wholly capable of being a quick study in just about anything, there are some things in which I am not meant to dabble. For example, after a particularly raucous night out with Mr. Niceguy a few years ago which included an open bar tab and hopping from one club to the other, we arrived home in the early morning hours, starving. After placing an order for chi-thai delivery, Mr. Niceguy mentioned that his hair was getting too long. I mentioned that cutting hair was right up my alley and that I’ve often trimmed my own hair – front and back. Note here, I have fairly long hair which is naturally curly so any slight discrepancies usually blend well. Note also, that I normally don’t handle scissors while drunk. What I did to the back of Mr. Niceguy’s head was unforgivable. And the sad part was, I just kept trying to fix it. Some things are much better left to the professionals! (Don’t drink and trim!) So, I started the process of engaging some professional help for some of my home projects.

What I found was that despite fairly lengthy (and though I do say so myself, well informed and knowledgeable) discussions with these professionals I was consistently asked, “Will your husband be there?”

What. The. #$%^?!!!!???? WHY???

In this day and age, do people STILL believe that the woman of the house is still just the “little lady”? That seems so utterly out of date and backwards. Let’s just be clear about something here: I am a career woman. I earn a salary. And a global professional services firm happens to believe that I am highly capable of raising millions of dollars in financing. I may wear sky high heels, pretty dresses, hoop earrings and although on most days the quality of my day directly correlates with how good my hair looks I AM STILL HIGHLY CAPABLE OF MAKING DECISIONS, thank you very much.

I mean, I can represent! I can whip on some boots and dig up a lawn. I can wield a brush and paint. I’ve hung chandeliers and constructed closets. I’ve also gone from work to banquet to soccer field to brunch without missing a beat. I haven’t let my family down – I’ve represented. And I’ve made them proud…and that’s what I’m now teaching my boys. They need to be self-actualizing adults. Strong, independent, able to make decisions and see them through. And they need to demonstrate their capabilities. Though at this age, sometimes I’m not sure they really get the message…

About two-and-a-half years ago, I was in a pretty serious accident. My two boys, then four-and-a-half and just 9 months old, were sitting in the backseat while I was driving. As a treat, I decided I would take them both on a surprise trip to Toys R Us and en route, I would go through the Tim’s drivethru for a much needed coffee and a Timbit (yes, one Timbit – it’s my way of demonstrating self-control). It was an unusually frigid winter day (I believe close to minus 60 with the wind chill!) and the traffic lights were not working so cars were treating the intersection as a four-way stop. My turn came to drive through when out of nowhere we were struck by a car. We spun out of control and I momentarily blacked out. It was my older son’s screaming that snapped me back and all I remember thinking was, please let them be safe. Luckily we all walked away. I didn’t realize it then, as it took about 11 more months to transpire, but I had sustained a crushed disc which resulted in severe sciatica. After visiting a number of different doctors and professionals I found myself face-to-face with one of the most capable and incredible chiropractor-acupuncturists (in the world!!!), Dr. S.

And just this past week, Dr. S paid me a house call. She is extremely elegant, capable and professional and I can only imagine what she thought when she walked into my world…

Both the 7 year old and 3 year old were completely entranced. They loved her portable treatment table which they used as trampoline, diving board and fort all while she graciously watched and I begged for the ground to open up and swallow me whole. Then they proceeded to tell Dr. S about the dead chipmunk we had found in the yard and disposed of moments before her arrival, “He has no eyes. He has no head. He’s dead. Mommy put him in the garbage.” Nice. And showed her a picture of our dearly departed cat, “This is Hudson. He’s our cat. He’s dead. He’s really dead. He’s in here (showing her the little urn given to us by the animal hospital). But you can’t drink from this cup. Coz he’s in here. He’s really in here.” OMG! And what could I do with needles up and down my spine?! Then, the 7 year old brought my gluten-free, organic loving Dr. S a plate full of marshmallows and gummies to thank her for all her hard work and because she must be hungry. Oh boy.

I wished I could crawl under Dr. S’s treatment table…needles and all. But then I remembered a little girl, age 8, who would walk around with grace and kindness because she had secret powers: she knew that she was a mermaid in water, and mermaids always took care of everyone, and that she could fly if she really, really put her mind to it…she was special. That magic was obvious to everyone and if it wasn’t, she made sure it was. She was strong, capable, imaginative, kind, curious and clever. That little girl was me.

I can only imagine what the 7 year old and 3 year old must imagine. What they must believe to be real. What I know for certain is, that even if they don’t get it right away, I will continue to raise them to make sure that they too convey to others who they are: capable, strong, generous, kind and independent people. They will represent well…and garner much laughter along the way!

26Aug2013

The Great Outdoors

Posted in Uncategorized by spincyclediaries

If anyone’s seen the movie, the Great Outdoors, with John Candy and Dan Aykroyd, they’ll know that sometimes things can be quite unexpected…and it is in homage to this, that I name this post.

The Great Outdoors (film) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Vacation is upon me…finally. And this time, we are filling our time off with a short trip to the cottage which I’m spiritually allergic to: I mean, no AC, no cable TV, no WiFi, and essentially, not much of a boundary between Mother Nature and me… I’m allergic to anything in the “great outdoors.” Call me urbanite – the closest I get to the great outdoors is the park around the corner where my kids sometimes play.

For example, take day 3 of our 6 day getaway to the family cottage – I swore I’d never stay at beyond a night (two if absolutely necessary). My legs are swollen and itchy from the bites of creatures or scrapes of plants unknown, my hair is at least 4 inches shorter as it has curled up and bunched up into anti-nature dreadlocks, and my face is covered with ugly brown spots and freckles. Despite all these little discomforts, I sat in awe of the most incredible thunderstorm I’ve witnessed in a long, long time.

The cottage has a very large picture window overlooking the lake, which, just moments ago, was being punctured by millions of the largest, hardest drops of rain while the “north shore” across the way gets ravaged by bolt after bolt of lightning. And I’m watching the steam rise up from between the rows upon rows of trees in response to the cold rain. It’s so ominous…

The storm has passed – I learned once that the longer the time between seeing lightning and hearing thunder, the further the storm had traveled and hence, the closer to ending. I’ve just imparted a little wisdom here and since I’m on vacation, if what I’ve said is fiction, well, I chalk it up to days of totally being out of my element and being completely discombobulated. But do look it up and Google it – let me know if I was wrong! But now, with coffee in hand and a nice piece of toast, I’m literally floored by how majestic things seem up here.

When we first arrived at the cottage, while Mr. Niceguy and the boys were full of anticipation and bubbling with excitement, all I could think of was how I would stop myself from inevitably going absolutely stir crazy? How would I fill the time without cable TV? How would I entertain my highly active kids and keep them from driving each other (and me) crazy? But with the sun’s heat radiating down on me, I began to give in to my surroundings as I began my usual eternal debate between lusting for relaxation and a deep, bronzed tan juxtaposed with premature aging and skin cancer. Secondary to this consideration was which bikini to start this so-called vacation in: sporty (very efficient for all water activities) or sexy (no tan lines but likely to end up around my ankles with every jump).

Truth be told, these are all moot points given that I still have to lose about 5 to 7 pounds for either to really look good…though who am I kidding?

One glance in the mirror will confirm that I am not Jennifer Aniston’s doppelgänger, so once again, a moot point.

I went with a mix: sporty top, sexy bottom…and after about 2 hours of the same cycle: sunning, getting too hot, jumping in the freezing cold lake to my children’s squeals and utter delight, coming back out and starting all over again, I needed something more to do…so I toilet trained the 3 year old. That’s right. Toilet trained. We are just about 100% there. And I have to pause here because it was his 3 year old friend’s mom that actually gave me the idea. Thank you. She made the comment that her son would come over and take all of my extremely selfish, possessive and territorial 3 year old’s underwear (Cars, Curious George, the whole lot) since he wasn’t using them… I exploited this…and it worked!

I’ve always known my kids were lovers of the great outdoors, and this potty training unleashed one more aspect that can only be described as “pure boy”: not only does my little guy use his simple potty seat, but along with his brother, he likes to go in the lake, on the rocks, along the path and pretty much anywhere can mark his territory. Well I say, well done! This achievement is HUGE for both of us! Thank you possessive human nature and thank you great outdoors!

OK…so what next? How else to pass the time? By day 4, we started on fake accents. Having grown up in Saudi Arabia, to parents who speak at least 5 different languages, my ears have forever been full of so many different sounds. In fact, my sister and I learned to speak English while watching Sesame Street and Electric Company (American accent) and at a British private school combined with our Armenian mother tongue and our exposure to Arabic. So for as long as I can remember, I can turn on most accents in a flash, particularly a London accent, but to pass the time, I’ve decided to work on all of the UK: Scottish, southern England, Sheffield, Manchester, and so on. And after a couple of beers, and the kids installed nicely in front of a movie, Mr. Niceguy and I have gone from the Beatles, to Trainspotting, to Snatch and Mr. Bean. “I say, me finks we’re ‘avin a jolly good time! Rather!” How droll.

There’s been some real excitement at the cottage too…for instance, we went canoeing, something I hadn’t done in years…decades, really! And I actually skipped rocks! And following the 7 year old’s lead, I spent a great deal of my time swimming. The 3 year old swam too, that is, until the incident with Jenny, a 3 year old, chocolate lab (I don’t know my dogs very well so this is an assumption). In any case, Jenny was very excited to see us one afternoon. So much so that without any warning, she jumped in the water and started to try and climb up on top of the 3 year old and his swim ring. The only thing between this enormous dog and my 3 year old was my arm which got quite bruised in the process of trying to keep myself and the 3 year old from drowning under the weight of this dog! But Mr. Niceguy (all toned up from his training) dove in and saved the day…my hero!

But adventures aside, the great outdoors has been good to us…and ok, I admit it, unexpectedly good to me. Letting go of the urban noises and stresses was a very welcome change – as was all the time spent lounging, swimming and staring up at the sky. If my inlaws will allow it, I daresay, I’d be up for a repeat same time next year…but only once…and only next year! Oh, and now I hear the sweet call of the city…my phone is beeping and I have to go!

Vacanciones…spincycle style

12Aug2013

Pride and Prejudice…the spincycle version

Posted in Uncategorized by spincyclediaries

One of my all-time favourite movies is Pride and Prejudice – the BBC version. I’ve seen it more times than I can remember and at first, I thought the title should’ve been, “The Charming Mr. Darcy” (swoon). But after watching it many, many more times, I came to appreciate its meaning…how both Elizabeth Bennett (the heroine) and Mr. Darcy both prejudged each other given their circumstances and ingrained thinking. In the end, they realize that their prejudices were ill-found…

It’s just past 7:30 and I’ve decided to skip the 3 year old’s soccer game this morning and instead decide to lounge around…beep-beep-beep-beep…

Hmmm…it’s Saturday. Who could be texting?? I can’t really be bothered…I mean, it’s the weekend…everyone should just chill and relax, like me. I can be the Queen of Relaxation – when I want to or more like, when I allow myself – I can be so good at it. Mr. Niceguy has taken care of everything and the 7 year old is downstairs playing video games (sue me, it’s summer vacation). Beep-beep-beep-beep…

Why does it keep beeping?! It’s breaking my focus. My concentration. My zen. Oooommmmm….

Beep-beep-beep-beep…

Ooooooommmmmmmm…..

Beep-beep-beep-beep…

OOOOOMMMMM!!!!!!!!!…..

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP…

OK! OK! I’ll just check it…OH NO! Texts from my mommy friends…Oh. My. God!!! The playdate is TODAY and I forgot that I was supposed to get up early and prepare! Quick scan fridge…nothing. Pantry….nothing. Basement pantry….boxes of mac & cheese and our emergency if-the-world-comes-to-an-end cans of chili and space age/military grade, vac sealed meal replacement kits that Mr. Niceguy bought from some kind of disaster readiness website. How could I let this happen?! Incidentally, I’m more ready for the end of the world than I am a playdate!

Not a problem. I can put it into full gear – besides, I’ve had a few hours minutes seconds to relax. I am recharged, refreshed and raring to go!

T-minus 1hr 45mins: In car, 7 year old in tow, pull up to grocery store. Veggies, fruit, cheese, bag of chips (again, summer, sue me), juice, and a diet coke for me.

T-minus 1hr 30mins: Need more caffeine! Hit up a Starbucks…can’t do the day without my latte fix!

T-minus 1hr 24mins: I wonder…if I add up all the time I wait for the baristas to prepare my lattes how long would that be…and why can’t they ever get my name right?? What if I started pulling some Bart Simpson name pranks…

T-minus 1hr 23mins 30secs: REALLY?! I don’t have time for this!!! NEED MY LATTE!!

T-minus 25mins: At home. Fruit chopped, veggies chopped, cheese cut, house tidied up, beds made, teeth brushed (I had no time!), hair straightened (this could be a blog topic all on its own) we’re ready.

T-minus…THEY’RE HERE. Kids all run into the basement and chaos ensues! And moms can all relax, put their feet up, and dish!

I’ll digress now and say that I have chronic foot-in-mouth-itis. I frequently say things that I shouldn’t say…and consequently, do things that I shouldn’t do. For example, when kicked under the table to keep quiet or go along with something, I have often blurted out, “hey! Whatchya kick me for?” And after each occasion, I remember that perhaps I should’ve tried to be a little more incognito – and perhaps I should remember that my actions (and lack of discretion) result in the “outing” or inconvenience of someone else.

Sometimes I’m like a toddler with no filter. I chalk it up to honesty and being an open book, but one mustn’t forget about tact…

So at this playdate, a few weeks ago, I said something I really shouldn’t have said. Something that I didn’t even realize was in me. And I remember the moment, the instant the words were out of my mouth: I felt hot, I felt a flush rising from my chest to my face and head – I felt so uncomfortable that I just wanted to black out (like that may have been an easier out and I could’ve blamed my momentary lapse in judgment on something medical). What I really wanted to do was to rewind, go back in time, and never utter those words which were made so carelessly and without any cognition. Thankfully when I apologized, she accepted my apology.

This was all the result of an ill-conceived bias…like group think and blindly following along with a majority’s views. Like being under compulsion (Vampire Diaries reference here…and yes, I’m still addicted). It can make an appearance at the most unexpected times – and when it’s someone like me, with no filter, it really can pop out of nowhere.

For example, when walking into someone’s house for the first time and there’s underwear in the middle of the floor. Look, this really has happened to me and it made me feel totally uncomfortable. It made me question what I thought about that person. Like who leaves their underwear on the floor knowing that they’re expecting company? Who?? Feels a little intimate…no?

And now I was the one that had dished out the uncomfortable. I was the one that had put someone else in a very awkward position. I was the one who had “left underwear on the floor.” And for a penance, have been feeling absolutely horrible – despite remedying the situation. I’ve totally beaten myself up and cringe every time I replay that careless, awkward moment. (You know that face…the “oooh” smush face and shrugging of shoulders made when thinking about it.)

But I think it’s time to move on and time to take it a little easier. We all make mistakes and hopefully, we learn. After all, that’s what I would tell my boys. That, and I am fortunate that my mommy friend could look beyond this one instance. She has taught me the lesson of being more gracious – and she was tolerant of my toddler-like ways. Just like Elizabeth Bennett changed her views when she ran into Darcy after he had taken a swim in his “underthings”, the next time I see underwear on the floor, I swear to be more discrete, shrug it off and not jump to any conclusions…oh, and save everyone’s pride, including my own.

6Aug2013

Trust me…famous last words

Posted in Uncategorized by spincyclediaries

“Trust me”…whenever I hear these words I feel like doing the opposite. Similar to “relax”, “everything’s going to be ok”, “it’ll only take a minute”, and “it’s nothing serious”.

Seems to me (and my suspicious mind) that these statements, these combinations of words, have all somehow come to be used in instances to disguise situations where their meaning is not quite the same as their intent.

I have trusted to my own detriment. Trusted that my contributions were being valued. Trusted that what I was saying was being heard. Trusted that someone else would have my best interests at heart. I have also tried to “relax”, believed that “everything’s going to be ok”, that “it will only take a minute” and that perhaps “it’s nothing serious”…and I have come to terms with the fact no good can come from hearing these words.

Where is all this coming from? Why am I feeling so suspicious now? Why am I on heightened on alert?

Years ago I attended a corporate retreat – the kind with all sorts of team building exercises and presentations, too much drink, tons of new people, staggers to breakfast completely hung over with a bunch of strangers with whom you have to network and remember, etc. For a global company like the one at which I work, these kinds of “retreats” can really be quite extravagant and this particular event was so overbooked that attendees were asked if they would be willing to share a room. I volunteered as soon as I heard that for my sacrifice, I would get “special recognition”. Who doesn’t like recognition??? Well, aside from not having any space of my own, my “special recognition” wound up being a gift basket – a SINGLE gift basket to SHARE. NOT the kind full of spa goodies, fantastic condiments or gourmet cookies. No. This one had weird cheese product, pate and cheap wine – and all I got was regret and a bag of peanuts.

In any case, it was at this particular retreat, after a Myers-Briggs assessment, where I learned I was an extrovert…

…the act, state or habit of being predominantly concerned with and obtaining gratification from what is outside the self…extroverts tend to enjoy human interactions and to be enthusiastic, talkative, assertive and gregarious…energized when around other people…prone to boredom when they are by themselves

So what happens when an extrovert, such as me, is immersed in hours upon hours of one thing?

Theorizing for a moment…at its most basic, Carl Jung’s theory of extroversion and introversion may suggest that sticking an extrovert in a room full of say, happy-go-lucky people, would probably put the extrovert in a similar (if not the same) state. To continue theorizing, what happens when you expose an extrovert to hours upon hours of the Vampire Diaries?

For the past 4 years, I had been under a complete rock…after discovering the Vampire Diaries, I can’t stop. I have finished over 20 hours of viewing in the past 3 days – which makes it two entire seasons over the past week. And when have I found the time? Between the hours of “they’re finally asleep” and the “crack of dawn”.

All this TV viewing has been in an attempt to forget about the stress: 2 summer colds (one for me and the other for the 3 year old down who’s throat I had to shove horse pill sized antibiotics 3 times a day for 10 days – it’s 2013! Is there NOT a one-pill solution???!), lots going on at work, and all the usual stuff that comes with being a career woman and homemaker! I have been feeling completely run down.

So, to survive I found the most unexpected salvation: pretending to be like a vampire. WAIT! Not the sucking blood and killing people part. The detached, heightened awareness, super strength part. Like, when I get really mad and upset – say because I’ve been told to trust someone who clearly does not deserve it, or relax in a situation where surely one cannot relax, I remember to keep my powers in check. I remember to be magnanimous, to have a grand presence and above all, spare those who seek to cause me distress.

But all of this has also manifested itself in the physical: I walk taller, sneak about, I’ve been making these odd facial expressions like I can read more into a situation and see through people, and just the other day, while enjoying a sandwich over lunch, I snapped my head to the right, took a sniff and knew someone was eating ketchup 7 feet away from me… I have to fess up a little secret here – this is not all attributable to the vampire thingy: I have a nose like a bloodhound and an absolute LOVE of ketchup, which in fact, was the only thing that helped keep my meals down during two pregnancies. It is the perfect condiment – why didn’t they include a bottle of 57 in the gift basket??!!

Last night I watched a marathon of 8 episodes – at about 45 minutes an episode, that’s about 6 hours’ worth – from 10 pm to 4 am. And when I was finally falling asleep I saw flashes of light, and heard whooshing noises and footsteps. Completely freaked, I forgot all my vampire strengths and woke up Mr. Niceguy:

Me: Wake up. PLEASE wake up!! Shhhh…I think there’s someone in the house. I saw flashing lights and heard footsteps.

Mr. Niceguy: Ok, take the phone, if I yell, dial 911. Don’t hesitate. [Seeing the terror in my eyes] Just relax. Trust me. Everything’s going to be ok.

Me: What? No!!! Where are you going? Please…

Mr. Niceguy: I’m sure it’s nothing serious. I’m going to look around…it will only take a minute.

Me: <GULP> [Oh. My. God.]

I stood completely rooted to the spot, between both boys’ bedrooms in the dark hallway. I couldn’t hear him anymore. And I couldn’t see him. Did I really hear those things? Did I really see those flashes of light? And more than that, should I have let him go? Can I really trust this situation? Where is he? I know I have to keep cool, I know I have to keep my wits about me…what’s taking so long??!!

And before I know it, he’s back. And he’s checked everywhere. And there’s no sign of anything or anyone. And everything’s ok. And the rules don’t apply here. I can exhale. I feel trust, I can relax, everything is ok and it only took a minute to realize that it’s nothing serious…or is it???

29Jul2013

Bleep! Bloop! Blurp!…men are from Mars, women are from Venus…ummm…ya!

Posted in Uncategorized by spincyclediaries

Monday: Start of week 2 on this major acquisition which is happening at lightning speed. It’s definitely the “dog days of summer” as I’m totally working like one. I’ve arrived home from work only to find that the 3 year old is burning up with a fever of 102…oh no.

Tuesday: Acquisition still full steam ahead. Fever is now at 103. Leave work early and rush home to takeover watching 3 year old from grandma…coach 7 year old’s soccer game…and sneak in an episode of Bold and the Beautiful…it’s the little things…

Wednesday: Fever spikes at 104. Sleepless night tallies 2. Work from home day. Develop financial model day. Try and get disgusting antibiotics down my toddler’s throat day. Try not to have a nervous breakdown day. Think happy thoughts…ommmmmmm….

Thursday: Fever down to 100…progress! Sleepless night tallies 3…wrong kind of progress! Tag out of babysitting – Mr. Niceguy’s turn. Drop 7 year old at camp, race downtown, park car and walk to my desk. Oh, there it is again…like a forbidden drug…the travel shop. I always look at the window with such forlorn on my way to the office – do I go to Delhi? Sounds so exotic…I can just smell the spices. Do I take a whirlwind trip to NY or Las Vegas? Or a month jaunt to Europe: London, Paris, Florence…just $499 / $899 / $1,099…

Friday: Temperature normal! Hooray! And I got some sleep!! But the list of things to do has been piling up and I have a really full weekend ahead. Oh boy…I just need to make it to Saturday…

Saturday: 4:57 am, I hear a pitter patter in my sleep, reach out my arms from my horizontal position, twist to the right, grip the 3 year old, lift him up, twist back to the left and plonk him between Mr. Niceguy and me – all without opening my eyes. 4:58 am – did I just do that? Do I dare open my eyes? 5:08 am, I can’t take it anymore – I rush to the washroom and then rush back…sleep, why do you evade me? 5:14 am, I hear him. Thump, thump, thump…that distinctive walk…it’s the 7 year old. And before I know it, he’s standing over Mr. Niceguy. I’m in a horror movie.

7 year old: I had a bad dream. [He says without fear – almost like it was super cool]

Me: Oh. You ok? Why don’t you squeeze in here – your brother’s here anyway. But we’re still sleeping, it’s too early…

7 year old: My bad dream starts with a ‘T’

Me: [10 bucks] Tornado?

7 year old: [Pretends he’s shooting guns – with the sound you make while clicking your tongue in your cheek] “Tch-tch” Ya. In the basement.

Me: Tornadoes don’t happen in basements.

7 year old: [Points gun at me] “Tch” – You got it!

Scammer.

After nearly an entire week of sleep deprivation and disruption, for which I maintain a healthy level of fear as well as an almost twisted sense of reverance, I feel like I’m losing my mind. As an aside, it goes without saying that thanks to the “PTSD” brought on by the early days of parenthood which were laced with unforeseen, unexplained, and unbelievable levels of sleep deprivation, I am compelled to pay homage and respect to the power of sleep. Those early days were like nothing I’d ever experienced: infinitely harder than cramming for my hardest exam or preparing for a job interview.

Getting back to it, sometimes in this house full of boys, I feel like I’m in that same sleep deprived state… trying to navigate like an alien from another planet, or better yet, winding around like a drunkard. Hyper emotional, totally unpredictable, yet somehow, fully functional.

It’s like I’ve arrived in my most elegant gown, strappy sandals, without a hair out of place, in perfect makeup and dripping with bling to a backyard BBQ complete with flip flops and finger food.

Misconstrued, misinterpreted, misunderstood.

And this was confirmed by none other than Mr. Niceguy…who in a moment of absolute, rational, logic, set me straight. Kids in bed, tidying up complete, we put our feet up and started watching a taped episode of the Bachelorette. And that’s when it happened. Another poor guy, totally smitten with the Bachelorette gets sent home…and I’m defending how she was absolutely right to send him home. How she was so gracious and kind and how her words would surely lead to a mutual respect and potential future friendship…to which Mr. Niceguy responded, gesticulating like an alien robot: “Bleep, bloop, blurp!”

Me: [Whiny] Whaaaaat??!!

Mr. Niceguy: You can’t be serious…they’ll never be friends!

Me: Why not? He’s sooooo funny…and so sweet! I’d wanna stay friends with him.

Mr. Niceguy: Ya. Men are from Mars, women are from Venus. There’s really no point to him being friends with her, is there? Think about it…

And there it was…and there it is. We often make light of our differences by magnanimously referencing the book with that very same title – and incidentally neither of us have even read it. Still, it’s our way of diffusing misunderstandings, resulting differences and feelings of slight.

I don’t need to survive another crazy week to recognize that Mr. Niceguy and I have lasted as long as we have, despite roadblocks, hurdles, obstacles, bumps and sticky wickets, because somehow we have become totally aware and completely accepting of the fact that we are completely different beings. And let’s face it, because Mr. Niceguy humours me by putting up with my meltdowns, crazy mood swings, my choice in TV (the Bachelorette and the Bold and the Beautiful, to name a couple) and declarations that I am the boss of this house (which totally fall on deaf ears), to name a few.

Though we may be from different planets, what I do know for sure is that we’re both on a fantabulous ride together! Oh, and that my people add a lot of colour…and wishful thinking! And if Mr. Niceguy were to read this, once again he’d say, “Bleep, bloop, blurp!” Pffft….

22Jul2013

Underachiever…in the profession of potty training

Posted in Uncategorized by spincyclediaries

Is being an underachiever so bad? It sure seems easier than trying to claw your way to the top or compete with all of the overachievers…

Let me point out some of the things that an underachiever (probably) never has to do:

Never have to toss someone under the bus – and for that matter…
Never have to take credit for someone else’s achievements
Never have to kiss anyone’s ass
Never have to put in “face time” – hell, that you showed up is an achievement in itself
Never have to play the comparison game, you know the one: I have a better house / car / job / spouse / top / purse / vacation home, etc.
Never have to pretend to read the newspaper and know about the latest market / economic trends, who won the game last night, and what’s happening outside of your own little fiefdom
Never have to play golf
Never have to pretend to like golf
Never have to answer the phone if you don’t want to…except perhaps to make friends with the telemarketers
Never, ever have to make small talk.

Now I’m not suggesting that tossing someone under the bus or doing any of the above are the keys to achieve, or that becoming an underachiever is by any means a glamorous aspiration…though it does have a particular appeal some days. So, would it be so bad if you turned out to be one?

I am, literally, waist deep in toilet training my 3 year old. YES, I know I may be late out of the gate but sue me, I have a full time job, a 7 year old that also needs my attention and a love life to maintain with Mr. Niceguy! In any case, I was told by the teachers at his daycare that in order to progress to the pre-school, he would have to be toilet trained by September. I was told this in January and figured it would be a piece of cake…like it (sort of) was for my older son.

March Break came and went, as did Easter, Victoria Day weekend and Canada Day Weekend…and still, I am no closer to having a toilet trained toddler! I have poured through books, internet sites dedicated to toilet training, mommy sites and blogs and even WebMd to determine if there was a medical condition impeding our success (God forbid I’m to blame!) I even asked his GP who basically told me that I had to be patient and, in not so many words, to basically, lay off.

Let me digress and provide context here. My parents submitted a picture of yours truly, their first born genius baby, at the ripe age of sometime well before 18 months, to a local publication, sitting gleefully atop the potty, reading the Beirut Business Journal. Thanks mom and dad for that ingrained pressure.

Anyway, feeling utterly perplexed, I decided to turn to trusty Google and found:

…toilet training is a mutual task, requiring cooperation, agreement and understanding between child and the caregiver, and the best potty training techniques emphasize consistency and positive reinforcement over punishment – making it enjoyable for the child.

What about making it enjoyable for the parent???! I guess I could have been more consistent and not raise my arms up in defeat every time he answered my questions, “Do you want to do pee pee in the toilet? Would you like some chocolate? I will give it to you if you go to the toilet?” and “Don’t you want to be a big boy like your brother?” with a resounding, “NO!”

Continuing on…I was dumbfounded to read about Elimination Communication, a practice that was recently observed in Vietnam where infants were potty trained starting at birth and achieve success by 9 months of age:

The 4 keys to Elimination Communication include: the baby’s signals, the baby’s natural timing, common potty timing, and the parents’ intuition. It is believed that a deeper bond is created between child and parent through the strengthening of this communication.

Well…I guess we missed THAT boat. @#%@#$!!!! I can only figure out one out of the four keys: like I always have to go in the morning and so that’s likely common potty timing…but what is this about the baby’s signals? The natural timing? And clearly my intuition has been TOTALLY OFF AS HE IS NOW 3 YEARS OLD!!!! Seriously? The only signals I get are when we are in the full throes of the act – I defy ANYONE to tuck my kid under their arm like a football and reach a toilet / potty / any patch of grass in time! And when you become a practiced sprinter like me (did I ever mention that I used to run 100m dashes in elementary school and was really good?) – even if you make it to the toilet / potty / patch of grass, good luck trying to get him to GO!!!!!!!!!

So during these past few weeks of “training” all while battling a bad back, acupuncture treatments, multiple loads of laundry (because let’s face it, the 3 year old could care less if there are “presents” in his undies) and tears of frustration while I ask all my other mommy friends (and even non-mommy single guy friends – that’s how desperate I’d become), I have decided to throw in the towel. What’s the worst that could happen? I have a brilliant, headstrong, loving and funny little boy…so, in this instance, and for the time being, I’m going to declare myself an underachiever…and I’m feeling more relaxed already…

15Jul2013

More than just a mommy in Strollerville…I’m a princess!

Posted in Uncategorized by spincyclediaries

Some time ago we moved to our current neighbourhood, what we jokingly called, “Strollerville” (a term I first heard made by Professor Richard Florida). At that time, the 7 year old was a new toddler, and the 3 year old was my next project. Strollerville is the mecca of neighbourhoods for young (yuppie-ish) families – right on the subway line, which makes it easier to get downtown (I swear nearly everyone in this neighbourhood is either a banker, lawyer or stockbroker), within walking distance from some very well known and one-of-a-kind retailers, great schools and parks, plenty of free street parking, and easy access to the city’s major highways.

Yet, coming from a very chic and trendy neighbourhood downtown where children were almost never to be seen outside the 9am to 3:30pm window, and where the closest thing to a kid’s play place was the Baby Gap or the Potterybarn Kids on Bloor Street – which, ironically were almost always devoid of children – Strollerville was like being in a theme park with children everywhere! And although I missed the sounds of luxury imports racing up and down our street, I knew that we had made the right decision for our little, growing family – particularly since I no longer was mistaken for “the nanny” when I would take my (then) toddler out for a stroll!

Strollerville is now my home and I’ve found that I’ve marked my time here in the most unexpected way. True, the trees have grown, the house could use a fresh coat of paint (thanks to my two little terrors), new restaurants and shops have popped up, and the little boy who would always ride the bus with his mom is not so little anymore…

My first weeks commuting to work were the most harrying for me. I had to wake up an extra 45 minutes earlier just because we had moved 10 minutes away from the core! Anyway, I would see this woman with a little boy, about the same vintage as my 7 year old, nearly every day on my way home from work. They seemed to have such a connection – he was very sweet and quiet and never tested his mother, while she had the kindest disposition. They even looked like each other. He was very obviously the center of her world.

Now I’ll take a moment to digress here…I am no less connected to my two boys, who are definitely the centers of my world but I cannot recall a single day where I haven’t been tested, pushed, stretched, taxed, overwhelmed, etc. by them! Particularly in public when their inner Satan chooses to come out and party. I mean, simply recollecting the shenanigans of this past weekend, my birthday weekend, when they repeatedly begged to leave dugout seats (I repeat, DUGOUT SEATS) at a baseball game (after the top of the FIRST inning) and simply became more insistent with every minute culminating in both of them on my lap in inning 5, completely obstructing my view, each whining into my ears (too closely and spitting God knows what into my ear canals…eeew), and then breaking down in tears when I unexpectedly took all my frustrations out by yelling at the ump!

Or as recent as last night, when I was given a hard time because I’m planning to go out (sans les deux) with my other mommy friends and have too much food, too much wine, ice cream on the giant piece of (faux) Canadian shield in Yorkville, while wearing my too short for me shorts and stilettos, and pass judgement while people watching, without them. Here’s how that went:

Me: So guys…just a reminder that mommy’s going out

7 and 3 year olds in unison: WHY???!!!

Me: It’s mommy’s birthday. You want me to have a nice birthday, don’t you?

7 year old: But your birthday passed. How many times do you have to go out for your birthday?

3 year old: Ya. Issss my bertday (His “bertday” was actually 4 months ago)

Me: No, it isn’t your birthday. It’s my birthday party. And mommy’s friends are going to take her out. She deserves it. [Note: I am all flustered and like a volcano that’s moments from erupting…] I’ve cooked and cleaned for you, I take you to school, I pack your lunches, I play with you, I buy you all the greatest toys and clothes, I go to work so that I can earn money to keep a roof over your heads, so guess what? I’M GOING!

Them: [Totally un-phased] can we come too?

Me: NO!!!!!!!

Anyway, I hadn’t seen this woman in some time but today, as I hopped on the subway a little earlier than usual; there she was sitting just perpendicular to me, with her son. He had grown so much… Still, just as obedient and quiet as ever – she was reading the newspaper while he was busying himself with a Nintendo DS. And when she thought the volume was too high, she gently leaned in, whispered something to him, and he, without a moment’s hesitation, turned it down. I noticed that she didn’t wear a ring on her left hand – perhaps she is raising him by herself – and when I looked up at her face, I noticed that time had also moved for her. No longer as youthful looking as when I first moved to the neighbourhood. Her hair had more greys, and there were a couple of lines near her eyes that crinkled in just that way when she smiled at her son. But she was no less beautiful, and no less lovely than when I first saw her those years ago…

I have no idea how long before my boys stop being boys. But what time I do have, although laced with tears, frustration, bewilderment and anger, is also wonderful, loving, happy, and most of all, magic. And just when I think that once again, things are just too hard and too complicated, I got the best belated present…

Them: OK…we know you really want to go out. Is that what you’re going to wear?

Me: WHAT?! WHY?! I just got this today…doesn’t it look nice? (Snap: why do I even care? Honestly? I just want my IV drip to start hooked up to a bottle of Pinot….) Are you saying this to upset mummy? Is this all because you really don’t want me to go?

3 year old: I don’t want you to go. [Figures]

7 year old: I don’t want you to go either but…if you have to go, you have to go. Hmmm…mommy, you do look nice. You look pretty, beautiful…you know, more than a princess. [Melt]

8Jul2013

Charlie’s Angels…all rolled into one!

Posted in Uncategorized by spincyclediaries

A very dear friend of mine, let’s call her Madeline, or Maddy for short, is one of a group of 5 (and sometimes 6) known for their sense of humour, perspective, inner (and outer) beauty and overall capability…she is a friend that I met once I became a mom. And I have her to thank for the latest of my over-analytical queries…thanks Maddy.

In one of our more recent conversations, Maddy reminded me about how she always got stuck playing “the brainy one” of the Charlie’s Angels while she was growing up. And that got me thinking about myself…and my cousins’ basement. For as long as I can remember, my cousins’ basement was the absolute coolest place to be. My VERY cool aunt allowed her two daughters to completely annex the basement of her house which meant that posters and magazine tear-outs covered every square inch: Tom Cruise, Johnny Depp (circa 21 Jumpstreet), James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, Star Wars and the Dukes of Hazzard (with the original Bo and Luke Duke along with Daisy, of course). And in one corner, the absolute perfect poster of the original Charlie’s Angels: Sabrina Duncan (the brainy one), Jill Monroe (played by the one and only Farrah Fawcett – the tough, resourceful one) and Kelly Garrett (the really pretty one akin to a damsel in distress). And while Maddy had to be Sabrina, my cousins were gracious enough to let me be Kelly.

Kelly had long, bouncy hair, she wore the very cool bell bottomed jeans and cute tops – my version of a Disney princess – smart, with cool martial arts moves and able to handle a gun. I could swear that without realizing, I have aspired to be her ever since (minus the gun part)! So this got me thinking about a couple of things…first, who are the role models for our children today? I mean, there’s the obvious: Iron Man, Spiderman, Merida (Brave), Rapunzel, Cinderella, etc. but what if your kid’s really, really into Spongebob??!! Are you screwed?

And then…isn’t it interesting the way TV shows always portray women in groups with one overly dominant trait or characteristic? We already covered Charlie’s Angels, but here’s what I mean:

Sex and the City: (the pinnacle of all shows, if you ask me) Charlotte (prim, sweet), Miranda (brainy), Samantha (ballsy…in more ways than one) and Carrie (outgoing and flighty)
90210 (original): Brenda (dominant and easily swayed), Kelly (the pretty one), Donna (the comedic, not-so-smart one), Andrea (the brainiac)
90210 (revival): Annie (original main character, easily swayed and sweet), Silver (broody, philosophical, smart), Naomi (resourceful, younger Samantha), Adriana (artsy and troubled)
Golden Girls: Dorothy (smart and manly), Blanche (the original Samantha but super sweet and southern!), Blanche (the original naïve blonde) and my favourite, Sophia (tough)

And there’s more! From Lipstick Jungle to Designing Women, and even Keeping up with the Kardashians! Surely we’re a lot more complex…

At what point do we start identifying with just one characteristic? And why are they always cute?

What if you’ve had a morning like the one I’ve had? I need these characters to identify with: angry, disappointed, raging, crazy! Better yet, disgruntled, disenchanted and disenfranchised…or unmotivated, bitter and haggard. Too much? You be the judge.

Last night, after organizing one of the most perfect days for my two boys (playdate at a best friend’s house, surprise trip to Toys R Us, staying up waaaaaay past bedtimes and extra video game time, etc.) I had to wrestle them to bed (I can feel judgement here: I admit, I spoiled and wound them up with all the great stuff during the day and they weren’t prepared for it to end). Unfortunately, I was then too tired for Thai takeout, TV and QT with my cutie.

No mind, dugout seats at the Jays game on the agenda today. So I wake up with a little bit more energy and excitement, tell Mr. Niceguy that I’m ok with both kids on my own so that he can run an errand (my birthday’s around the corner and I’m fiercely collecting brownie points!) and within moments things start to unravel…more wrestling as I struggle to get the 3 year old in a “tidy” outfit – no Angry Birds, Skylanders, monkeys or monsters, for the big game today. What should have been a 30 second exercise took at least 10 minutes and was laced with crying, shouting, exclamations of wanting daddy, throwing, flailing on the floor…and he did all those things too!!! Oh boy. And there was still one more child in the house to get ready…

I take a moment to collect myself…brush teeth, wash face, moisturize…wait, what’s THAT?! I swear I am being mocked. Not only did I wake up with an extra bushy head of frizzy hair (which the shower took care of) but a gigantic ZIT in the middle of my nose. And OUCH, it hurts! It’s not even a superficial zit. What if I’m on the jumbotron???? OMG. Now I’m really going to start identifying with those girls on 90210…

But, I manage to put it aside. And I catch my breath. And after a very quick 15 minutes I can actually look in the mirror, admire my quick work and say, not bad. And in the meantime, the 7 year old gets dressed without hesitation and my little guy apologizes, unprovoked, for his earlier tantrum….could things be turning around?

I know I can be crazy. I know I can get angry and bitter, unmotivated and disenchanted. And I also know I can be brainy and ballsy along with sweet, naïve, flighty, artsy and indecisive. And given the time, I can pull it together like Kelly Garrett too…and I’m not alone. As a renaissance woman, which so many women are, we are charged with so much and if we’re going to thrive, we have to be able to play not just one or two characters, but so, so many more…

I’m feeling good, I’m feeling like Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte all rolled into one…except, when we head down for a late breakfast they both declare: “We want to stay home today. We don’t WANT to go to baseball!!!” @#$%.

2Jul2013

I think it’s time to cut the cord…or is it?

Posted in Uncategorized by spincyclediaries

Hello summer! You have finally arrived!! There’s nothing like that added glow from the sun, cute summer dresses, flip flops, a cold beer and an overall sexiness that comes from the heat! Perhaps the only thing I would change is how frizzy my hair gets…

Summer always makes me nostalgic – I often recall that amazing rush of freedom when I would write my last exam and run out to party with my friends through to the hot summer nights which would then be followed by long summer holidays that felt like they shaped my life and forever changed me…

With all my nostalgia, it should come as no surprise that I’m probably the biggest daddy’s and mommy’s girl there ever was. If I could still live in their basement, together with my Mr. Niceguy, the 7 year old, the 3 year old and our pet fish, Zoom, I would. Of course, they would probably drive me crazy – and then my crazy would probably make them wish they could evict me, but being the nice people they are, they wouldn’t and, well, let’s just say that I’d hate for a good thing to go bad.

Being Armenian by heritage, my family is quite similar to Voula’s in My Big Fat Greek Wedding and not unlike the Kardashians (minus the rolling cameras, modeling contracts, and the big house in Calabasas) in that everyone is hip deep in everyone else’s life. Armenians (at least my grouping) tend to be LOUD, all about food, LOUD, gesticulate with their hands when they speak, LOUD, and above all else, very passionate about family.

In a culture where family comes first, it follows that my parents’ happiness means everything. More than that, their approval is nearly always essential and sadly, it is this kind of relationship that also makes me quite vulnerable to any of their criticism for they have absolutely no filter and if they believe they are acting in my best interest, the prospect of potentially deflating my ego or hurting my feelings will not stop them…

Take my thirty X girlfriend. She, like me, is also Armenian and my seatmate on the bullet train to forty. Just this morning, while dropping off her children at her parents’ house before going to work, her mom did the typical.

Mom: Oh hello, dear. What is that you’re wearing?

BFF: What? Why?

Mom: Are those shorts? Should you be wearing them to work?

BFF: They’re fancy suit shorts – they are for work. And besides, they’re only just above my knee – it’s not like I’m wearing short shorts. These are in style now, Mom. And they look great with my blouse and my high heels – I’m very well put together.

Mom: OK dear. Whatever you say…but shorts are shorts.

BFF: <DEFLATED>

How is it that our parents can just get to us that quickly? Sometimes I wonder if I would be better off if I (could) just cut the cord – if I could separate myself from this kind of emotional roller coaster: yes I know you were once parents too, yes I know you’ve lived much longer and are therefore wiser, yes I realize that the times we live in now can’t hold a candle to yours, and so on and so forth. And somehow, the long walk to school in hip deep snow and all sorts of other trials and tribulations always seem to come up as they stress for the umpteenth time how things are so much easier for our generation…blah, blah, blah!

That same afternoon, after a very quick bite I spent the rest of my lunch running some errands which resulted in a quick walk up Bay Street. Two women happened to be walking in front of me and snapped me out of my thoughts with their loud regales over their night out. What I noticed first was how tall they were – in my case, I’m vertically challenged at 5 foot 4…5 foot 4 and a half on a good day. What I noticed next was how envious I started to feel about their fun and fancy free story…

As I kept listening to their conversation (ok, eavesdropping but sorry, in my defence they WERE loud and as I explained above, I’m culturally preconditioned to respond to anything LOUD) my attention became drawn to their outfits, which fit their characters quite nicely. The first simply wore black pants and a blouse (the “supporting role” in the last night’s wild night), while the second was wearing a dangerously short dress for work topped with a little black cardigan (the “lead role” and main benefactor). As things progressed, I thought, wow, this leading lady should have chosen a better outfit for work – however would she manage to bend over…or sit down for that matter? But I was snapped out of my wandering thoughts when I noticed a hole the size of a toonie right on her, well, caboose.

I walked behind them for about a block thinking about this classic dilemma: do I tell her or shall I just mind my own business?

Me: Ummm, excuse me. Listen, I’m sorry to interrupt but I have to tell you that you have a hole in your dress –

Lead: What? Where? Really? [Support eyes me suspiciously]

Me: Well, right in the back, right on your, ahem, bum.

Lead starts spinning around trying to see so Support gets in there and validates my claim.

Lead: Omigod! [Blushes beet red and is extremely embarrassed.] I can’t believe it! I love this dress! Thank you so, so much for letting me know. [Looks to Support] I wonder how long we’ve been walking for…omigod.

Me: Maybe just take off your cardigan and tie it around your waist – you’ll be just fine.

As I walked on, I thought of my own trials and tribulations over the years. I thought of how glad I was that so many of my wild nights, drink, and strangers were behind me…for the most part anyway. And I thought of my parents and how even though I might not want to hear what they have to say, I am grateful that for the time being they are still here to tell it like it is…Though the cord is short, it’s not worth cutting off…

24Jun2013

Are automatic responses just faulty learning?

Posted in Uncategorized by spincyclediaries

So, we’re doing something right. The almost 7 year old brought home a glowing grade 1 report card – such an amazing achievement and yet, we’re only at the beginning…

We spend about 16 to 20 years in school: 2 years of kindergarten, 5 years of elementary school, 3 years of middle school, 4 years of high school, then onto college or university. And sometimes that’s not enough to land the job of your dreams so it’s back to school for a graduate degree…or maybe even a PhD…or two. Either way, school provides the opportunity to get the learning required for the career / job of choice (or at least the creds to get your foot in the door!)

What comes into play when you haven’t got the training or experience? Is it instinct? Is it upbringing? Genetics? Exposure? Or is it “immersion”…

Lessons for work:

Doesn’t matter how skinny they make my legs look… maybe I shouldn’t have worn my 6 inch platform sandals to work…on a Tuesday…or ever!
Note to self: do not declare, “Kamikaze shooters for everyone!!!” at the company sponsored social…again….while standing right next to the president….ooops.
A closed door does NOT equal privacy when having a fight over the telephone with your best friend / mom / husband / whoever! Even if the doors are heavy, the walls are paper thin.
The “third stall” is not only for times when your insides are protesting but also a sanctuary for when you don’t want anyone to see you cry because your boss yelled at you or because you just got put on a file that has you working in the remote corners of the country just weeks before you get married / etc. No one will bother you there.

Lessons for marriage:

Signing a piece of paper does not mean that my significant other now needs to check in with me for every, single decision / outing / etc…call off the private investigators!
Stressing over the perfect formal dining room suite just two months after getting married – particularly when living in a tiny downtown condo with no dining room –is time wasted that we’ll never get back.
Going to bed angry sometimes IS the thing to do…the walls in condos are similar to those at the office.

Lessons for when you first have kids:

The term, “sleep like a baby” is a twisted joke.
That labor is the hard part is also a joke.
Trying to decipher the difference in baby cries is also time that I’ll never, EVER, get back…should’ve skipped straight to: it’s gas / they’re hungry / it’s gas / they’re overstimulated / it’s gas / they’re tired / it’s gas!!!
One chocolate / candy / toy / book / TV show / etc. is never enough…be prepared with more…and more…and more!

What if your “learning” has resulted in “automatic responses”…and what if they’re really far off base? Like faulty perspective that distorts reality…

Besides escaping with chic-lit books, I spend a lot of time in the realm of fantasy: from the Hobbit to Twilight and Harry Potter and more recently, Vampire Diaries. I often fantasize about being thrust into a quest to save the world that’s fraught with clashes of good and evil.

Late last night, I was walking to the subway station after leaving the office through a very well lit and deserted shopping concourse in the financial district downtown, and I scared myself into thinking that something was waiting to jump out from behind a trash can or pillar and attack me! My guard was up and adrenaline was coursing through my veins. It didn’t help that all of a sudden I started to hear clicking heels behind me. Don’t turn around! Is it a mugger? Do I fit the victim profile?

All I can think of is, will I ever see my kids again? Or my husband (aka the level-headed Mr. Niceguy)? Why did I have to go and pick a fight with him? Quickening my pace I make it safely to the subway platform and when it pulls in, I jump on and find a seat. I’ve lucked out…there’s a lady doing something on her phone…a guy a few seats down sipping some 7Up…everything seems normal…but wait…who’s THAT guy? And why is he staring back at me? Oh my goodness…he seems quite pale…is he a vampire? A death eater? Serial killer? Stop staring! I can’t! I want to stare my murderer down so he can regret the day he was born! I will not be made into a jacket, thank you very much…even if I’ve gotten a little rounder!

Get into position…back against wall of subway…that’s right, I’m ready for anything. I’ve watched enough Kung Fu (Panda) to know what to do…HI-YA!

Finally. My stop. Exhale….relief….. Can’t wait to get home and give my honey a squeeze…but wait! The vampire / death eater / serial killer is also getting up. Oh no! Did he catch those evil looks I was giving him? Have I angered him? I didn’t mean to…I’m like a Chihuahua and don’t know my own size! Sorry! I swear I have no control over my facial expressions and Mr. Niceguy is always telling me to stop staring! He says I have a staring problem that most toddlers grow out of. Dammit…he was right again!

Inhale! Quick! Run up the escalator, then up the next one too and out the doors…I’m outside, phew! I’m catching my breath now and turn around. Oh my gosh. He’s right there. Staring at me. Why is he looking at me like that? Hey! I’m not some kind of weirdo or a pity case? Either way, you’re wrong! Just a second! Pffft…

And before I know it, to my surprise…he’s walked on by…hmmm…lesson learned.

17Jun2013

Disco and dads…a tribute to Fathers Day

Posted in Uncategorized by spincyclediaries

Long commutes don’t make for happy commuters, however, when my long commute is accompanied by disco backbeats, it’s a groovy ride. Lately there seems to be a disco revival on the airwaves with songs like Daft Punk’s Get Lucky and Robin Thicke’s Blurred Lines. To me, disco is the epitome of dance music – from Donna Summer, to Gloria Gaynor, the Bee Gees and everything else in between, disco makes me wanna shake my groove thang, baby!

I also really love the look of disco: big hair and hoop earrings, sequin crop tops, bell bottom jeans and metallic strappy sandals. Fun, flirty, FOXY!! So as I start daydreaming about what outfit to wear for my debut on Soul Train, I also begin reminiscing about my childhood during the disco era…

My dad introduced me to disco while we lived in Saudi Arabia – parties and social events among the ex-pats took centre stage in a country where non-residents had to live by a different set of rules. He bought my sister and I disco medley eight-tracks and cassettes which we would listen to seated across the front row of our very large Buick Park Avenue (no seatbelts) on our way to go rock climbing on the hills just outside Taif or swimming in the Red Sea. To us, my dad was Superman…he spent countless hours playing with us, taking us on adventures and teaching us things, without ever exhibiting any weakness…there was nothing he couldn’t do!

What was his kryptonite?

After a pretty hectic couple of weeks at work, when my husband complained that he was “coming down with something” and had general aches and pains, I knew it was time to brace myself… while most men are extremely capable and have strong conviction (stubbornness), they are no match for the common cold.

Typical stages are as follow:

Stage 1: Subject pouts and is generally grouchy. Higher than normal level of stonewalling when asked if something is the matter.

Stage 2: Levels of grouchiness now complimented by grumpiness. Subject declares that they are not feeling 100%.

Stage 3: Subject has succumbed and is now staying home from work and cancelling all other commitments. Although still grouchy, subject appears almost sad and defeated and now, really looking the part wearing the “I’m not 100% uniform” consisting of old sweats which have been worn for at least 48 hours straight. The beard/facial hair is coming in, hair is greasy, and there’s a general mustiness wafting from the couch (aka the “day bed” or the convalescing spot in front of the TV). This stage is further characterized with random balls of scrunched up (blech…used) Kleenex and empty chip bags all over the house (including in our bed), as well as multiple sachets of chicken noodle soup and used teabags in the disaster zone formerly known as the kitchen. The subject’s cold has taken over!

Stage 4: Subject’s significant other begins to come undone…nothing is where it should be, there is one more person to pick up after, and I am running constant interference between the children and the patient! I am getting totally overwhelmed…and no longer looking “100%”.

As an aside, I came across the term “man cold” from Urban Dictionary:

The name ‘man cold’ disguises the true terrible, debilitating disease…nearly all men will die from …unless they are administered immediately with large amounts of mindless TV such as daytime TV, or childrens’ cartoons…essential that they not move from bed or a comfy sofa to allow for rehabilitation, and must have tissues and man cold medicine…brought to them constantly by a nearby female.

***I will preface here that although my husband does not expect any of these things, he will not accept ANY help. No advice on how to be more comfortable, and certainly, no comments on his improvement….why???? Lest I jinx it???!!

I will further preface that even if I have a cold to end all colds (you know the ones with puffers and antibiotics, excruciating headaches, bouts of hot flashes and chills, and a pitstop at the bathroom every 15 minutes) I still make myself go to work, get food out on the table, do homework and read a bedtime story (well…maybe not that last bit…)

Stage 5: Subject feels better. There is a grand public announcement of improvement and survival of the great adversity. Subject struts around like a superhero that has vanquished his evil foe. Significant other raises a white flag to exhaustion…but wait!

Although it appeared as though things were finally back in balance, I made the mistake of declaring that I desperately needed to take a break. Not five minutes later I was asked to fetch a glass of water no less than four times, asked where a particular lego character was (recall: the man cold has turned my house into a warzone and lego characters ARE TINY!!), whether I wanted to play baseball in the backyard, what we were having for dinner, and so on…

Stage 6: Nuclear stage. I lose it…but things aren’t at radiation levels quite yet…not until I’m diagnosed by my husband while he now runs interference on his way out to start the festivities with our two boys that hmmm…perhaps I’m not behaving normally. Perhaps something is up with me.

And just as I’m about to follow him outside and use my incinerating heat vision, a disco melody starts to play in the background, and I remember my groove…I Will Survive. I look outside, and I see him running around the backyard at 100% with my boys who have looks of excitement, awe and admiration, and I get it. That although my boys are probably doomed to put their future significant others through the same cycle, like their father, and like my father, their kids will be their only kryptonite.

10Jun2013

Casting stones from glass houses…

Posted in Uncategorized by spincyclediaries

This next piece is dedicated to a very talented graphic designer, Sho Demirjian, at Blue Mango Graphic Solutions. Collaborating with her has resulted in this fantastic image which I think really encapsulates the “magic”… Thank you.

Let me start by saying…I haven’t fallen off the 30-day challenge wagon! 130 squats, 80 crunches and a plank held for 140 seconds and I’m not feeling squished in my jeans…on my way to bikini beach ready! Things really seem to be going my way…

But no. Massive signal problems for the subway so once again I squish my way onto the train.

Generally speaking, I like to mind my own business on public transportation…you never know who (or what) you may encounter – I have been shouted at, shoved, knocked over, asked what planet I was from, and run into all sorts of other people I “should” remember. So this particular morning, I have my nose buried in my latest favourite book (Wedding Night by Sophie Kinsella – I just can’t put this down!!) when I overhear a conversation:

“Oh hi Cindy? Cindy, it’s Mike. Cindy, I’m on the subway. I’m just at Eglinton Station. There are signal problems on the Yonge-University-Spadina line and so I’m definitely going to be late. I guess I’ll just miss the meeting and catch up with everyone later.” Only, we weren’t at Eglinton Station…we were much farther along.

This man, this “Mike”, had lied and I thought, wow, what a dishonest individual…how shameful. And he didn’t even care that everyone else around him had heard his lie – we had all become his accomplices! And for some reason, I felt horrible for this poor Cindy especially when, no exaggeration, two stops later, he made the call again and once more lied about his location.

I was thrilled when the train finally arrived at my destination and I jumped off…

LUNCHTIME!!! Standing in line, waiting to order a sandwich and two I-bank types (you know these guys…über confident wearing the most fashionable Strellson and Brooks Brothers suits with great hair and abnormally white teeth) just stood in the middle of a very busy food court and like peacocks who fan their feathers to intimidate and attract at the same time, start talking in very loud, booming voices about what they feel like eating, the people they know, the weekends they had, and so on, and so on, and so on – each was trying to one-up the other. They’re attracting a lot of attention. Oh brother. It’s like watching Thor and Superman posture for the title of Greatest Superhero of Bay Street. Only the gig is up – they’re neither! Please. Besides, I’m a fan of Spiderman…Peter Parker is ever so sweet and humble – and I can totally relate his spidey senses…a combination of female intuition and my “mom radar”!

Work complete…rush home…prepare dinner for out of town guests…can’t wait! But…what’s this???!! While sweeping the front steps, I witness a neighbour from around the corner leaving a little “gift” from his dog in my garden refuse bag… I mean, I’m glad he didn’t leave it on the street, but to deposit your pet’s excrement in someone else’s garbage WHILE THEY ARE OUTSIDE AND IN YOUR FULL PURVIEW???!!! Is there NO shame?? It’s not like it’s an empty coffee cup!

We’ve all been there, right? We’ve all exaggerated or told a little white lie to get out of something? We’ve all puffed out our chests and pretended to be more than what we are, no? And certainly, we’ve all done something we knew we probably shouldn’t, but did it anyway for one reason or another. But how much thought have we given to what other people may think? Should we not be more concerned with the impression we leave? Should we not be more concerned with their judgement?

I continued to think of this the next day…en route to dropping my kids off at school. When, to our surprise, we arrived at the school, which due to an unforeseen power outage, was closed. So, doing what any other resourceful woman would do, I took them to work with me…downtown…on Bay Street…in an office full mostly of male accountants and finance types. Not exactly a daycare.

A little background as I haven’t spoken too much about my work – I am a financier (aka financial advisor). I build financial models, write business plans, develop financial strategy, and negotiate multi-million dollars in long-term debt using forward interest rate swaps, among other things. And on this particular Friday, I was hip deep in a particular transaction. And I brought the almost 7 year old and 3 year old to work. Without any preparation: no diapers, no snacks, no colouring books, no iPad!! And here’s what happened…

They tore through the hallways like it was a private racetrack…

They did NOT use their indoor voices…

They ran through nearly 100 sheets of paper and drew all over my desk and nearly my walls…

They raided the supply cabinet (I should’ve expected that one)…

They emptied out my goody drawer (emergency stash of chocolate and candy for late nights and complex model building fuel)…

They had aromatic bodily functions…

And worst of all, they started World War III while I was on a conference call…with my boss… and I couldn’t reach the mute button as they were precariously balancing on a swivel chair each trying to push the other off while drawing all over my white board!! Oh, and did I mention? My office is TINY and has a glass wall…it’s actually called a “fishbowl” office. WE WERE ON TOTAL DISPLAY.

I was absolutely mortified. Horrified. I had done such a good job separating my personal and career life. Though I have often spoken of my funny and crazy boys (not crazy insane, but crazy cute, or kooky) all I could think was what impression I was now leaving others with:

Wow…poor woman…those two are just insane…

Oh, another woman trying to climb the corporate ladder and have a home life…there’s a “balancing act” gone totally out of whack…

She really should do a better job controlling those kids…

Thank goodness I don’t have kids yet…

Oh brother. I can’t tell you how fast I loaded up all the files I needed on my laptop and got the @#% out of there! And as if that wasn’t enough…the shenanigans continued all the way to the car and that’s when I totally lost my marbles. In the middle of the financial district I absolutely lost my mind and just let out all of the morning’s frustrations. I did NOT care how I looked. I did NOT care what people thought. I did NOT care that I was now a spectacle.

And you know what? Doing what I needed to do…what I wanted to do…well, it felt damn good.

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Spincycle Diaries

Confessions of a modern-day renaissance woman

Author Archives: spincyclediaries

Get lost!!!! (in Hallowe’en…)

I’m a convicted felon!

Thanksgiving…thanks goodness it’s over.*

I’m a GYPSY…and the sun revolves around ME!

I left my heart in….Vancouver??

What, me? A hypochondriac?

I want my cake…and I want to eat it too!

Heels, hoops and all…you better represent!!

The Great Outdoors

Vacanciones…spincycle style

Pride and Prejudice…the spincycle version

Trust me…famous last words

Bleep! Bloop! Blurp!…men are from Mars, women are from Venus…ummm…ya!

Underachiever…in the profession of potty training

More than just a mommy in Strollerville…I’m a princess!

Charlie’s Angels…all rolled into one!

I think it’s time to cut the cord…or is it?

Are automatic responses just faulty learning?

Disco and dads…a tribute to Fathers Day

Casting stones from glass houses…