Natalie Karneef.com

Dr. Evil

2012-01-27T00:33:00.006-05:00

"So what are you whining about?"

That's how my gynecologist greeted me on Tuesday, when I went in due to some weird uterus pains. And he didn't say it in a sweet, affectionate way. He said it in a cynical, harsh way, but I had to laugh, because my feet were already in the stirrups.

Then he asked what I did for a living.

"Professional kickboxer," I wish I'd thought to say, but instead I said, "Writer," and he said, "Oh yeah. Sensitive, overly dramatic type."

You do not say this to a woman when you have your hand up her hooha.

He told me there probably wasn't anything wrong with me, but said if I wanted to be sure, I could do an ultrasound.

"But I'll tell you right now, you'll have to wait six to eight months," he said. "Unless you want to pay."

"I want to pay," I said. So kill me. I totally support Medicare, but I also only have one uterus, and was just thinking of getting around to actually using it.

"Call this number," he said, handing me a piece of paper. "That's my private clinic." The address was in a very upscale shopping mall. Like, very upscale.

But did I say no? Did I tell him I'd rather pay anyone else to stick a wand into my best bits? No. I went behind the curtain, put my pants back on, and tried not to cry.

I've told myself so many times before to just suck it up when it comes to this guy. To just deal with it, it's only 5 minutes, and you're lucky to have a gynecologist at all, in a city where 4 in 10 people can't even get a family doctor. But later that day, no matter how many times I tried to, I couldn't call that number. I couldn't bring myself to lay down cash at a medical clinic that probably pays more in rent than most sub-Saharan countries owe in debt.

Then I looked at this book, which was on my bedside table, after I read the entire thing in one sitting last weekend.

Today, I phoned his office and told them I wanted the ultrasound requisition sent to another clinic. Then I made an appointment with a new gyno, who came highly recommended from a friend.

I wish so badly that I could have done more. That I had told this guy where he could shove his speculum. But I didn't. There's a scene in the film Amelie*, where the narrator explains that all shy people wish there was prompter waiting in every cellar window, whispering the comebacks they can't come up with themselves. This is one of the truest things I've ever heard. But there is no such prompter.

Or maybe there is in Paris. But they probably have nicer gynecologists, too.

* top-10-possibly-5 favourite films of all time

** photo via OwningPink.com - hopefully they won't mind

Wednesday

2012-01-25T22:01:00.000-05:00

2012-01-24T20:02:00.000-05:00

via Aiming Low

Blog Love

2012-01-23T22:11:00.000-05:00

Today, two blogs I had the fortunate to come across last week. One hooked me because of this post. Remember how I was talking about imperfect relationships? This woman is definitely part of the club, even though she doesn't know it. She's also a recovering addict. Favourite lines include:

If you are thin and smile a lot, people tend to believe that you have the universe’s secrets in your pocket and also that a raindrop has never fallen upon your head. If you also happen to be wearing trendy jeans…

At the playground that day Tess decided she wanted help and love more than she wanted me to think she was perfect.

'As a formality, I just have to ask if you’ve ever been arrested.' She never called me back. It’s hard to explain it away as only five times.

She inspires the hell out of me, and a lot of other people.

A closer-to-home discovery is Beaubiquitous, a blog whose writer, Erica Ruth Kelly, posts about one positive/beautiful thing every day. Her posts are sweet and some are really goddamn funny. Examples:

Would I make it? Would my frostbitten body be found in a snowbank somewhere because I'd accepted an invitation to tea? What if the bus was hijacked and now dozens of people had been taken hostage like in "Speed" but the bus driver couldn't stay at 50 mph because s/he got stuck behind a snow plow? Did I have to be such an alarmist about everything? Why did I need to worry so much? Why can't my movie references be topical?

and

I don't have a smartphone. I have a moderately-intelligent-but-doesn't-realize-its-inner-strength-because-it-feels-like-it'll-never-be-good-enough phone (I'm assuming its low self-esteem is why it often chooses to cut off text messages that are over 140 characters; it can't handle the pressure).

Go. Read. Enjoy.

Circle Time

2012-01-20T18:32:00.003-05:00

Two of my favourite people, who happen to be married to each other, live in Stockholm, Sweden, with their two amazing little boys.

One of those boys - we'll call him Nils - has just started daycare, and his mom wrote today to tell me about something called Circle Time. Apparently, Circle Time is a time when all the kids come into the middle of the room and sing songs or talk about colours or shapes.

Nils, who is the calmest, quietest little dude you'll ever meet, has not taken much of a shine to Circle Time, and chooses instead to play on his own. Apparently, the daycare leaders have a problem with this. According to them, Samuel's mom should be "concerned if things don't improve."

Nils is one and a half years old.

I'm wondering what she's supposed to be concerned about. That her son is comfortable enough with himself to do his own thing? That he can enjoy his own company, in world where most people can't sit still long enough to go to the toilet?

In a few years, Nils is going to walk down the main street of any city in the world, and notice how everyone is dressed almost exactly the same. He will watch TV shows and read magazines that tell him and the women he knows how to be "beautiful." He'll find himself at parties where people are blabbing about such boring, surface topics that he'll want to stab himself in the eye with a fork, but will probably feel awkward if he doesn't contribute.

As his mother wrote:
Why is it only when we are well into adulthood that we realize it's okay not to join fucking Circle Time?

I think I still struggle with Circle Time sometimes.

I had way higher ambitions for today, I really did.

2012-01-19T20:55:00.002-05:00

Why I heart Marc Tetro

2012-01-18T19:08:00.001-05:00

(Marc Tetro: marctetro.com. Breeds other than schnauzers also available.)

Let's Panic About Marriage

2012-01-17T22:27:00.001-05:00

I don't have kids, but I read "Sippy Cups Are Not for Chardonnay" in 2 days.

Anne Lamott's "Operating Instructions," about her son's first year of life, is one of my favourite books. I RSS feed "Aiming Low," am in the middle of "Let's Panic About Babies," and subscribe to Julie Matlin's blog, "Mommy Said What?"

I'd like to say all this reading is for research purposes, and partially, it is. But it's also about my love for voices and stories that remind me: it's okay not to be perfect.
That, in fact, not being perfect makes you a hell of a lot more interesting, and is something that should be celebrated.

Lately, all this research has got me thinking. According to the bookstore and the blogosphere, it's okay to be an imperfect parent, and that's great. But what about those of us who aren't parents? Or who are, but who also have (gasp!) an imperfect relationship?

There are shelf-loads of self help books and billions of websites on how to improve your relationship, but very few memoirs or blogs or columns where real people come out and admit that they're in couples therapy, or that they're wondering what they were thinking when they agreed to sleep with only one person for the rest of their life, or that they fantasize about running away to a cabin in the woods which they would decorate exactly the way they want and where they would NEVER MAKE THE BED.

(read about this place here)

Why are people writing about their babies but not their partners?

Is it because babies can't read what we blog about them and we feel more justified in admitting our mishaps? Is it that our entire society, not to mention the model of Hollywood films, is built upon the idea of monogamous, Happily Ever After marriage? Or maybe there are blogs and books like these, and I just don't know about them. If you do, please point me to them.

In the meantime, I'm going to start a club, for people who are in a committed relationship and who want to talk about the imperfect bits, and the difficult parts, and the nights they locked themselves in the bathroom and swore they were leaving tomorrow. No judgements. No "well, that wouldn't happened if you'd picked the right person." And no washed-up ideas about sex.

I'm lucky: I'm imperfectly married to a guy who documented our imperfect relationship, and used it in part of a film. He doesn't mind me talking about this stuff.

I invite you to join my club. Virtually, of course - no names needed, no stories required. (Although if you have some you want to share, please, feel free.) It needs a name, too, and I'm too tired to think of one right now, but if you have any suggestions, please share those too.

Single people are welcome.

You can say it's for research purposes.

Why Bother?

2012-01-16T17:43:00.000-05:00

My blog this week for 60 million Girls, re-posted with their permission, features this excellent video by the ONE Campaign, about the questions we ask ourselves about helping people in developing nations.

Why Bother? from ONE Campaign on Vimeo.

You can read the whole blog here.

Is it snowing where you are?

2012-01-14T00:39:00.000-05:00

Even if not, I have a feeling this might fit.

Happy Friday.

You know when you find something so funny that you keep it on your desktop, and whenever you open it you know you still laugh?

2012-01-12T22:21:00.000-05:00

That's how I feel about this:

It came to via my friend Jill Murray, but I don't know who the original artist is - do you? It is one of my the Top-10-Possibly-5 funniest things ever. Incidentally, Jill is a great YA writer and you should read her books, even if you're not a YA or even an A.

A Conversation with my Mother

2012-01-10T22:19:00.000-05:00

Me: I have a new favourite British comedy called Miranda. It's so amazing, it's about this woman whose mother -

Mom: But I thought you didn't have TV.

Me: I don't. I download it. Although I'm so obsessed with this show that I actually bought both seasons on DVD. Anyway -

Mom: How do you download it? Don't you need a special thingie for the computer?

Me: No, I just watch it on my laptop. Or sometimes I plug it into the TV to watch.

Mom: Is it easy to download something?

Me: It depends.

Mom: Oh.

Me: Anyway, in the show, her mother is always -

Mom: Oh, I know that special plug thingie! I think your brother told me about that.

Me: Yes, he probably did. Can I tell you about the show now?

Mom: Did you see this coat? Very nicely made. Beautiful fabric.

This one's for you, Mom.

Monday

2012-01-09T21:18:00.000-05:00

Book Club

2012-01-07T01:46:00.000-05:00

I put out a Facebook request for reading recommendations of the funny, uplifting, enthralling, magical variety - or, in the best case, all of the above. Thought I'd share the list, as it turned out to be a pretty good one. Some of these I've read, many I haven't. Do you have any to add? B ooks you didn't want to end, but you couldn't put down? Books that made you feel young (or younger?) Books whose worlds you wished you lived in?

Here's the list, and its accompanying reviews:

A Short History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson ("A hell of a read.)

Bossypants by Tina Fey ("Don't wait, go buy it. You'll want to have your own copy.")

Anything by Siri Hustvedt

Birdsong by Sebastien Faulks

The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern

The Help

Room

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close (note: Everything is Illuminated, also by Jonathan Safran Foer, at the top of my [Natalie's] top 10-possibly-5-books-of-all-time list)

Rise and Shine by Anna Quindlen

A Prayer for Owen Meany ("If you haven't read it, run.)

The Power of One (note: another top-10-poss-top-5)

Barney's Version

Good Omens

Terry Pratchett's Disc World series

Lamb: The book of Biff by Christopher Moore. ("Awesomeness.")

The Forgotten Garden by Kate Morgen ("All of the above.")

Crucial Conversations

Fear and Loathing ("Does it for me.")

(cannot resist temptation to post Johnny Depp image whenever possible)

The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes

Cryptonomicon by Neal Stephenson ("You're welcome.")

One Thousand White Women: The Journals of May Dodd

Another note: if you're in the mood to bookshop, go out and support your local bookstore if possible! If you have patience, save trees and money and support literary charities by buying your books at Betterworld.com!

Lebanon - January 14th

2012-01-05T21:46:00.000-05:00

My father was born and raised in Beirut. Lebanon is a part of me, and is a place that in equal parts fascinates and angers me. It's a forward-thinking country where life is celebated to the max. It's also backwards in so many ways.

Marital rape is not considered a crime in Lebanon. Politician Imad Hout recently stated, "There's nothing called rape between a husband and wife."

Next Saturday, January 14th, at 12pm in Beirut, a women's organization called Nasawiya is holding a protest against this law. It takes place outside of the Ministry of Interior in the neighbourhood of Sanayeh. If you can, please show your support. If you're not in Beirut, please spread the word on Twitter (tag @nasawiya,) on your blog, or on Facebook.

Wednesday

2012-01-04T22:21:00.000-05:00

My mom bought me a copy of "Everything On It" by Shel Silverstein for Christmas. (She also bought me "Embracing the Beloved: Relationship as a Path of Awakening", but no one's perfect.) Since I first heard "Where the Sidewalk Ends" on vinyl, Shel has been one of my favourite storytellers.

Today, walking through the skating rink that is the park near my house, one of his poems - possibly my favourite - came to mind. I think we should all have a copy on the doors of our houses. If you ever get the chance to hear a recording of the man himself recite it, listen hard and listen well.

If you are a dreamer, come in.

If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar, a hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer...

If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire

For we have some flax golden tales to spin.

Come in!

(Thanks to Susan Kaiser Greenland for posting!)

Things I learned in 2011

2012-01-03T14:38:00.001-05:00

1. In times of crisis, treat yourself like a toddler who has a terrible flu. Be as kind to yourself as humanly possible.

2. If you secretly believe someone everyone “loves” is really an asshole, you’re probably not alone.

3. Whether it’s your church or your bathtub, spend time, regularly, in a place where you are accepted exactly as you are, and are reminded that there is something bigger at work.

4. Do not spend time in a dysfunctional environment, even if you are getting paid for it.

5. Don’t let anyone treat you with disrespect, NO MATTER WHO THEY ARE.

6. If your partner loses a parent, imagine, as often as possible, how you would feel if you lost one of yours.

7. It is almost impossible to support someone during a difficult time if you yourself don’t have support. It’s like a single column trying to hold up an entire building.

8. It’s almost impossible to get support if you don’t ask for it.

9. It IS impossible to get support from people who aren’t supportive. (Seems easier to figure out than it is.)

10. Letting go of the people who can’t support you may result in the mysterious appearance of people who can.

11. No matter how terrifying it seems, say goodbye to someone who is dying. For the rest of your life, you’ll be glad you did.

12. If possible, spend a few days a year somewhere where there is no phone, no internet, no TV reception, no cell phone reception and no other people. Try not to recall horror movie plots while this is happening.

13. It is possible to lead a happy life without cheese.

14. Don’t trust anyone who doesn’t thank you for homemade cookies.

15. If someone really rubs you the wrong way, chances are it’s because of a really old part of you you’re not paying attention to.

16. Just like muscles don’t happen if you don’t exercise, positive thinking doesn’t happen if you don’t practice it. It takes effort, and concentration. It takes recognizing that negative thoughts are no more “real” than a positive ones. When in doubt, find the company of someone who’s been doing it for a long time.

17. Stop being afraid all the fucking time! But be nice to yourself when you are. (See #1.)

Let's hear it for 2012.

Happy Holidays

2011-12-23T17:46:00.001-05:00

Today: the New York Times

the Huffington Post

And me.

Happy Holidays, everyone. Hope it's filled with food, family and joy. See you on the other side.

Mont Tremblant, December 22

2011-12-22T23:04:00.001-05:00

Happy Schnauzerkah.

If I'm still Awake It Still Counts as Wednesday

2011-12-22T01:36:00.000-05:00

Happy Holidays, everyone.

Things My Husband and I Argue About - An Objective and Balanced List

2011-12-20T22:33:00.009-05:00

Whether you should walk through Ikea the way you're supposed to: following the arrows and enjoying the seamless, modern Swedish common sense experience concluded by cinnamon rolls... or, take all the short-cuts and risk missing out on an item of household furnishing that could complete your life.

Whether you should sit two thirds of the way back in a movie theatre, enjoying the panoramic experience of sight and sound... or directly underneath it, causing neck dislocation and permanent hearing loss.

Whether to hang the dog's winter coat on our coat rack, since it's so cute and costs more than all of our coats put together... or store it in a separate dog cabinet with his toys and snacks and winter boots because it's "dirty from the street".

Whether the dog should be allowed to get into bed with us whenever he wants, thereby increasing his self-esteem as a loved, appreciated and cuddle-able family member... or only after he has been decontaminated, disinfected and bleached.

Whether to only make the bed on weekends when it will be used as a picnic space/couch/dog-cuddling-zone/meditation pad/existential crisis area... or make it daily, because an unmade bed "is depressing".

Whether crepes are actually pancakes

Whether it's okay to watch the Grinch before the Christmas tree is up

Whether french fries count as salad

Whether Donovan counts as music

Whether takeout souflaki delivered to our door by a man named Savino counts as cooking dinner.

...To be continued.

Obviously.

My website is me. It must be fresh. It must be happening.

2011-12-19T16:09:00.000-05:00

My heart grew 2 sizes today: Ab Fab returns on Christmas Day.

Cancel your aromatherapy, your psychotherapy, your reflexology, your osteopath, your homoeopath, your naturopath, your crystal reading, your shiatsu, your organic hairdresser, and pour yourself a Bolly-Stolly.

ABC Gets It (Almost) Right

2011-12-16T19:54:00.001-05:00

ABC did a piece on the Dragon Tattoo story today, and unlike some of the other ones, they actually took the time to speak to me first. The story is actually quite balanced and true, except for the line:

"My fear is that people will watch the film and have this impression of the heroine and what she endured to be that person."

It doesn't really make sense (even if I said it,) but what I intended was, I fear that people who see her as a heroine WON'T think about what she endured to get that way.

You can read the whole piece here.

There's a column coming out in the Toronto Sun on Sunday, and I'm hoping that's the end of it. But I wanted to answer the comments and be black and white on what I actually said and didn't say. So:

This is not an attack on how you or anyone dresses.

This is not an attack on H&M, or on the film. I LIKED the film (the original Swedish version, anyway).

I'm simply questioning the association of a line of clothing with a victim of childhood abuse and rape, who exacts violent revenge. I found it to be negative; a thoughtless marketing ploy. That's all. I wanted people to think about why Lisbeth does what she does, before they choose to emulate her. I questioned it, and I proposed that others question it, too.

For doing that, I've been attacked, and some of these attacks have come from people who were also raped - which I find really painful and difficult. I know they are in pain, and that they are angry. And yet they're responding as if I attacked them personally - their life experience, how they dress, how they feel. That is not what I set out to do.

This was an opinion piece, based on my emotions and judgement. Most importantly, I NEVER said that H&M is trying to glamorize rape. I said they are glamorizing the rage and fear that sexual violence leaves behind.

One last thing to the people who claim I'm doing this to draw attention to myself: believe me, this is the last thing on earth I want to draw attention to. I made this message public, and I feel it's my responsibility to follow through with it. But every time I check my e-mail or my twitter feed my heart pounds, and often I'm left shaking and deeply upset. I'm having to defend not just my opinion, but my opinion as a rape survivor. That's not fun. It's actually pretty horrible.

Try to remember that before you put me down.

Opinion (a definition)

2011-12-15T22:28:00.000-05:00

It's been quite a day, and quite a week.

I've been told that what I wrote was a cry for attention.

I've been called an idiot. I've been called pathetic. I've been told to get a life.

A major media news outlet has taken my words out of context, and suddenly, I am saying that H&M is glamorizing rape. I said no such thing. Who in their right mind would try to glamorize rape?

There are too many comments and questions to respond to individually, so I will respond to them here, but not tonight. Tonight, I want to say:

If you want to send me insulting tweets or write disrespectful comments on my blog, that's your right. But to save us both energy, I ask that you first recall that this is my opinion, based on my impression, from my experiences.

If that's not what you read in my letter, read it again.

I'm not judging you, or your clothing.

I'm not judging where you shop, or what you do with your time.

I'm not assuming anything about your life.

Consider extending the same courtesy to me.

There Will be Pugs

2011-12-14T19:27:00.001-05:00

There was more today: interview with the Toronto Sun, piece in the Toronto Star, and it even made it to the UK. But I don't really want to talk about it. I had no idea that this would go where it has, and that it would bring up some of the hard stuff, which hasn't come up since the last trial.

So I'm going to leave it for now.

Then why am I posting?

The day before all this Dragon Tattoo stuff exploded, I'd made a pact to start blogging every day. The way I was doing things until now - posting long, thoughtful, introspective, soul-bearing essays ~~once a month~~ ~~once every two months~~ when I could fit them in between everything else - was fine and all, but it's not 1999 anymore. So here's to more, shorter, shallower pieces. And lots of pictures.

Tony and I are pug-sitting this week, so we'll start with Desmond and Bruce.

There. That ought to do you.

PFO Sighting and The Gazette

2011-12-13T20:21:00.001-05:00

I got an e-mail this morning from a woman named Bella, who, along with her husband, is launching one of the most genius products I've ever heard of. It's called a PFO, which stands for Protective Fashion Object. It's a bracelet which is connected to a GPS tracking device, which is then connected to your social network or a security service. If you're in a dangerous situation, you pull the bracelet, and it sends a text message to three people of your choice.

It also happens to be seriously stylin'.

They are just launching the PFO now, and already have an insane Facebook following (over 125,000) which is pretty amazing, given that no one actually owns one yet.

The couple was inspired to create the bracelet because they have three daughters, and were becoming more aware of the dangers women face living anywhere in the world.

By the way, PFO unofficially stands for Please F*** Off.

Bella read my H&M letter and wanted to know if we could help each other out. I was thrilled, and even more thrilled when I spoke to her, and she turned out to be super sweet and lovely. Isn't it weird how the world works?

So stay tuned for more on the PFO.

The Gazette also printed my Op Ed piece on this same topic today, that I wrote before the WSJ stuff. Here's a link.

Update on H&M (aka a Twitter Christmas Story)

2011-12-12T20:05:00.006-05:00

Just a little update on my open letter H&M from a rape survivor, which has traveled farther and wider than I could possibly have imagined - i.e. to The Wall Street Journal. Yes, that Wall Street Journal (I asked the same question at first.)

How did this happen, you ask?

Because of my mammoth Rolodex of high-up media personalities and my clout in the fashion world? No! Because of one person, Nadine Lerner, aka @bluedogzdesign on Twitter. I've never met Nadine - something I hope to rectify soon - but she sent the story to Christina Binkley, the style writer for the WSJ.

Christina wrote:

[Natalie Karneef] looks at the retailer’s commercial effort in stark terms with disturbing connotations, more as a rape-survivor-with-a-dragon-tattoo collection than cute affordable clothes aimed at style-conscious young people.

Karneef asks if the Swedish retailer has considered how rape survivors approach the task of dressing, ever-after second-guessing their own choices of skirt length and neckline.

You can see the entire WSJY story here.

Because of this, H & M sent out a public response to my letter. It said:

We have read the open letter by Natalie Karnefwe [sic] apologize if she or anyone has been offended by the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo collection by Trish Summerville – this has not in any way been our intent. The collection is based on and inspired by the film and character Lisbeth Salander and though we think Lisbeth is a strong woman who stands up for her ideal, we are not trying to represent her specifically. Our goal is to rather offer a collection that we see in today’s trend picture that will appeal to many customers. We do not view this collection as provocative-it contains pieces that are staples in many people’s wardrobes: jeans, biker jackets and t-shirts. It’s all about how you wear them. We encourage our customers to find their own personal way to wear our products.

... which is pretty much the bullshit response you'd expect, but still. People tweeted, people Facebooked, people talked. Maybe some people will think twice before going in and dropping cash on an American flag t-shirt that looks like it's been run over by an 18-wheeler - not that that's the point.

The point is that we need to pay attention to mainstream messages about rape, and that one person - Nadine - made all the difference in this story reaching 100 people, vs. however many thousand read the WSJ website. And who read Fashionsta.com, who picked up the story, too, asking if the Dragon Tattoo collection trivializes the experience of rape survivors. And who read a site called The Tattooed Girl. My "resistance" was mentioned again in a new WSJ story that came out today, as the release date of the collection approaches. (H&M's words to live by: "We don't stand behind the violence or the harshness but the look is very cool.")

This post is for Nadine, and for you. No, we haven't changed the world. But maybe we've changed a few minds.

(photo of Nadine and her daughter courtesy of Bluedogzdesign.com)

An open letter to H&M from a rape survivor

2011-11-25T17:19:00.002-05:00

Dear H&M,

I used to like you. I really did. Even when your clothing started to lose its funky, vintage-store-treasure style and holes started appearing in the t-shirts I bought from you, I still thought you were mostly doing things right. You had organic collections. You supported good causes. You sold cool hats.

But then came your Girl with the Dragon Tattoo collection.

I'd like to be clear: I loved the original film. It's one of the only stories I've ever come across where the hero is female, and that female comes out smarter and stronger than the male hero, whose life she saves. But it took me a long time to watch the film, and I had to fast forward through a few scenes. Because, like Lisbeth Salander, I was raped.

And now, H&M, you have created a line of clothing based on her character: a woman who has suffered a lifetime of abuse, who is violently raped, and who is hunting down a man who violently rapes and kills other women. Lisbeth has been through hell, and her clothing is her armor. That's her choice, and it's an understandable choice. But you glamorize it, putting a glossy, trendy finish on the face of sexual violence and the rage and fear it leaves behind.

I wonder if you've considered how a survivor of sexual violence chooses her or his fashion choices. I wonder if your designers researched what we think about when we get dressed, how some of us will opt against a revealing outfit because we'd rather not deal with unwelcome advances or sexist slurs. I am an ardent supporter of the Slutwalk movement. I believe that what a woman wears should not have any bearing on whether or not she is sexually assaulted or harassed. But many of us who have been there still decide against the short skirt. We place our bets, hoping that our camouflage will protect us from a rude catcall in a subway station, and the subsequent anger, shaking, tears. When I dress in the spirit Lisbeth Salander, it's because I want to send a message to men: to stay the fuck away.

Anna Norling, the Division Designer at H&M, says that she is “so proud” of this collection, because Lisbeth is the “very essence of an independent woman.” Lisbeth Salander is independent woman whose mother was abused by her father, who was violently raped by a man in charge of her well being, who is harassed and bullied by men in public, and who is severely emotionally scarred.

Stieg Larsson was inspired to write The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo because he witnessed a girl getting gang raped when he was 15 years old. I've heard it said that being raped is like getting a tattoo - it never goes away. I hope your shoppers bear this in mind before they emulate Lisbeth Salander.

Fear Itself

2011-11-03T12:58:00.001-04:00

I’m writing this from a picnic table under the sun, at my local dog park. Some might call this strange, or even work-obsessed. They’d only be half right.

I’ve always struggled to quiet my mind. Even in places where I feel my thoughts should shut off, like the dog park, or yoga class, or looking out at a sunset over a lake, they still yammer away like a bunch of old Greek ladies on Nescafe. There I am, balancing my body weight on one elbow*, mentally going over my To Do list and screaming at myself like a drill sergeant for not having gotten enough of it done. Why didn’t I call the insurance company? Crap, I didn’t defrost the chicken! If I’d gone to the grocery store this afternoon, I could have gotten two more hours of work done afterwards... why am I so bad at managing my time? And I don’t even have kids! AndwhatamIgoingtodowiththoseapplesthatareabouttogooffIreallyshouldn’tbehere Namaste.

I began to perfect the drill sergeant routine when I started writing from home. At first, creating something I cared about and believed in was good, like a small, crackling fire under my ass, or at least a citronella candle. But soon, whenever I wasn’t writing, I was panicking. And by not writing, I mean going to the bathroom, or doing the dishes, or eating lunch. Even when I was doing the paid work I needed to do to so I could keep writing, I’d be in a state of full-body anxiety, because I wasn’t writing. I’d add up how many hours I’d written that day, and tell myself it wasn’t enough, no matter how high the number was. (This was while being fully aware that many successful writers claim they only write for 4 hours a day.) I berated myself for not working as much as people with “real jobs,” conveniently forgetting those people have meetings and coffee breaks and water coolers to chat around, where they can exercise a different part of their brain, whereas I go all day speaking to no one, except my dog Ruble, and sometimes the fruit flies in my kitchen.

And then, a few weeks ago, I went to see a… healing person.

You see, for the last three years, my hair has been falling out. Yup, those curly locks I spent 31 years of my life trying to straighten and bleach and thin and flatten are now taking residence in the shower drain, my hairbrush, my sweaters. I’ve been to a family doctor, a dermatologist, an endocrinologist, a naturopath, two homeopaths and a cranio-sacral therapist, and none of them can figure it out. It has not been fun.

Do I realize there are worse fates in life than losing hair? Yes. Am I aware that there are a lot of awful reasons one’s hair can fall out, and how lucky I am that none of them apply to me? God, yes. Very much so. But if it’s all the same to you, I’d still like it to stop. I like my hair, and I apologize to it, publicly, for all the humiliation I’ve caused it over the years.

So as wary as I am of admitting this, for fear that you will no longer take me seriously as a cynic…

I went to a healing person, and had energy work done.

Before he did anything, he asked all kinds of questions I didn’t want to answer, like how Tony and I had been getting along lately, and what I did for fun. (“Fun? I’m not sure what you mean by that.”) Then I lay down on a mat. I managed to go into a deep meditation, and he put his hands lightly on different parts of me, which went cold and warm, and sometimes felt as if currents were moving through them.

Coming out of the session 45 minutes later, I felt like I’d just run a marathon. I could have stayed on that mat and gone to sleep for the next 12 hours. But I forced myself up and back into a chair, and the healing person said,

“You’ve got to stop being afraid all the time.”

He wasn’t saying it in a demeaning way. He was saying it straightforwardly, matter-of-factly. Fear, he said, was something I carried with me everywhere I went.

Naturally, my first reaction was to be afraid.

“How?” I asked. I felt like he was telling me to stop breathing. Was this what it was going to take for my hair to stop falling out? Well forget it, I was going to have to get a wig, but those were really expensive, and would I have to take it off to shower? How about to swim? Would I sleep in it? I could never rock the bald look – my head shape is too -

“Just be aware of it,” the healer said. “You tell yourself constantly that life is hard. That’s not helping you.”

I knew, in that moment, that I had a choice. I could roll my eyes, leave his office, and decide that anyone who equates hair loss with fear has obviously eaten one too many gluten-free spacecakes. Or, I could believe him. Because he was right. I am steeped in fear. I marinate in it. And take what you want from this, but my hair started falling out just a few months after I started writing from home.

I walked out into the street that evening feeling light and clear, as if my emotions and thoughts were passing through me, instead of getting stuck like the fruit flies do to the sticky tape I put up in the kitchen. I met up with Tony to help him go shopping for new clothes - a bi-yearly event I both look forward to and dread - and watched as the little fear bursts ignited, even at the most insignificant things. I began to see how I instantly translate rejection, even when it’s from my husband, about a men’s shirt I’m holding up to show him in the basement of The Bay, to “you’re not good enough.” It’s as logical, and no doubt as helpful, as telling myself that my inability to accomplish 36 hours worth of tasks in 17 means I am a failure as a human being, or when I decide that the pain in my left shoulder blade means I probably have three weeks left to live.

Since my meeting with the healing person, some days have been easier than others. I’m getting better at doing just one thing at a time, on focusing on how many things I have gotten done in the day, and staying conscious – mostly - of the voices that tell me I’m not doing enough. Other days, I go back to old habits. But even then, part of me is aware that what those voices are saying may not actually be true.

And for the first time, I’m actually grateful for the hair loss. It’s led me to a place I really needed to go: a place that is much more enjoyable, where being alive isn’t a chore, and where there’s actually room for fun. Yes, fun. Which brings me back to the dog park, and the next item on my To Do list: Throw squeaky toy.

* slight dramatization. I can't balance my body weight on anything, except the couch

Mama Greek Hits the Big Screen

2011-10-13T14:46:00.000-04:00

For the last 4 years, while I've been writing a book about my life, Tony's been working on a documentary about his.

This has made for a very low drama, stress-free environment, as I'm sure you can imagine.

Well, the day has come to let the world in. Tony's film, Fortunate Son, is premiering at the Festival du Nouveau Cinema in Montreal on October 20th.

You can watch the trailer here.

You can look at the poster here:

Bringing it full circle, not only am I in it, but my brother did the original score. Now that's what you call a family drama.

Extra, Extra: The Day my Brain Stood Still

2011-09-12T15:04:00.002-04:00

I’ve started to think of my brain as a newspaper, with a different headline announcing the top story of every day. The caption beneath the headline always contains the same message, which is funny, because the headlines themselves change so drastically.

For example:

GIRL NOT FINANCIALLY OR EMOTIONALLY READY TO HAVE A CHILD, BUT WANTS ONE ANYWAY. HOW WILL SHE DO IT?

It’s the most important thing she’s ever had to deal with.

The next day:

GIRL DECIDES SHE WANTS TO HOLD OFF TRYING TO GET KNOCKED UP FOR A COUPLE OF MONTHS, BUT FEARS THIS INDECISION MAKES HER BAD MOTHER MATERIAL

THIS is the most important thing she’s ever had to deal with.

The day after that:

GIRL CERTAIN SHE’S INFERTILE.

Definitely way, way more important than anything she’s ever have to deal with.

Then, four weeks ago, my grandmother died.

She was 84, and had been fighting cancer for some time (much longer, it turns out, than she let on to the rest of us.) My grandmother used to call me “my little angel (pronounced “leetlee,” in her Hungarian accent.) She used to send me photo collages by mail, of me and Tony and her late dog, Lady, and the flowers on her balcony. Sometimes, she’d include poetry she’d written.

After she died, I was cleaning out her apartment with my mom when I realized the headlines had stopped. I felt incredibly sad, but also clear, awake, and – there’s no other way to say this – alive. There has always been a way around most of the sadnesses I’ve faced: arguments with Tony get resolved or forgotten, writing rejections are followed by acceptances, the apartment upstairs floods and we clean it up. 7 months later, we no longer notice the holes that are still in our ceiling.

But sitting on my grandma’s velour couch, where I’ve sat a hundred times before drinking cranberry juice and talking to her about Oprah, my “Top 57 Life Things That Are a Priority To Get Sorted Out” weren’t floating around my head. I was just standing in front of the void she’d left, my heart broken, but also wide open.

The time that followed my grandma’s death resembled a black-and-white existentialist French film. One week later, I found out that a friend has stage 4 ovarian cancer. And the week following that, the husband of another friend learned he had a brain tumor.

I think this might be part of that thing they call “Growing Up:” tragedy is there, every minute, ever day. The things we most fear are happening, not on some TV show or to a celebrity or to a person we read about in the Huffington Post, but for real, to people we know and care about. But watching it happen around me, I’m starting to see that when our brain headlines stop, other things begin.

When Papa Greek died, hundreds of people filled the funeral home and church, traveling from as far away Toronto and Ottawa just to show their support for Tony and Mama Greek and me.

After my grandmother died, my mother and I shared the calmest week we’ve ever had together: laughing, crying, looking through old photos and reminiscing, rather than getting caught up in our usual mini tornadoes of frustrations and expectations.

The man with the brain tumor had a successful surgery and is now, thankfully, back home, recuperating very well. Before and during his stay in the hospital, his wife and I spoke on the phone every few days, and e-mailed and texted almost daily. Instead of wallowing in doubt and self-pity or watching Mad Men, I connected with her in a way I haven’t in years, though I’ve known her for almost half a lifetime.

And every day, I’ve seen messages of support, love and encouragement come in from all sides to the woman with ovarian cancer. Friends have lined up to take her wig shopping, to drive her to the hospital, to go to the movies with her. This past Sunday, dozens of her friends, colleagues and family members flocked to the Walk of Hope, to support her on her fight, and raised over $10,000 for Ovarian Cancer Canada.

Please don’t think I’m saying anything insane like I’m grateful for the pain and struggles these people have to face. It’s not that at all. But like it or not, this is happening already. The trick, as Tony put it, is to not make it a bad thing.

The friend with cancer said it best, in the incredible blog she keeps about her experiences:

“Effort spent wondering whether I am doing the right thing with my life, working in the optimal job, living in the right city, adopting the right lifestyle, going to the right church, doing the right exercise, investing in the right things – all those urban concerns were getting in the way of my life.

Now I know. This is my life now, every day, every minute.”

Tragedy is a bitch. But I sometimes wonder if, without it, we wouldn’t be in a lot more trouble.

For my grandma, Olga Fuhrer

06.11.1927 - 07.31.2011

Papa Greek

2011-05-15T13:05:00.001-04:00

My father-in-law is dying.

Over the last few weeks, watching him fade away, I so desperately wanted to say goodbye. But I was too chicken. No one else seemed to be acknowledging that he was leaving, and, well, I just didn’t have it in me. I would hover outside his bedroom door, afraid to be alone with him. I’m not proud to admit this, but it’s true.

Last Sunday morning, we got a call that he’d fallen in the night, trying to go to the bathroom. We went to see him, and he told Tony he wanted to go into the hospital. Actually, that’s not what he said. Mama Greek had been driving us a little bit crazy with her frantic, ceaseless worrying and trying to feed him soup and leaping around whenever he had visitors. Papa Greek’s words were, “Get me to the hospital and away from her.”

When Tony told Mama Greek that Papa Greek wanted to go to the hospital, I believe her words were along the lines of, “No way in hell.”

“We get him diapers,” she told me, as we sat at the kitchen table. She and Tony had been yelling at each other for the past hour, and now Tony was off clandestinely meeting his uncle, to develop a strategy to negotiate between his dying father and his hysterical mother.

“Some women take care of their husbands for years," she added. "It’s okay! I get gloves.”

She talked about the gloves a lot. I just sat there and listened and didn’t say much. I have not been able to muster a lot of compassion towards Mama Greek in the last few days. What makes it harder is the moments when I see Tony yelling, fussing and fixating obsessively in the exact same way as she does. If there is a Jesus, I hope he forgives me for this. I’m learning that sometimes, you really don’t feel the things you’re supposed to feel.

It was decided that Papa Greek would go into the hospital on Monday. On Sunday night, I finally found a way in. I started with a joke. I said,

“I can’t believe you’re leaving me alone with these two.”

He smiled and said, “You’ll be okay. No one is around forever.”

He stuck out his arms, which are so thin and fragile now it breaks your heart, and pulled me to him. And he said, “I love you so much.”

And through my blubbering, I was able to say what I wanted to say, which was, “I’m really going to miss you.”

“I don’t have the strength to stay,” he said.

And I said, “It’s okay. You can go.”

Then Tony came in and got onto the bed next to him, and we all held hands and cried for a while.

I wish it had ended like that. I think Papa Greek does, too. The day he left to the hospital was torturous. We had to wait 3 hours for the ambulance, since it wasn’t an emergency. He was agitated and very upset. Mama Greek was, understandably, beside herself. She was down on her hands and knees, rummaging through cardboard boxes in the closet in his room for his slippers, which she insisted go to the hospital with him. She sent me out to buy him a new pair, which didn’t fit, so she sent me back to exchange them.

Papa Greek hasn’t walked in days.

They play CNN in the “Family Room” in palliative care. This makes so much sense to me. Watching the world end and Americans justify kicking imams off planes, anyone would want to get out of this place as quickly as possible.

Yesterday, I went with a very close friend of Tony’s family for a meeting at the funeral home. The woman we met with wore a massive jewel around her neck. It’s horrible, but I stared at it the whole time, wondering if she stole it from a dead person. I can’t help it. Maybe funeral home owners should think twice before sporting that kind of bling.

She asked if we were Greek, and I, accidentally, said, “Yes.” When I corrected myself, the family friend, who I think of as the sister-in-law I never had, said, “If you aren’t yet, you will be soon.” The woman’s eyes lit up, and we immediately had to talk her down from a funeral package that costs twice as much as your average wedding.

“He’s a simple man,” my sister-in-law explained, of Papa Greek.

The bling lady told us about one of the more modest packages, but made sure to mention some of the add-ons you can get, like something called a Serenity Table.

“You display the deceased person’s personal belongings,” she said, to which we both turned grey.

“It’s very touching,” she added, quickly. “I can’t tell you more, though, because I’ve only seen it once.”

The Serenity Table costs $450.

My mother-in-law has said she wants to get a $5000 casket for Papa Greek. Tony told her that if she does, Papa Greek is going to come back from the dead and haunt her.

I’ve realized the most peace I feel these days is when I’m sitting with Papa Greek, holding his hand or massaging his feet. It seems weird to say, but it feels kind of like being with a newborn baby. When people get to that stage, I think, they become pure again. They don’t have the slings and arrows of normal humanity anymore. They just exist. I feel protective of him. It’s so weird that he is the same person who replaced the metal grate in my garage, who gave a speech at my wedding, who danced at Tony’s aunt’s and uncle’s 50^th wedding anniversary party less than a year ago. Now, he’s just a being.

Soon, he will just be light.

I’ll say it again: I’m really, really going to miss him.

Stomach cancer with Papa Greek (some moments from the last few weeks)

2011-05-04T10:04:00.000-04:00

The tumours in Papa Greek's stomach have caused a huge amount of fluid retention. At first, before it was getting drained out regularly, he looked like a malnourished child, or Victoria Beckham.

“He look pregnant,” Mama Greek agreed, then went into a detailed description of her own pregnancy with Tony, 41 and a half years ago, which she’s related to me at least fifty times before.

“The doctor tell me what day he come,” she concluded, “but he come 10 days early.”

Which, if you know Tony, is not surprising at all.

We called the CLSC so they would send a nurse to Mama and Papa Greek’s house to do an assessment. They called back while he was asleep, and Mama Greek couldn’t take a message, because her English isn’t good enough. That's when Tony and I realized: we needed to get them an answering machine.

I called Bell, who said they could install voicemail at my in-laws place, as long as they got verbal permission from Mama or Papa Greek. Tony explained this to Mama Greek, who flew off the handle.

“We’re tired,” she said. “Leave us alone. Your father’s sick. Don’t you know that?”

They don't agree on much, but Papa Greek said later that he, too, was against the idea.

“I like it when people call,” he said, “but I don’t want to have to call them back. And what about the people from Greece? They’re not going to understand.”

I am really squeamish around anything to do with barf, but I like my mother-in-law’s term for it.

“Throw out,” she says, as in, “This morning, Papa Greek threw out.”

I find it easier to take. As if he's just getting rid of stuff he doesn’t need.

The CLSC nurse came to do the assessment: 2 hours of questions and instructions. After she left, I reminded Papa Greek of something the doctor had said: that he wasn’t supposed to mix liquids and solids, because it was more difficult to digest, and might make him sick.

“Like soup,” I said. “Just have the broth, then have the vegetables and the noodles later.”

“Really?” Papa Greek asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Like the doctor told you.”

“I don’t remember that,” he said, then translated to Mama Greek, who nodded.

“I give him this,” she told me, and pulled a bowl out of the fridge, which contained soup - with noodles in it.

“No,” I said. “He can’t have the noodles. Just the soup. Otherwise, he will throw out.”

“But he likes it,” she said, looking hurt.

“I know,” I said, “but the doctor said 'no.'” I indicated with my hands so she understands. “No water mixed with food.”

“But he never get sick from this,” Mama Greek pointed out.

“Okay,” I said, “but he might.”

“But he eat this,” she informed me, puts it back in the fridge, and walks away, the matter clearly settled.

Voicemails from my In-Laws

2011-04-06T11:29:00.002-04:00

There are 66 messages on our voicemail. All of them are from my in-laws. No, they’re not all from last week, but Tony refuses to erase them. He’s making a documentary about his family, and he says he needs to record them for possible use. This means I have to skip through all 66 to hear any new messages we receive.

As annoying as this might sound, I realized recently that among Mama and Papa Greek’s voicemails are some gems. The real humorist is Papa Greek. His messages are like one-sided conversations, with space in between each question, as if he were imagining the answer:

Hi, Tony and Natalie.

[pause]

How are you?

[pause]

Everybody okay?

[pause; yelling sounds from Greek soap opera on TV in background]

We were away earlier. I don’t know if you called us or not.

[pause]

We just came home.

Mama Greek’s messages are much more dramatic, fulfilling her “you-haven’t-called-you-haven’t-visited-look-what-it’s-doing-to-us” quota. Like this one, left when we were on our way to their place for dinner:

You left or not? I have no idea. You not call us. Call us please.

She also has this thing where she says I’m her daughter, as opposed to her daughter-in-law. She’s never stopped lamenting that she only had one child (and probably never will, until she gets a grandchild.) Once, when I was teary after the funeral of a friend’s relative, she asked me why I was crying, because “You have two mothers now.” She doesn’t know my mother well enough to see the irony of this statement. Here’s Mama Greek:

Hi, hi my children. Hi, Natalie and Tony. Long, long time have to see you, to hear you. How are you? Just I wanna know how you doing. If you have little bit time, call us. I wanna hear you. Thank you.

The shitty thing is, Papa Greek is currently battling stomach cancer. Until recently, he got up every morning and went to work – that is, to the office he used to run with his business partner of 30 years. He’d read the paper, ask everyone how they were, drink coffee and then go play cards with the business partner, who spends his mornings in much the same way.

Nowadays, Papa Greek leaves the house a lot less, and it’s usually to go to the hospital for a check-up or chemo treatment. He sleeps a lot, but he still manages to crack me up. This is my favourite message from Papa Greek:

Hi, Tony and Natalie.

[pause]

How are you? Okay?

[pause]

Just called to see how you are.

[pause]

If you feel like calling us, we’re at home.

[pause]

Doing nothing.

I started working on this blog a couple of weeks ago. Even since then, my father-in-law’s health has rapidly declined. Our lives are changing, and there's a lot of emotion in the air. I’ll be sharing about this over the next days and weeks. I'm hoping for many more messages from Papa Greek. Even if they're about doing nothing.

Who Controls Your Birth Control?

2011-01-27T13:35:00.002-05:00

Originally published in the Montreal Gazette on January 18, 2011.

If you're reading this and you know my Greek mother-in-law, please don't translate.

I still use birth control.

We'll save the reasons why for another time. The point is, I don't want babies right now. I also don't want to be on the pill. I never liked the idea of putting hormones into my body that aren't supposed to be there, or tricking it into doing things it doesn't do naturally. After trying it for the second time and seeing how quickly my emotions rebelled, I went to my doctor and got fitted for a diaphragm. And that was the end of that story.

Until a year later, when I tried to renew my prescription. That's when I was told:

They don't make diaphragms anymore.

It was the strangest feeling. Living in this country, and growing up with a sex ed curriculum that included the diaphragm, I simply took for granted that whichever form I chose to use would be available to me. My doctor did point out that I was his only patient who still used a diaphragm - I think the word "granola" might have jokingly come up - but he also called it the "healthiest form of birth control" for the reasons I've already stated. So he made a few calls, and it was confirmed: Janssen-Ortho had stopped manufacturing the diaphragm, due, they claimed, to lack of demand.

I understand that the lowly diaphragm isn't as popular as the pill. It's more complicated and, unless used perfectly, not as reliable. (If used perfectly, the failure rate of a diaphragm is four to eight per cent, whereas the failure rate for hormonal methods runs between 0.1 and 0.3 per cent.) But surely there were other women with the same concerns as me? What about those who couldn't take hormones for medical reasons? And where does lack of demand figure in when things like tanning oil and TaB are still on the shelves?

I did some research and found a U.K. company called Westons that sold the Ortho diaphragm online. It cost $25 including shipping -about half of what I'd paid for my first one -and all was once again well until this year, when I learned that Westons had stopped carrying the Ortho diaphragm, too.

Desperate, I called one of the larger Pharmaprix in Montreal.

"I'm looking for a diaphragm," I said.

"How do you spell that?" the pharmacist asked. "Does that come in pill form?"

I called a Jean Coutu, who told me they could order a brand of diaphragm called the Cooper Surgical Milex for $98 plus taxes. I asked if that included spermicide, which my last pharmacy diaphragm had. No, the pharmacist told me. Spermicide is no longer available.

I found a Yahoo group for women who use, or are considering using, barrier methods of birth control, and when I mentioned I wanted to write this article, dozens of stories flooded in. One American woman was told by her doctor that cervical caps - which work similarly to the diaphragm and are available for purchase online - are illegal in the U.S. A woman in Australia had to order spermicide from Canada. One woman in Ontario was completely unable to obtain a diaphragm from Shoppers Drug Mart, and another had such difficulty getting either a diaphragm or cervical cap that she's resorted to using the rhythm method and withdrawal combined with condoms on her fertile days.

"I'd probably be ridiculed by health-care professionals," she says, "but I feel more comfortable taking the risk of possibly needing an abortion than injecting my body with hormones that make me act like a completely different person and whose long-term side effects nobody can say for sure."

That may be an extreme example, but it still points to a very large problem: An important and long-standing form of birth control may be in the process of going extinct. And lack of demand can very easily feed itself. Could it be a vicious circle? If the pharma companies no longer sell something, won't that lead sex educators to stop including it in their curriculum?

I asked Amanda Unruh, a member of the Sexual Health Network of Quebec who also runs the Shag Shop at McGill, if the diaphragm is still part of the sex ed curriculum in this province.

"On a basic level, yes," Unruh said. "But whether teachers impart that basic information to students is another story."

Dara Maker, a family physician at Women's College Hospital in Toronto who works at the Bay Centre for Birth Control, talked to me about what's going on in Ontario.

"Young people are being taught about the diaphragm," Maker said, "but a lot of reason for lack of demand is it's not being advertised, and there's less people talking about it. Young women will talk about contraception with friends, and if you have less users, you have less women generally sharing information. In that way, it is a vicious circle."

Both agreed that the demand being down probably has a lot to do with more hormonal methods coming on the market in the last 10 years, which are more efficient and "safer"-at least when it comes to failure rates. And the Shag Shop started selling the Cooper Surgical Milex in November, for $60. The shop is located in the McGill health clinic, where doctors are available to do fittings.

Had there been much interest in the diaphragm?

"We do get a lot of people asking about hormonal contraceptives but saying they're not comfortable," says Unruh, "or younger women who have been on a hormonal method and it hasn't been for them. Most people go to the hormonal method first because that seems to be the social norm. But people are asking more and more about the diaphragm and the female condom. I think it'll balance out over time."

By the time I found out about the Shag Shop, I'd already learned, through the Yahoo group, that another brand still available through Westons fit the same way as the now defunct Ortho diaphragm. Spermicide is available through a site called Ladytobaby.com, which also retails cervical caps.

Let's hope that these companies continue to offer alternatives to hormonal birth control. Because as much as I love my mother-in-law, I also love my right to choose what goes into my body. And that's a right the drug companies shouldn't have.

The McGill Shag Shop is located in Suite 3300 in the Brown Building, 3600 McTavish St.
Or call them at 514-398-2087. They sell spermicide, too.

Ladytobaby.com sells cervical caps, a natural (Nonoxynol-9 free) spermicide, and fertility and ovulation monitors.

Westons.com sells the Reflexions flat spring diaphragm for about $15, plus shipping. You'll have to get fitted by your doctor before ordering.

For information and discussion about diaphragms and cervical caps, go to http://groups.yahoo.com/group/DiaphragmsAndCaps.

Fairy Godmothers

2011-01-13T14:04:00.004-05:00

Originally published in the Montreal Gazette on January 3, 2011.

One of my fantasies has come true. No, it didn't involve leather or Javier Bardem, or revenge against the ex-boyfriend who dumped me for his first cousin. My fantasy was to have a fairy godmother.

Yes, like Cinderella. But not because I want glass footwear or a powder blue ball gown with puffed sleeves, though I wouldn't say no to either. Actually, I think everyone's entitled to a fairy godparent. It should be our birthright, and that's not as far-fetched as it sounds. Your Fairy G doesn't have to actually believe in God, or religion, or even be alive. They just have to provide guidance, encouragement and unconditional acceptance, without charging you $120 an hour.

Let me explain.

There's a voice inside my head. This voice spends most of my waking hours, and some sleeping ones, emitting a loop of impossible and usually contradictory demands. Wake up/You didn't get enough sleep. Don't eat carbs/You didn't eat enough carbs and now look, it's 11:00 and you're hungry. You didn't work enough/You don't get enough down time. You haven't become who you're supposed to be/solved the world's hunger crisis/fixed the BP oil spill. You, Natalie Karneef, have failed.

The voice happens to sound exactly like my Hungarian mother, but that's another story.
In fact, J.K. Rowling once said that once you're old enough to drive a car, you're old enough to stop blaming your parents, and I agree. I know I'm the one who keeps my Head Mother (also known as the Hungarian Horntail, in homage to one of J.K.'s more aptly named magical creatures) alive and well. I listen to her. I feed her goulash. I believe her when she tells me that I've managed to live my life 100 per cent incorrectly, from my socks to the state of my bank account. I continue to strive for her unattainable balance between too much and too little -a line so thin you'd have to be superhuman to even see it, at which point she'd accuse you of needing glasses. Or, at least, I used to strive for it.

In the last little while, for reasons I can't quite understand, I've tried to stop. I've begun to acknowledge that the Horntail's voice is not some omnipotent, irrefutable Truth. Baby Horntails have since popped up to remind me how badly I'm doing at it, but I do my best. Yes, I'm even hard on myself about not being hard on myself. Perhaps now you see why I needed that Fairy Godmother.

I met Barb at a yoga workshop she taught almost 10 years ago, and was both drawn to and slightly thrown by her. My mother also took the workshop - yoga, incidentally, is one of the Horntail's secret weapons to make sure I'm aware of how inflexible, unhealthy and spiritually un-evolved I am -and she and Barb got into a conversation about their children. I don't remember what was said, exactly, until Barb beamed at me and exclaimed, "Aren't our kids AMAZING?"

It felt like the sky had opened, and a ray of sun was shining directly down on my head. Amazing? Me? I'd never heard anyone talk about their children in such a way. Now, a decade later, I understand that somewhere deep in her heart, my mother might - possibly - think I'm amazing, and that her upbringing and genetic makeup doesn't permit her to say so out loud. But at that moment, I wanted to know this Barb. I wanted to take her home, or, better yet, move into her basement. Instead, I wrote her an email.

We corresponded over the next few years. Nothing heavy, usually: just questions about yoga from me and little notes of encouragement from her. I didn't tell her I'd taped a photo of the two of us to my mirror, or that, when things got tough, I imagined her reminding me to breath, like she did in the workshops. Until I got engaged.

I had figured that preparing to get married would be like living in a giant snow globe, with cupcakes, rose petals and lacy things fluttering around at all times. That I'd float through dress stores while Tony and I gazed together down the yellow brick road of bliss and happiness. Instead, we were fighting like wild dogs. And I could hear the Hungarian Horntail saying it, again and again: "You can't even be engaged properly. This is all your fault."

I didn't actually talk about this with anyone, of course. God forbid I admit that I was anything but over the moon about spending the rest of my life with another human being. No one would want to know, I decided, and by speaking my fears out loud, I figured I was was professing to some kind of failure. I was supposed to be happy. We weren't supposed to be
at each other's throats like guests on the Jerry Springer Show. I was convinced the rest of my married friends were barely able to keep their hands off each other except to hang framed photos of their weddings. I couldn't shame myself by admitting how terrified and confused I was. So, I wrote Barb.

I hoped that, with 40-odd years of marriage behind her, she might understand how far Tony and I were from premarital bliss. So I poured my heart out, and then threw in, very casually, right at the end, that I hoped she didn't mind that I sort of thought of her as my Fairy Godmother.

I didn't hear from her for a week. Then two weeks. And just when I'd convinced myself that Barb was trying to come up with a kind way of breaking it to me that perhaps I might look into paying someone $120 to listen to me whine, or worse, that I should just throw in the towel and stop trying to fool myself that I could be in anything resembling a relationship, she finally wrote, apologizing profusely for her computer being down. Then she said the most incredible thing: that it was good -healthy, even -to be questioning getting married. She told me about her own relationship, and all the doubts she'd had over the last 40-plus years. Also, she asked, where were these questions coming from? Could they possibly stem from some archaic belief system I'd strung together from Hollywood and Martha Stewart Weddings? Were they "voices," whose only purpose was to make me feel bad about not measuring up?

Yes, I thought. I know a little something about voices.

Barb said that the most important thing was to trust what I knew deep down, but that it was always wise to seek advice from those with more life experience.

"Please write me anytime and ask me anything you want," she said. Then she signed off "Your Fairy Godmother."

That email was three years ago, but I still go back to it when things get sticky. Especially because, in 2009, Barb began a too-long and too-short battle with Lou Gehrig's disease. I tried to support her as much as I could, but the truth was, Barb faced illness and death with more grace and wisdom than I've ever had facing life. She passed away this August.

As I'm sure you've guessed by now, Barb is still my Fairy Godmother. Even more so, actually, as she no longer has to obey the laws of physics. She can show up whenever she feels like it, and even by broomstick. In a small book you might have heard of called Eat Pray Love, Elizabeth Gilbert prays to God from her bathroom floor. God tells her, simply, to go to bed, and that's not far from Barb's brand of advice. When life seems ridden with potholes and failure and fear, she tells me to go for a walk. When I'm in full, throat-closing-up panic, she reminds me that I am not clairvoyant and that tearing my hair out about what I'm afraid will happen next week or next year is the biggest waste of energy there is. When the Hungarian Horntail is snarling and vengeful and punishing, Barb is gentle and loving and kind. Go ahead and call the men in white coats, but I feel saner now than I ever have before.

So give it a shot. Really. It can be Oprah or your next-door neighbour or a long-dead relative or Jesus. Just hand them a wand and ask them to do the honours. They will say yes. That's why you chose them. And you'll be amazed at what they'll do next.

Sing Out

2011-01-04T08:51:00.000-05:00

Originally published in the Montreal Gazette on December 28, 2010.

A couple of months ago, my brother, who is 6 years younger than me, invited me to see his band play.

“It would mean a lot,” he said, and as his definition of family time usually amounts to a text message once a week, I promised I would come.

The show was at an art gallery in Little Italy, and when I arrived, my brother, or Phoof, as we nicknamed him when he was too young to protest, set me up in the back with the sound equipment. This was fine by me, as it saved me from having to mingle with the young folk. I sat there watching girls in plastic hair bows and guys in heart-shaped sunglasses scuttle by, feeling the usual discomfort-veiled-as-judgment I usually experience when I’m amongst my brother’s generation.

Then I remembered something: I’m taking singing lessons.

I’m not sure why, but I feel embarrassed admitting this. I’ve wanted to sing since God knows when – okay, since I was five and saw Dorothy singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” in The Wizard of Oz – but once it became clear that opening my mouth and having sounds come out of it was not a skill that was going to come naturally, I wrote it off. Even after a professional singer told me that your voice was something you could develop with lessons, I gave my usual list of excuses: lack of time, lack of money, lack of reason. I think that if something doesn’t serve our careers, our images, or our ability to escape a lack of success in either of these arenas, after a certain point a lot of us figure, “Why bother”?

Then, early this year, I heard an all-female choir perform and I knew: I needed sing. It was as if a voice spoke to me from on high, and so, with less time and disposable income than I’ve ever had, I started taking lessons. And I found out, it’s true: even the warbly-throated among us can learn to sing. I come out of every lesson so happy it feels possible that I might take flight.

I auditioned for the choir.

I didn’t get in.

It’s funny, isn’t it? You spend a lifetime telling yourself something isn’t important to you, and when suddenly you can’t do it, you feel as though you’ve been robbed. I spent days moping and sniffling and feeling fabulously sorry for myself, and telling myself I might as well not bother with anything, including eating or personal hygiene. I would never sing again, I decided. It was time to admit that this was something at which I, officially, sucked.

Then, I went to my brother’s show. And looking around that art gallery that night, I realized that these were people who hadn’t given up. They still take the time create things, even if those things don’t benefit their hiring prospects. They’re still full of hope and possibility and conviction that they will change the world, while I was sitting there worrying about how I was going to catch up on my sleep schedule. Plus, how many so-called “adults” passed me when I was their age, strolling along with my fuchsia hair and platform sneakers and fun fur shoulder bag, and thought to themselves, “What the hell was that?”

Then my brother appeared next to me and began taking off his pants.

I forced myself to smile encouragingly as he removed his shirt and wrapped a sarong around his waist, then strapped a conga drum to his chest. A crowd started to form around the stage, so, screwing up my courage, I left my post and joined them, trying to assume the kind of facial expression that said, “I come to these sorts of things all the time.” A pounding started echoing through the room, and I realized it was coming from Phoof and another, similarly-attired boy. It created this amazing kind of tribal, surround-sound effect, and the crowd parted so the drummers could make their way to the stage.

Suddenly, I found myself about to explode with pride – a big sister, holding-back-tears kind of pride. My parents and I constantly worry about my brother. We nag him about partying too much, about not making enough money and abusing too many substances, about staying “on track” and being more “focused” and not being “responsible”. And there he was, rocking a crowd, doing what so many of us dream of doing but never will. Watching him, I wondered: when did I become so judgmental, and so afraid? When do some of us, pardon the expression, grow up? When do we lose – again, forgive me – that inner child, who makes us create and keep creating, even if we “suck”? And why on God’s green earth do some people get to bomb their way through that fear, while others shut down and stow it away, only letting it out at late-night dinner parties after too much whiskey?

I went home that night and wrote my brother an e-mail, and made him promise me that he’d never give up playing music. And after that, while I harbour no fantasies about joining him on stage, I realized I had to practice what I preached. So I signed up for more singing lessons, and formed a little group of my own. We sing in my basement: a bunch of 30-somethings like me, who just want to make music for the sake of it.

And just recently, my brother had another show. The crowd was about five times bigger than the last one, and there was even, to my delight, body-surfing. And in the middle of a song, my brother yelled into the microphone, “My sister’s here tonight!”

I was almost dancing too hard to hard to hear him.

Anybody Out There, Their or They're?

2011-01-01T12:23:00.004-05:00

This story originally appeared in the Montreal Gazette, December 24th, 2010.

My friend Aly and I were at a party at a hotel bar the other night when in he walked: the last person I wanted to see.

Unfortunately, he was the only person Aly wanted to see.

We'll call him Javier, not because he bears any resemblance to man-God Javier Bardem, but because he hails from the same general region of the world, and is tall, charming and somewhat handsome. He's also Jewish, and so is Aly. She's in her early 30s, too. If you are in, or ever have belonged to, this demographic, I probably don't need to say more. Otherwise, I'll just recall a conversation Aly had with a Jewish matchmaker some months ago:

"If you're looking for a guy between 35 and 40 in Montreal," the matchmaker said, "you can forget about it."

But Aly didn't forget about it. She's like the Spartacus of dating. She receives messages from guys on Plenty of Fish with lines like: "I'd love to massage your feet over dinner," but still she goes forth. One guy sent her his entire life story, beginning with his family history in the 1930s. He even told her how he met his first wife, and how he took the "until death do us part" bit very seriously.

Obviously.

Some of the messages were so awful that Aly finally changed her profile to read: "I'm looking for a guy who knows the difference between There, Their and They're."

The first guy who responded got only two out of three right. But he was Jewish, so Aly had dinner with him, anyway.

Then, she met Javier. They went on a few dates, which, according to Aly, were steeped in the kind of chemistry you only read about in paperbacks at airport gift shops. But Javier didn't feel the same way, and soon he informed Aly that their relationship had "reached a plateau." Still, Aly kept seeing him. She said she hoped he'd get to know her better and change his mind.
I'd recite lines from He's Just Not That Into You, and she'd talk about chemistry. I'd go on tirades about self-worth, and she'd say: "I know" 20 or 30 times and then go out with him that evening.

"Tell him to take his plateau and shove it," I begged her.

And sure enough, one day, Javier disappeared.

Aly dated on. She tried to forget Javier, or at least, she told me she tried to forget Javier. And then, that night at the hotel bar, the most incredible thing happened:

Aly met a single Jewish man between 35 and 40.

He was tall. He was handsome, in a Clark Kent kind of way. He wasn't pretentious, but knew about art.

"We have to DO something!" hissed a friend, suddenly aware of the beshertness of the situation.

In minutes, we'd engineered a plan to continue on for dinner at a restaurant down the street that served $18 glasses of wine. But, as we were putting on our coats, Javier showed up.

"Oh my God!" Aly squealed, and threw her arms around him.

Of course, he joined us for dinner, and, of course, he sat next to Aly, while Clark Kent took a spot at the far end of the table. Still, I managed not to asphyxiate him with his tie, and Aly drank four glasses of wine, which does for her what a magnum of vodka chased by a keg would do for most people.

As we finished our meals, I announced that I was driving her home.

"Oh, Javier," she mooned, as soon as we were in the car.

"Yeah!" I said. "So how about Clark Kent?"

"I haven't stopped thinking about him this whole time," she went on, clearly not in answer to my question.

"But why? He doesn't appreciate you! He's not worth it! And by giving him your company, you're allowing him not to respect you!"

"Isn't he yummy?" Aly said.

I took a deep breath, ready to leap onto my soapbox with renewed vigour, but we'd already arrived at her apartment. Looking up at her window, it occurred on me that I was about to turn around and drive home to someone waiting for me in a warm bed. I have what Aly wants -despite my attempts to convince her otherwise. It's far from perfect, but it's so easy for me to forget what life was like before. Who am I to give dating advice? How many times did my friends shake their heads while I spouted lines about chemistry? I'd listen to them, then continue to swoon over a guy who didn't deserve the lint from my hairbrush, much less my affections. And when I finally did see the light, ended things and returned the offending guy's CDs, it wasn't because of anything they said. It was because of a realization I came to on my own.

"Okay," I said. "Do what you have to do. Just please, don't let him hurt you again."

"I won't!" Aly sang, and fell over the curb on her way out of the car.

I'm still hoping she'll give Clark Kent a shot. But while I have your attention, do you know of any single Jewish guys in Montreal between 35 and 40?

The Best of Decisions

2010-12-17T10:23:00.000-05:00

Last Sunday, I went to a going away party for a guy I know who’s leaving everything he knows behind to go traveling for a year. As we said our goodbyes, I found myself struggling for something to say – some wise, all-encompassing Zen master line of wisdom from one traveler to another. Instead, I stood there babbling nonsense. Then, out of nowhere, it came out. I said,

“This is the best decision you’ve ever made.”

It was actually a surprise to hear myself say it. The traveler in question, Daniel, knows something about my own adventures, and so he’s well aware that I was not reassuring him that next year will be 100% free of worry, mishap, social awkwardness and weirdosity, and that he will float effortlessly from continent to continent as if on extremely good drugs. I hope it is, for his sake. But in my experience, traveling for a year was – I can think of no other way to say this – the best and worst of times. It was the saddest and loneliest of times, and the scariest and most confusing of times. But it was also exhilarating, enlightening and right-direction-pointing.

Even though I spent some that year living off canned lentil soup and cheese every day because it was all I could afford and I shared a fridge the size of a mini-bar with 6 Australians… even though I got fired two jobs and sometimes wasn’t sure how I was going to survive… even though some really, really awful things happened to me, it was the best decision I ever made. It changed almost everything about me for the better. I can’t imagine what my life would be like now if I hadn’t left everything I knew behind. And being able to say so is kind of like going back in time and thanking myself for having made the decision in the first place. But more importantly, it’s also a reminder: that the same laws still apply.

We make big decisions all the time. And I don’t know about you, but I spent most of my time worrying about them. But that night, I remembered that if I made those choices in the right spirit – listening to my gut and doing what I know is right – they, too, will be the best decisions I’ve ever made. They will point things in the right direction, even if it doesn’t seem that way right now.

Saying goodbye to Daniel, I was surprised to notice that I didn’t feel jealous. Well, maybe a little bit, but I didn’t want to be in his shoes. I felt thrilled for him, and that was it. I hope I will always travel, but in a different way. I found what I was looking for on that trip. And I’m pretty sure he will, too.

And I walked home in the snowy night, to everything I know.

Daniel Baylis is one of the most entertaining and introspective bloggers I know. Travel vicariously with him at: www.danielbaylis.ca.

My Summer Vacation

2010-09-27T08:39:00.000-04:00

Published in the Montreal Gazette on September 27th, 2010.

Five hours into my summer vacation, I was sitting on a porch swing on Lake Memphremagog, raging.

I wanted to blame it on the roof. My husband Tony and I were supposed go on a real vacation, the kind where you travel as far away from your family and friends as possible, and eat in restaurants three times a day. But last year, we bought our first home. And one month ago, when a large puddle appeared on the floor upstairs, we discovered that the roof of that home hadn't been changed in 30 years.

Tony called his father, Papa Greek, who consulted his Hellenic Rolodex and found us some roofers, who told us how much a new roof was going to cost. After we recovered from the shock, we decided that cancelling our "real" vacation was the responsible, home-owning thing to do. So, instead of our dreamed-of road trip to the Maritimes, we'd spend one week in Montreal and my hometown of Ottawa, and one week renting a friend's cottage in Magog.

Normally, I'm the kind of person who feels that the amount of distance between me and my place of residence is directly proportional to my level of vacation joy. Curiously, though, I found myself at peace with the whole idea. We'd have a "staycation," as the kids call them these days. I could do things I never got to do, and see people I never got to see. Then we'd go out into the cottage-wilderness, under the stars, reconnecting with nature and the Earth and barbecued hotdogs.

When we arrived in Magog, Tony announced he was going to give Papa Greek a quick call. I stiffened, as according to my definition of a vacation, phone calls home must only be done in case of emergency.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because I forgot to tell him where I put the cheque for the roofers."

I tried to remain calm, as the cheque was hanging from the only bulletin board in our four-room dwelling, in an envelope marked "CHEQUE FOR ROOFERS."

"Don't you think maybe he might be able to figure it out for himself ?"

"Is it a problem if I just call him?"

"No problem," I said, through gritted teeth. "Go right ahead."

There are people who look after things, and then there's Tony. Tony replies to emails not five days or three weeks later, but at midnight on a Saturday night. He keeps entire books of lists of things to do, and whips them out at brunch on Sunday. He records voice reminders on his cellphone when he walks the dog. And one vacation day while we were still in Montreal, he committed the ultimate sin and worked for half a day.

When we got to our cabin, which was perfect and just a few feet from the lake, Tony casually mentioned that he'd invited his friend (who owned our cabin and lived in the cottage next door) and her 7-year-old son over for dinner. I don't know about you, but I tend to go on vacation specifically not to have people over for dinner. But I bit my lip, and tried to rekindle my love for my husband by giving him a back rub. He spent the entire time telling me I was pinching him or pushing too hard, and that's when I decided to say something.

"I don't feel good about the way you're speaking to me," I said.

"What way?"

"You're being dismissive!"

"Why don't you cut me some slack?" Tony asked, and I nearly fell over.

"SLACK?"

"Give me the benefit of the doubt! I wouldn't talk to you that way on purpose. You were hurting me, so I said something!"

"Well excuse me for trying to relieve some of your tension!" I snapped, and stomped off to the porch swing.

Sitting there, looking out over the lake, I could feel my blood boiling. This was it. I'd had enough. Next year, I was going away ALONE. I'd go to Madrid, or Berlin, or rent my own cottage where I wouldn't have to serve anyone dinner. He could spend every waking minute on the phone and work 20 hours a day if he wanted to.

Then, some other things started to come back to me. Like how, on our first day off, I'd scheduled a spa appointment. And a couple of days after that, I'd had a meeting with someone from out of

town. And then, since I was in the neighbourhood, I got a haircut. In Ottawa, I'd insisted we have dinner with some friends of mine and their baby, and had two doctor's appointments. And coffee with the mother of my oldest friend. And an afternoon with some of Tony's friends whom, I had insisted, we hadn't seen in forever.

And that's when I had a really horrible thought: maybe not all of this was Tony's fault.

At that point, he strolled by, towel draped over his shoulder, and informed me that he had been mistaken: our cabin-neighbour was having us over for dinner, and we wouldn't have to cook anything. And maybe it was the porch swing, but I didn't feel like beating him with a toilet plunger, recently used. As he continued down to the lake, and I remembered our last vacation, which was, in fact, our honeymoon. I'd spent the first week being furious at myself for not being relaxed enough, and it had been Tony who'd suggested I cut myself some slack and just be okay with how things were, rather than fighting tooth and nail to "be in the moment." He'd also reminded me that we'd spent the three months before the honeymoon buying and moving into a leaky-roofed house, all the while planning a wedding involving 50,000 Greeks.

I heard some quacking sounds from the lake, and, swallowing my pride, I left the porch to investigate. The sunset was reflecting in perfect waves across the water, rippling out in all directions. There were two ducks swimming past, stopping in spots to dive below the surface, their little dappled bums raised toward the sky. But it wasn't them quacking. It was Tony.

It is impossible, I learned that day, to be mad at a man who quacks.

And that's when the vacation really began.

a short conversation with Mama Greek

2010-09-14T20:22:00.003-04:00

Mama Greek: We miss you!

Me: I, uh, miss you, too.

MG: We see you soon. Maybe this Sunday?

Me: Um, this Sunday is our anniversary, so I was going to take Tony out for dinner.

MG: I KNOW it's your anniversary! You not want to have dinner here? Why not?

Me: (Speechless)

The Revenge of Mama Greek

2010-06-10T13:29:00.015-04:00

On February 4th, 2006, Mama Greek’s prayers were answered. Her nephew, Tony’s cousin Peter, had a baby daughter named Sasha.

Mama Greek loves babies even more than she loves church, and Peter was her first nephew within visiting distance to reproduce, so you can imagine what it was like: all Sasha, all the time. Sasha’s coming to visit in a week! Sasha grew a hair! Look what I bought Sasha! And indeed, thanks to Mama Greek, Sasha became the proud owner of 1200 or so miniature ruffled pink dresses, which MG ran around the house jiggling on little plastic hangers and making high-pitched noises at whenever Tony or Papa Greek were around.

As it happens, on the day Sasha was born, Tony and I had our first date. I didn’t get any pink dresses, but pretty soon a framed photo of me appeared on the wall next to one of Sasha. (It was actually a photo of me and my dog Ruble, whom Mama Greek would buy pink dresses for if she could.) I was the other new baby of the family. And I loved it.

Sasha grew into a ridiculously beautiful toddler, and Mama Greek lived for the days she could clutch her to her bosom and speak to her in Greek-English baby talk – which, incidentally, is the same way she speaks to Ruble. More photos sprung up in every corner of the house. There was Sasha, blinking adorably from amidst the lilac bushes. There was Sasha, giggling in her grandfather’s arms. There she was in her high chair, beaming through the muffin smeared all over her face.

My parents are divorced and I have one first cousin, so becoming part of Tony’s family was like landing in some kind of Nia Vardalos twilight zone. Sunday dinners… crazy, loud Christmases… holidays in the family apartment on the coast of Greece. And, yes, the food. The spanakopita. The tzatziki. The souvlaki. Cooked, packaged and loaded into the trunk of the car on every visit, and if we couldn’t make it over, it would appear, as if sent by fairy deliverymen, on our doorstep. Mama Greek hemmed my pants, pinched my cheeks, and told me at every chance she got that she’d prayed to God for me. Can you say healing of childhood wounds? Not only did I get the guy of my dreams, but I got the shit adored out of me by his parents. Yup. I’d won the Love Lottery Jackpot, and the bonus prize.

Eventually, Sasha started to walk. Much to our amusement, she used this opportunity to get as far away from Mama Greek as possible. Eventually the only way to get Sasha to come to anyone was by bribing her with chocolate. Hold out your arms and she’d zoom off in the opposite direction. Dangle a Hershey’s Kiss and she’d be your best friend. Guess what Mama Greek started buying in bulk at Zellers?

It was around that time that I began to notice: even though I still loved my mother-in-law, the novelty had begun to wear off. She was even – could it be? - starting to annoy me, what with all the worrying, and the food, the fawning, the food, the repeated advice on the importance of marriage, and the food. You’re thinking, “Oh, cry me a river. And pass along some of that spanakopita while you’re at it.”

But picture this scene at the dinner table:

Mama Greek, pointing at the potatoes: Natalie, potatoes?

Me: I already have some, thanks.

MG: Have more.

Me: I’m good for now.

MG: What’s the matter – you don’t like potatoes?

Now picture it happening every five minutes, with every item on the table, including salt. Mama Greek doesn’t speak English perfectly, and she often says, “I love you too much.” It couldn’t be more true.

And then, last summer, Tony and I got married. And a few months after that, the thing I was sure wouldn’t happen, happened. We were celebrating an aunt and uncle’s fiftieth wedding anniversary at a restaurant in Laval. Raising our glasses to toast half a century of marriage – no small feat, I’m sure you’ll agree – we clinked and yassou’d and wished them half a century more. And then Mama Greek leaned across the table and said to Tony and me: “Now you two, get busy.”

I was speechless. Only once, long ago, had she hinted at anything of the sort, and Tony had ordered her never to do it again. She’d never used a turn of phrase like - ew - “get busy”. I didn’t know whether to gag or order myself a pitcher of tequila.

“Still not pregnant, Natalie?” MG continued. “Why not?”

Fortunately Tony jumped in and saved the day, while I downed my drink and tried to forget it had ever happened.

“She won’t do it again,” he promised, later. “She had half a glass of sparkling wine. It was a slip-up.”

But the following weekend, Mother’s Day, we raised our glasses, and Mama Greek announced,

“I hope next year there will be another mother at this table.”

And that’s when I wanted to get as far away from Mama Greek as possible.

It never occurred to me that when I got whole new set of parents, I’d relive my childhood all over again in fast forward. And the sad thing is, since my first teenage rebellion against my actual birth parents was pretty lame, I’m actually getting some satisfaction out of doing it again. But even as I dress in my skinniest jeans and ugliest top before seeing Mama Greek – a weak attempt to quell her fawning as well as any illusions she might have about the state of my uterus – I’m aware that it’s all a bit ridiculous. Why am I so angry at this poor, innocent Greek lady who just wants to feed me and love me?

But that’s the thing. Sasha got bigger… and smarter. Now, even her little sister Alexa, who served as a convenient stand-in for a while, can run away. MG just wants someone to squeeze and love too much and buy pink dresses for. That ain’t me. But I’m the one who can give it to her.

It’s the oldest power-struggle in the book: mother-in-law vs. daughter-in-law. And it’s yet another thing they don’t warn you about in Martha Stewart Weddings. But the problem is, unlike Sasha, who’s moved off chocolate and onto cold, hard cash (I spotted MG hand her a fifty last Christmas when she thought no one was looking,) I have to face up to the situation - and wearing tight clothes and drinking too much at family gatherings, tempting though it may be, isn’t going to cut it. I have to tell my mother-in-law that making baby comments in public is going to achieve the opposite of its desired effect.

It’s not that I don’t want to be a parent. But I don’t want to be one yet. And to be the vessel for someone else’s happiness is a lot of responsibility – whether you’re 3, or 33. But I have to move on from the teenage years, at least when it comes to Mama Greek. I’ll let you know how it goes. Or maybe you’ll run into my kid and me in the park one day. We’ll be hard to miss. She’ll be the fat one, her pockets full of $50 bills.

(photo: author as teen, Round One)

On the Radio

2010-04-28T13:57:00.002-04:00

I'll be speaking about NOT blogging, not Tweeting and life BFB (Before Facebook) on CBC's Cinq a Six with Pierre Landry this Saturday from (you guessed it) 5 - 6pm.

Catch it live here.

I'll try to post a sound clip after it airs.

New blog coming soon. "Teach Yourself Greeklish". You'll see.

if you're looking for me...

2010-03-22T20:09:00.002-04:00

...I'm over here right now.

Fashion Week

2010-03-11T18:11:00.007-05:00

Ever since I’ve been part of that wonderous thing called “media”, I try to go to fashion week. I can’t tell you why. Maybe it’s the accumulation of two decades of flipping through Vogue and Elle, wishing I were cool enough to be accepted into the world of style. Maybe it’s the 4-year old in me who still, despite her best efforts, gets excited about dresses. All I know is that every time I go, I find myself mentally sizing myself up against every single woman (and most men) in the room, wishing the Lord had seen fit to give me more hair, bigger eyes and much bigger boobs. Which is not an enjoyable way to spend an evening, by anyone’s standards.

This year, I tried to do things differently. In other words, I tried not to try. I did my best not to fall victim to Lying Awake for Nights, Mentally Analyzing What in my Closet is Remotely Worthy to Wear Syndrome. When I got to the first show and realized I had a maple taffy stain on my coat, I tried to be okay with that.

“Own that maple taffy stain,” I told myself. And, mostly, it worked.

I squeezed into my seat, between a man in a knee-length, sleeveless fur coat and a women encased in leather, and thought: these are clothes. Face paint. Things you put on your feet. It’s a privilege to be able to indulge in caring about what we look like, yet the general consensus of fashion media is that the future of human civilization hangs in the balance because Andre Leon Talley has declared a “famine of beauty”. If you were an alien who landed at Fashion Week, wouldn’t you wonder: who are these angry, hungry-looking people with pointy hair? And why do they look so miserable?

And so, for the first time in Fashion Week history, I had fun. I went to the shows, then I went for souvlaki. (I had to. The only things being offered on silver platters by the Fashion Week cocktail waitresses were miniature cosmetic samples.) I got some tzatziki on my coat, just to balance things out. That was Day One.

Day Two, after shoving my aching toes into every pair of shoes I own, I wore sneakers. To Fashion Week. I decided this was a good sign. This was what they called “spiritual evolution.” Plus, I was going to see Katrin LeBlond’s show. I’d interviewed Katrin for her recent spot on All in a Weekend on CBC radio, and knew this was a woman who embodied everything I love about fashion. She would be using “real” women on the runway, because she refuses to show her clothing on a body smaller than a size 6, a request most modeling agencies can’t cater to. One of her models was even going to be (gasp!) “plus-sized.” Another would be in her seventies, with long, grey hair. I’d been to Katrin’s store numerous times, and knew she strayed from the norm, eschewing the new and old black for brilliant colours, ruffles and fairy wands. When I was four years old, these were the kinds of clothes I dreamed about wearing when I grew up.

Much to my excitement, I ended up in the front row. (I know, this ain’t London or NYC. But I get my kicks where I can.) Feasting my eyes on the row of glamazons opposite me, I spotted, draped over a man in a very expensive-looking suit, a Heidi Klum look-alike. I must have stared a bit too long (she really did look like Heidi and my brain does funny things sometimes), because eventually, the girl sitting next to her, who was tanned and wearing thigh-high PVC boots, turned and stared back at me. No, not stared. Threatened. I didn’t know there was a facial expression for, “Don’t be resting you un-Guccied eyes on us, girlfriend.” But there is. And she had it down.

I was so shocked, I couldn’t turn away. People do that? I thought. For real? It was like a Fashion Week urban myth come to life. So the stare-down continued, our eyes burning holes into each others’ retinas, my opponent shaking her head to support her point, my mouth wide open in disbelief. It is possible my face caught fire. I was too stunned to notice.

I wish so badly I’d had the courage to keep it up. To show her there’s a facial expression that said, “Girlfriend, take your ‘tude and stick it up your Dolce and Gabbana.” But after what felt like a year, I looked away. I still smiled till it hurt, refusing to let her get the best of me. I clapped extra hard when the seventy-something woman came out and bowed to the audience, as if to dare my new enemy to even think something catty.

But inside, I was physically restraining myself from running down the catwalk, jumping over the photographers at the end and bursting into tears. I felt awful. I hated Fashion Week more than ever before. Hated it. Hated fashion, period. I was never, ever, going to care what I wore again. From here on in, I’d only leave the house in garbage bags. Except even that would look like I was trying to make some kind of statement. So what to do?

I wish I could tell you I had some epiphany, and then skipped home from Fashion Week gleefully in my sneakers. But I didn’t. I left sad, tired, and jaded. I babbled to myself on the metro, about how Evil-Eye must be of those truly miserable people, who wakes up every morning hating herself. It was the only thing that made me feel better, and not much better, I might add.

Then, I laughed.

And that was the difference. Only that. I still felt small and frizzy and eternally uncool, and if that if I just had gazelle thighs and 34Cs my life would so much better. But at least see how funny that was. Not just that Bride of Frankenstein had felt it her duty to inform me of my “place” in the couture food chain, but how quickly I reacted to it. How I wanted to have her run over by a Toyota. How Fashion Week still gets to me.

I will admit I’m not counting down the days until Spring/Summer 2011. But in the meantime, I propose a new kind of celebration. Let’s call it “Fashion Freak”. Join in whenever you want, whether you’re wearing a fuschia ballgown, or jeans and sneakers, or your most maple-taffy-stained pyjamas. Walk the catwalk your way. Show off what makes you different. When you feel like you’re not enough, laugh at yourself. It’s the only thing you can do. And applaud everyone else who does the same.

Otherwise, so help me, I’ll have to get my fairy wand out on your ass.

G-Lo

2010-02-12T10:40:00.003-05:00

Last November, Grandma Lois died.

Her health had been failing for the last couple of years, and that, coupled with her Alzheimer’s, meant her death didn’t really come as a surprise. What was a bit of a shocker, to me at least, was the handwritten notes she left on exactly how she wanted her funeral to go down.

Grandma Lois wasn’t my grandmother. Not completely. Until the age of 13… okay 15… okay, my early twenties, where I went through a phase of addressing my friends’ relatives as if they were my own. I called their moms Mom, their uncles Uncle, and their grandmothers Grandma, despite having my own. I latched onto normal peoples’ families the way other kids latch onto gangs or chess clubs. In my universe, my friend Emily’s parents, aunts, uncles and pets were mine, too. And under this delusion, I spent some of the happiest days of my formative years at her family cottage in Wakefield, with Uncle Charlie and Uncle David and Grandma Lois, waterskiing and tubing and being a general pain in the ass.

The amazing thing was, I was always welcome. G-Lo, as she was known in her later years, was all class. She was the Grand Dame of that cottage, and she ran a tight ship. You did not chew gum, get tattoos, grow a beard or arrive at a garage sale anytime after 9am under G-Lo’s watch. You ate five almonds a day - any more and you’d get fat. And you wore your long underwear until Victoria Day. If not, it was pneumonia. Your choice.

But she welcomed me into her Queendom, and I loved it. I loved that she was so devoted to purple and pink that her clothes, her carpeting, her car and her fireplace were one or the other – or a tasteful combination of both. I loved that she sent handwritten notes and postcards. Her husband died in 1973, but when her grandkids went through her house, they found love letters dating back to the 1940s.

Then, there were the funeral instructions:

“Pay the bagpiper $50 or a bottle of whiskey.”

“I want hymns, but no singing.”

And one for her son, Bob, which Emily’s sister, Kate, read at the start of the funeral.

“Bob," it read, "please don’t be sad at my funeral. It’s no big deal. Be happy for me. I’ve had such a wonderful life. I’m with your father now.”

Tears flowed as the minister explained that G-Lo is still alive in many ways, because of the strong, amazing legacy she passed down on how to treat others. I looked at Bob, Emily, her sister, her brother, her husband, and her sister’s husband, sitting shoulder to shoulder a couple of pews in front of me. And I realized: G-Lo even passed down a legacy to me. She gave me the family I always wanted, and in doing so, taught me how to treat people. Plus, I can now claim I’ve been to a funeral where everyone wore pink, purple, or a tasteful combination of both.

I’d spent a lot of November beating up on myself. It’s something I excel at, if I do say so myself. I wasn’t working hard enough, or fast enough, or well enough. I wasn’t getting enough exercise, or making enough money. I was eating too much and not enough (sometimes at the same time.)

Sometimes I catch myself doing it. But in November, I dove straight in, like a circus performer. I had e-mailed part of my manuscript to my friend Karen in Sweden, and she said she’d send it back in the mail. I was certain this was because she hated it, and had made several million notes and comments along the margins, in red pen.

But sitting there, as we spoke along with the hymns, I thought about my own funeral. How in all likelihood, no one will stand up and say, “Natalie took eight extra weeks to finish her manuscript.” Or, “Natalie’s jeans all had holes in them,” or, “Karen was not a fan of Natalie’s work.” Instead, at least I hope, they’ll say I was kind. That I extended my home to bratty kids with family issues. That I knew how to have a good time, and gave good advice.

Arriving home that night, there was a package in the mail from Sweden. I opened it to find my favourite chocolates, and a handwritten note from Karen. It read,

“There are 335 left until next November. Hope you’re feeling better. I really, really loved what you sent me. I thought you might want some chocolate to celebrate.”

If I have grandchildren, one day they’ll find that note. Maybe they’ll reflect on some of my own brand of wisdom, like the importance of cheerfully-coloured socks, and cocktail hour. Hopefully they’ll think good things about me, and laugh about my teapot collection.

The chocolate, though, will be long gone.

Rachel

2009-12-09T13:35:00.002-05:00

Through the first part of our lives, we gather friends. Grade school, high school, university… this is where we nurture bonds, create a second family for ourselves – especially when the one we were born into may not, for whatever reason, be close at hand.

But somewhere, between the textbooks getting boxed away and the wedding invitations coming in the mail, that seems to slow down. Reaching across a table of glue and popsicle sticks and saying, Hey, will you be my friend? is no longer considered socially acceptable. Asking someone you’ve met at the gym to go for a drink when you don’t want to sleep with them can be more conducive to cold sweats than asking someone you do. You become set in your ways: less willing to share your life story yet again, especially when that story is already so long and worn out.

Unless you’re lucky.

I’d been back in Montreal about a year when I met Ally and Rachel. We met at work – normal enough – but didn’t really get to know each other until a very unfortunate turn of events came Rachel’s way. There really is no better way to bond with someone than sleeping on their pull-out couch while they’re being stalked by their ex-husband. But even as it was happening, one thing was clear: these were two women I’d been waiting to meet my whole adult life.

Put it this way: each of them has taught me something I needed to learn. I am about as outgoing as Wiarton Willie, while Ally makes lifelong friends with people on elevators. I constantly question myself, my abilities, whether I’ll make it in this world and what people really think of me, and Rachel simply believes she’s capable of whatever she puts her mind to – and that her friends are, too. They are the elements I lack… on top of which, good lord, do we have fun.

If I could put together a video montage of the times we had together over the last year and a half, it would be worthy of MTV, or at least a commercial for Stride gum. Us strolling through the sunshine in Central Park, and shopping up a storm in Greenwich Village. Drinking margaritas on a cottage dock at sunset. Drinking warm beer at a “Cyberlesque” show at Café Cleopatra, where Rachel, a self-proclaimed wasp, cheered along with the best of them to topless blue aliens and leather-clad drag cops. Tony, Rachel and I whitewater rafting, and, after an epic nosedive into the Riviere Rouge, climbing back in and screaming victory at the top of our lungs. Celebrating our new house. Celebrating Rachel’s new house. Celebrating a lot of things, actually. One of my favourite memories of my wedding is Rachel helping me with my dress and crying with happiness. After everything she’d been through, she stood there, sniffling, and said, “I love a bride.”

Told you she’s positive.

But now, what I secretly feared would happen has happened. Someone caught wind of one of my magnificent friends. Someone whispered something to someone else, and things were set into motion. And Rachel got a job at the UN, and is moving to Switzerland.

How could we not be happy for her? An avid skier gets to live at the foot of the Alps. A brilliant mind gets to work with one of the most environmental movements in the world. Plus it is so rare, in life, to see someone get what they deserve. Rachel deserved this from the start, but after everything she’s been through, I don’t think anyone deserves it more. This is a girl who, three months into her marriage, uncovered a pile of lies that would put a daytime soap opera to shame. Who watched her dreams of a family and a future crumble, and still stood up to a police force who refused to do more than the bare minimum to protect her. And who, after all that was over, lost her job. But she never lost her faith. Rachel never, as Journey would say, stopped believin’.

Still, I gotta admit: I’m broken-hearted. My cheerleader is gone. My ray of sunshine is in another time zone. For Christsakes, how often in life does this kind of friendship happen? I deserved these girls. They were my reward after a lot of lonely moments over the last few years. And now, half of them is gone.

I called Rachel a few weeks ago, in tears, to inform her of this fact. “What am I going to do without you?” I sobbed, while she stood in line at the visa office.

And she said, simply and firmly, “We’re going to be friends forever.”

I boo-hooed a bit more before she had to let me go. But by the time we hung up, I understood. This isn’t just anyone flying across the ocean, flinging some offhand comment about friendship. It’s Rachel. And if there’s anything I've learned, it’s that if Rachel believes something is possible, it probably is.

The Dark Bride

2009-08-31T11:52:00.005-04:00

Getting engaged is a pretty monumental thing. The person you’ve been looking for wants to spend their life with you, and behold! You feel the same way. You have made the decision to walk through your trials and tribulations together. Two hearts will become one. Two families will unite to form a new bond. Two souls intertwine, like the roots of a tree, creating a union that will stand the test of time.

Plus, you get to buy Martha Stewart Weddings.

I once went to a wedding where the minister, who had known the bride since she was a little girl, began his sermon: “Elizabeth has been planning this day since she left the womb.”

But even if you don’t fall into that category, it’s still good times. You get to try on dresses. You get to think seriously about cupcakes. Your friends celebrate you and your family fusses over you. You spend inordinate amounts of time in magazine stores, flipping through Brides and Wedding Bells and In Style Weddings, and of course, Martha. And although you might point and laugh at most of the pictures, snorting out comments about how many Barbie Dolls were killed to make that tiara, secretly, you enjoy it. Because Your Wedding Day is Your Day to Shine. It is the day when All Eyes Are On You. It is the day to Look Your Best. It is the day you will glide down an aisle in a blossom of white, basking in the love you have for your husband-to-be as the crowds gush and get teary-eyed and snap digital photos. It will be, in other words, THE BEST DAY OF YOUR LIFE.

Got it?

I’m not much of a perfectionist – I swear. But as soon as we started planning our wedding, I began obsessing about things too embarrassing to even admit. I felt our wedding would be the perfect reflection of everything Tony and I stood for as a couple. It should be spiritual but not hokey. Classy but not stuffy. Outdoorsy but not Mountain Equipment Coop. Stylish but not in a way that would look like we were trying too hard to be stylish, which was going to take a damn lot of effort. Just to keep things interesting, we even bought a house two and a half months before the nuptials. Then, a week before our moving day, I found myself curled up in the fetal position on the bathroom floor.

Please believe me when I say this had nothing to do with flower arrangements. In fact, I had no idea what it had to do with. All I knew was that somewhere between the champagne and the dining room table measurements, the feeling had gone away. My excitement and love and anticipation had melted. Looming, on the horizon, was THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE. And I was terrified.

The thought of putting on my dress wasn’t filling my stomach with butterflies. I didn’t feel madly in love with Tony, and hadn’t at any point in the past two weeks. We were moving out of a miserable apartment where our chain-smoking next door neighbours had beer delivered every day at 10am, to a great house that belonged to us. So what the hell was wrong with me? Why wasn’t I thrilled to the marrow of my bones? Did this mean I was…

Making a huge mistake?

It too horrible to consider, but there I was, face to face with the gunge on the bottom of the toilet, considering it. Because when you are getting married, you are SUPPOSED to be filled with joy and excitement and little white clouds. You are SUPPOSED to spend every moment walking on air. You are SUPPOSED to be DYING to start the rest of your life with the person you have chosen. And if you’re not… well, Martha does not speak of such things in her Summer 2009 edition.

The next day, I called my friend Sofia, who herself had a big fat half-Greek wedding a couple of years ago.

“Were you excited before you got married?” I demanded.

“God, no,” she said. “We fought all the time. Everything was like one big chore. The day itself was great, but everything else… forget it. Of course, buying a house right before didn’t help. I wouldn’t recommend that. Oh – never mind.”

According to the book The Conscious Bride, while getting married is the birth of something new, it’s also, symbolically, a death. It’s the end of your single life, and, in a way, your family unit of origin. This is even reflected in some cultures, where the bride’s family actually mourns her before celebrating her wedding. The book has testaments from brides about how, in the months and weeks leading up to holy matrimony, they, like me, experienced extreme anxiety, and even panic. The brides talked about how, during this time, they had unusual urges to spend time – willingly – with their parents and siblings. Which was reassuring, since I had also begun to lose myself in old photo albums, longing to be three years old again. I was sure this was completely bizarro behaviour, but there were other women, claiming to have done the very same thing. Best of all, some of them ended up on the bathroom floor, too.

Then, something occurred to me. It might seem painfully obvious to a passing bystander or someone who’s already gone through this, but getting married is - are you ready for this? - NOT just about the wedding! It’s about announcing to the world that you will take this person and all their baggage, pile it on top of your baggage, and make a vow not to run screaming from the giant mountain of suitcases and garbage bags filled with crap. No matter how much white icing you pile on top of it, that, my friends, is a big fucking deal. Is it any wonder the majority of divorces happen within the first year?

Since she has 41 years of marriage under her belt and has known Tony for almost as long, I decided to sit down with Mama Greek and pick her brain about this whole thing.

“Were you excited for your wedding?” I asked.

“No,” she shrugged, rolling phyllo for spanakopita. “Why excited? You get married, and that’s it.”

“Were you nervous?”

“No. Why? You nervous? You beautiful, Natalie. Don’t need to be nervous. Just get married. That’s it.”

“What do you think is the most important thing Tony and I should know about marriage?” I pressed. And then she said something excruciatingly obvious, but that somehow, in all the house-buying and wedding-planning, Tony and I had managed to forget.

“Respect each other,” she said.

I know. It’s probably there, in the How to Get Married Manual, page one. But thinking about all the couples I’ve ever met, it’s the one thing they have in common. They speak to each other kindly and gently, the way you would with a three-year old. They listen to each other patiently, even when the person speaking is drooling or ranting in a deranged way about used vs. new appliances. And somewhere in the past few weeks, Tony and I had stopped doing so well on that front. We’d started losing our patience way too quickly, trying to micromanage each other and snapping when that didn’t work. It’s an easy thing to do when tensions are high. It also corrodes away at what you’ve got, no matter how good it is.

The movies tell us that if we just meet the right person, everything will fall into place. And that if the right person eventually reveals themselves the wrong person, it’s best to bugger off immediately, because life is short and the REAL right person, whom you’ll never argue with or snap at or question your decision to be with, is somewhere out there, waiting to make your life complete. But listening to Mama Greek, I started to think that all this might be more of a chicken and egg thing. That not only do you have to find the a person who treats you well, you also have to patiently and persistently watch how you treat them, even if you’re having a bad morning or a long car ride or planning seating arrangements. And that that is the stuff that makes the right person stay the right person, rather than the other way around.

I will be walking down the aisle in three weeks. But I’ve decided that I’m going to just let it be a day that, in the grand scheme of things, means nothing about the kind of couple we are or will be. In the end, planning a wedding, or buying a house or whatever it is you’re taking on, is just a giant, logistical feat. Maybe it will be the best day of my life. Maybe it will be a great day, or just an okay one. But I’m alright with that. As long as we keep working hard to respect each other, now and forever.

And anyway - that’s why God invented honeymoons.

Almost Home

2009-06-22T10:13:00.003-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, we bought our first house.

It was a really strange experience. We looked at the place for about half an hour, and then decided we wanted it. I’ve spent more time deciding whether I wanted a pair of jeans. Three days later, we signed some papers, and became grown-ups.

Once we’d made it official, we brought Tony’s parents over to have a look. We raved about the house to them in the car on the way over: about the backyard, the garage, the basement (i.e. man-cave for Tony.) The house is actually a duplex, which means we’ll be renting out the top floor until we can afford to take over the whole place. It’s right around the corner from friends who have two pugs, and one block away from other friends who are about to have twins. It’s down the street from cheap Greek and Indian restaurants, and walking distance from Little Italy, a great market and even a dog park. It’s also in the exact same part of town Mama and Papa Greek lived in when they first got married, although things have changed somewhat since then.

“There’s a bar nearby I don’t like,” said Papa Greek.

“Are there any bars you do like?” Tony asked.

“You’ll never find tenants after July,” his dad went on. “And you’re paying too much for it.”

“It’s far from the metro,” Mama Greek added, “especially when it’s below.” (“Below,” as I learned, is Greek for “really cold.”)

“It’s the same distance as what we walk now,” Tony said.

“Okay,” she said. “Do you want to go eat?”

“No, Ma,” Tony said. “We have to get back to work.”

We showed them around, and they continued frowning and fretting.

Papa G (suspiciously): “Why is it empty?”

Tony: “Because they’re doing renovations.”

Papa G (peering out the window): “Are you sure you want to live in this neighbourhood?”

Tony: “You’re asking this after we’ve just signed the agreement to purchase?”

Mama G: “Maybe we go for pizza?”

Back in the car, and they asked when were planning to move in.

“End of July,” I said, encouragingly, from the back seat.

“What?” his mother exclaimed. “Why are you waiting so long?”

“Don’t forget, you need some money to pay taxes!” his father cut in. “Welcome taxes! Property taxes!”

“I would have liked it if we went out for lunch,” Mama Greek said, forlornly.

“We would have liked it too,” Tony said, “but we really don’t have time right now.”

“Well!” she cried, throwing her hands up in despair. “When are you going to EAT?”

Neither of us admitted it until later, but we spent that whole week utterly terrified. Buying a house is mad enough, never mind moving into it a month before the wedding. What were we getting ourselves into? What if our renovator turned out to be blind or crazy? What if the house did not, after the months of renovations we now had to sink into it, turn out like Readymade Magazine meets Country Living? Why had I never learned the basics of electric wiring? How did people do this?

Two weeks later, feeling slightly overwhelmed, I took off to my dad’s place in Kanata for a few days of self-imposed writer’s exile. One evening while I was there, I walked over to the house where I lived until the age of 9. I do this every time I stay at my dad’s, always fantasizing that one day I will find someone outside gardening or trimming shrubbery, and we’ll strike up a conversation, and they’ll gasp in delight when I tell them that I spent my formative years in their home. I imagine being invited in, seeing my old bedroom, and being instantly brought back to the wonders of childhood. It would be like traveling in time: a return to innocence, when I was pretty sure I could fly, and was 100% positive that, no matter what my mother said, E.T. lived in the basement. But whenever I go past the house, the windows are always dark. I stare at it longingly for a few minutes, remembering a time when I performed one-woman shows in the backyard, then walk nostalgically home.

This time, to my surprise, the lights were on. I stood at the curb, gazing through the screen door into the hallway where I used to play dress-up and make my face up with Crayola markers. Suddenly, a small, short-haired woman appeared in the doorway and looked at me strangely.

“I’m very sorry for staring,” I called out. “But I grew up in this house.”

She came outside, laughing, and we met on the driveway, next to the lamppost which I used to stick my tongue on when it was “below”. Her name was Alida, and she told me she’d bought the house from the people who’d lived in it after us.

“Did you used to have a brass disc over your front door?” she asked. I wracked my brain. We had a lot of brass things, but then again it was the early 80s. I didn't remember anything above the door, but then again I wasn't tall enough to see that high back then. Could there have been a disc? What if it was the one thing we had left behind in the house, and now I was about to have it? How symbolic was that? And then Alida said the magic words. She said, “Why don’t you come in?”

As I stood in the entranceway and Alida dug around a drawer, she told me she was 84 years old and had 5 children. “I lived through the Nazi occupation in Amsterdam,” she said. “Can you imagine?” She found the disc and showed it to me, but it didn’t ring any bells. Alida and I talked about Montreal, and how her kids were spread out all over the world – one is even in Afghanistan. She asked if I was married, and congratulated me on my new home. Then, I left.

It took a few minutes before I realized that the moment I’d imagined hundreds of times in my life had just happened. There I’d been there, on the threshold of the living room where I’d watched The Muppets, the dining room where I used to build forts under the table, and the kitchen from which I used to call my grandmother, like clockwork, at 6:30am every morning to catch her up on what I’d been up to lately. And it hadn’t felt magical at all. It had felt, simply, like someone else’s house, which faintly resembled the one in my memories. The only thing that had really touched me was meeting Alida.

I wondered if maybe, when we leave a house, it’s like when a soul leaves a body. Houses contain our victories, our griefs, some of our most wonderous moments, and the people who are most important to us – but only while we live in them. But then we move out, and someone else with a whole different library of memories moves in. Right now, to me and Tony, those memories are only frantic e-mails, excel spreadsheets, and a lot of paperwork for the bank, which was especially fun for me as I am of the When-Will-I-Ever-Need-This-Again and I’ll-Definitely-Remember-Where-I-Put-That school of financial management. But that night, I realized what is really about to happen. We’re about to move into a house that has been home to other peoples’ memories for 60 years… which is not even as long as Alida’s been alive. Soon, it’s going to contain a whole new story. And while we will never go through what she’s been through, mortgage documents and renovations ain’t nothin’.

Suddenly all the little details didn’t matter. All I knew is that we had to make our place a house we’d want to come back to years from now, reminiscing about the kinds of moments usually reserved for life insurance commercials, but that I know, from experience, really do happen. There will be pugs and twins, and even my soon-to-be-mother-in-law, who still says she wishes the windows were a little bigger, but also that she’s glad it’s near their place so she can come over often and “give us trouble”. And if someone comes by and tells us they grew up in our house, we will definitely invite them in.

You Could Be a Part-Time Dog Food Model

2009-05-05T14:45:00.004-04:00

A few days ago, a colleague sent me the most bizarre e-mail I may ever get.

“My boyfriend,” she wrote, “is a professional photographer. He’s looking for cute gals to model for an ad for dog food. I thought you’d be a great fit!”

I read the e-mail three times, and then once out loud to Tony, to make sure I was getting it right. First of all, she was asking for me, not my dog, who is much cuter and also happens to come from a line of dog food models (his father was the poster dog for Purina, something I very much enjoy bragging about to other owners at the dog park.) Then, I became convinced it was a practical joke. Cute? Dog food? Me?

“Do you think it’s for real?” I asked Tony. “And not spam or something?”

“Well she’s given you her phone number, hasn’t she?” Tony pointed out.

It was true. And her boyfriend’s phone number, and her address. And besides, this particular colleague is not the kind of person who would joke about such a thing. Also, there was cash involved. So I called her, confirmed I was not being punked, and said I’d be at their place tomorrow afternoon for an audition shoot.

The next day, wearing a light-coloured top and jeans as directed, I showed up. I have to say, audition or not, it was extremely nerve-wracking. Smiling at a television camera is nothing compared to smiling while standing stock still. There is no way of doing it without feeling completely self-conscious, and like you are the type of person who secretly feels they are better than mostly everyone else.

The photographer-boyfriend asked me to stand in front of a brick wall, and smile. Then, he asked me to lie down on the hardwood floor, put one arm over my head, pose as one might while ruffling the ears of a dachshund, and smile. And that was it. We had some tea, and I asked if I could see the photos of my “competition” – the other girls who were contenders for the job. I pointed out one whom I thought was especially cute.

“Aw,” the photographer said. “She looks too young.”

This reassured me for a couple of seconds before I understood what it meant.

We said our goodbyes, and they promised to call me by Thursday if I got the job. And this is the crazy part. On the way home in the car, and that night, and the next morning, when I looked in the mirror, I actually looked better. I swear to god. It was like being acknowledged as a potential campaigner for kibble somehow got me seeing myself in a whole new light.

“You may not be Kate Hudson,” I told my reflection, “but you’re not bad.”

As the week wore on, I found myself getting more and more excited. I wondered: Could this be a whole new career? The end to all my problems? A miraculous way to fund my writing habit? I imagined some scout spotting me and the dachshund, blown up to life size on the wall of a metro station or something, and deciding on the spot that I would be the next Gisele, but less thin and without the sideline career designing flip flops. What a conversation starter at parties! I could get an agent! And the money would come rolling in, and I’d never have to do any real work again, except lying around on hardwood floors, poking my head around trees and skipping through meadows to sell peanut butter or shampoo or fabric softener. Why hadn’t I thought of this before?

In the end, Thursday came and went, and with it, no phone call. I tried to pretend like I didn’t care, but I did. I had so been looking forward to claiming on my Facebook page that I wouldn’t get out of bed for less than $10,000 a day.

But as I walked by the mirror Friday morning, Bride of Frankenstein hair and all, something caught me by surprise. I was still looking beyond the new wrinkles and ever-darkening under-eye circles to what I’d been seeing all week. The glow hadn’t faded. It was an honour just to be nominated.

“You may not be a part-time dog food model,” I told myself. “But you’re still not bad.”

Just Call Me Angel

2009-03-11T11:26:00.001-04:00

Every few days I get these wedding advice e-mails from TheKnot.com - stuff like “Book a Florist Now – or Forever Hold Your Peace” and “9 Reception Disasters to Avoid”. To my great disappointment, Reception Disasters only included things like what to do if your younger cousins eat too much wedding cake, or your floral centerpieces wilt, or what happens when you’re running low in liquor. There was nothing about how to behave if your wedding is the first time in 12 years your parents will be in the same room at the same time, or how to deal with your aunt’s scotch-loving boyfriend. That’s the kind of Reception Disaster I’d like to avoid, but perhaps I am alone in this.

I tried typing in “TheNot.com”, just for fun, but it brought me straight back to The Knot website, where I was greeted by, “Welcome Back Natalie and Tony! 287 days until your wedding!”

I really only signed up with The Knot because you have to if you want to look at their dresses. I’d thought finding a dress would be the easiest part of this whole wedding thing, but as it turns out, not so much. My first attempt had been a store one of my already-married friends had gushed about. “They give you your own room!” she’d said. “They ask you want kind of dress you want and then bring it to you!”

I have to admit I was a bit apprehensive, but the room had its own leather couch, so I tried to force myself to revel in the luxury of it all. The saleslady measured me, and then brought me a white corset, fluffy bathrobe and a pair of white pumps. She instructed me to put them on, then disappeared, returning a few minutes later under a cloud of white.

“Close your eyes!” she said.

“Um,” I said. “Can I see it first?”

“Nope!” the saleslady sang, cheerfully. “Now hold your arms above your head…”

She stood there, expectantly, and I realized the idea was for me not to see the dress until it was on me, so that I would fall in love with my bridal self and throw down my Mastercard with reckless abandon.

“Open your eyes!” she said, breathlessly, after I’d struggled in. I did.

“Oh,” I said. “It’s… nice.”

She looked disappointed. “We don’t want ‘nice’,” she said. “We want WOW.” Then she whipped off the dress and trotted away, leaving me to stare at myself in the mirror in my corset and pumps, both of which were a couple of sizes too big and gave the impression I was a kid playing dress-up in my mother’s clothes.

The rest of the afternoon kind of became a bridal Groundhog Day. The saleslady would appear holding another dress, and I’d close my eyes, dive in, and then try to think of something polite to say.

“It’s a bit, um, lacey,” I’d say, or, “It’s sort of whiter than I had in mind.”

Eventually, instead of coming back with a dress she brought in the owner of the store - the Grand Poobah of wedding dresses – probably to get a load of the girl who deemed a dress “a bit virginal”.

“She doesn’t even like this one!” she said, worriedly, as I stood there draped in chiffon.

The owner frowned. “What are you looking for, exactly?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, feeling like a total moron. “Something flowy?”

“That is like WATER,” he hissed, and we stared at each other for minute, in a sort of bridal standoff.

“You know,” he said, eventually. “Not very many people want… what you want.”

If only I’d listened.

*

In January, now slightly distressed as according to TheKnot.com I was supposed to have bought my dress AND accessories by now, I asked my father to come wedding dress shopping with me. I figured if I had to deal with someone who insisted I looked glorious in something the size of a Volkwagen, my father, who doesn’t believe in sugar-coating anything – especially to salespeople – was the right person for the job.

The other bride who was at the store when we arrived had brought her mother, grandmother, and 8 friends. All of them had shiny, perfectly-coiffed hair, and appeared to be having a whale of a time. When I emerged from the change room, they stopped in mid-conversation. The bride actually gasped.

“Oh!” she said. “You look like an angel!”

The dress was made of many layers of translucent fabric embroidered with flowers, and the saleslady has fastened two giant clips to my back to keep it from falling down. I looked in the mirror. My hair was frizzed out in several directions, none of which were down. If I looked like an angel, it was a wind-up toy angel belonging to a two-year old.

“What do you think?” I asked my dad.

“Nice,” he said, shrugging, and returned to his Blackberry.

Later, as we left the store empty-handed, and I tried to explain my frustration.

“I know she meant it as a compliment,” I said, “but I don’t want to look like an angel.”

“I know,” said my dad.

“It’s not a normal shopping experience, is it?” I said. “It’s not just a dress they’re trying to sell us.”

“No,” said my dad. “It’s a dream.”

I realized he was right. It is a dream. And maybe what we’re all hoping to find is a dress with a written guarantee of that dream, which in my case is that my relatives will set their differences aside that day and be smiling and supportive like the people in Martha Stewart.

“Anyway,” my father added, reassuringly. “At least you didn’t look like that other bride.”

Touched, I thanked him. Then I pulled out my To Do list, and made a note to stock up on liquor.

Home for Christmas

2008-12-30T17:42:00.005-05:00

My mother recently broke her wrist. Her arm is in a cast, so most of the time she has to hold it at a 90 degree angle, which gives the impression that she’s permanently asking questions. Which I suppose, in some ways, she is.

The Friday before Christmas, I drove home to see her. It took me three hours, through a snowstorm, in a rented Ford Escort. I was positive she’d be happy to see me alive.

“HI MOM!” I yelled when I walked through the door.

“You brought a whole suitcase for two days?” she said.

“How about 'Welcome'?” I asked. “Or, ‘Nice to see you!’”

“Could you stand on the rubber mat?” she said. “Your boots are dripping on the carpet.”

Saturday night was my high school friends’ annual Christmas get-together, hosted every year by Erika. Unlike my home life at the time, my high school years were as close to a movie or after-school sitcom as you could get. This is entirely because of my friends. We played music together, had bonfires on the beach, and went camping. We spent every waking minute together. I probably owe most of the sanity I accumulated until age 23 to them.

Most of them have gone on to become insanely successful. They are doctors, and professors. They are high-up government types, and aerospace engineers. They have homes – real homes, with swimming pools and yards – and a lot of them have kids. They have become the kind of people their parents hoped they’d be, whereas my parents are still hoping. Or were, last time I checked.

Erika and her husband live in the country, in a home with an actual West wing. Their house has more bathrooms than my apartment has bedrooms, and an atrium looking out over acres of forest. It is stunning. Their baby is so adorable she could be on the side of a diaper box, and Erika’s younger brother, who was also coming to the party, has a wife and an equally cute new baby. He is also an optometrist. He is two years younger than me.

At about 1 o’clock in the afternoon on Saturday, I started thinking about the party and began to panic. What would I say when they asked what I’d been up to? Writing an unpublished novel? Living in a rental in Cote des Neiges? I paced around, trying desperately to compose a mental CV of 2008. But it was pointless. My friends don’t wake up in the middle of the night to their alcoholic, wet-brain neighbours drunkenly singing the first two lines of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” at the top of their lungs, over and over (and not just at Christmas.) My friends throw baby showers. They have carpeting. They go on real vacations, in resorts. My life, I realized, was shoddy and unaccomplished. I has absolutely nothing to show for myself. I should stay home, hide my head under my pillow and drink eggnog through a straw.

But about three minutes after I got to Erika's, I forgot everything I’ve just told you. Her husband greeted me the hugest, warmest hug, and someone immediately poured me a glass of wine. We reminisced about the old days. The girls complained about post-breastfeeding boobs, and we gorged on oven-ready hors d’oeuvres. I stayed till 2am, on a chesterfield under a blanket, wedged between people I've now known for half my life, laughing so hard my cheeks hurt. It was one of the best nights I’ve had in a long time.

The next day, my mother told me to move my car to her neighbours’ driveway. They were in Florida, and she wanted hers to be clear for when the snowplow came. I went outside, moved the car, came back in, and took off my coat, boots, mitts, scarf and hat.

“Actually,” she said. "Why don’t you just put your car in the garage, next to mine? Then the neighbours’ driveway can be plowed properly too.”

I got dressed again and trudged back outside. I brushed off every last snowflake from the car, as my mother instructed. Then I got into her car, moved it over, got out and looked around.

There was not enough space in the garage for two cars.

"JUST PARK IN THE STREET!" My mother yelled from the doorway, so I did, then came inside and took off my coat, boots, mitts, scarf and hat. She was watching the news.

“You can’t park in the street,” she said. “They’re giving out tickets. Just go out there and move it around until the snowplow's finished."

The truth is, for me, the holidays seem to bring on a certain type of amnesia. And thank god for that. If didn’t forget my mother’s unfailing ability to drive me around the bend every single Christmas, I would probably never come back home. Which means I wouldn't be reminded that my old friends don't ask me why I don’t have a mortgage, or a garage, or a car for that matter. That they don’t ask what I’ll be doing about RRSPs, or why don't I behave more responsibly. That usually, they're just glad to see me.

And I’m glad to see them. It is important, around the holidays, to be with people with whom you share history. Even if that history includes drunkenly singing “Yellow Submarine” at the top of your lungs underneath Mike’s parents’ piano in the summer of grade eleven. That, I will never forget.

All the Single Ladies

2008-12-09T17:34:00.005-05:00

My friend Rachel, 32 and recently divorced, plunged headfirst into the world of internet dating couple of weeks ago. It was her first time online, and she was a little stunned by the response.

“In under 60 seconds,” she said, “my screen lit up like a Christmas tree with flashing messages from different guys wanting to chat... No wait!” she added as my eyes grew wide, “One was 51 and had a handlebar mustache and a mullet. And compared to some of the others, he wasn't so bad.”

Tony and I are not internet dating (fortunately.) But we are on the market for a house, and somehow, I feel the two aren’t so different. When you see place come up on MLS in the area you want with the right square footage, you jump on it. You cancel all your appointments, and get yourself across town as soon as possible, snowstorm or no snowstorm. If it’s an open house and you like the place, you lurk around the living room, narrowing your eyes in a sinister fashion at anyone with the audacity to even consider stepping inside to have a look around. And if the place is more expensive than you could possibly afford, you still put in an offer - you just shoot very low. You never know if you’ll get lucky, as I imagine handlebar mustache man must have thought.

My friend Ally can relate to this. She’s been online for months now, with little success. Recently, she received this message from an admirer on J-Date:

“i was passing by i asked myself howcome bella bambina like you are spending
time without me?thats not fair you gotta know me and i gotta know you you
gotta tell me nice things and i will tell you more nice things you gotta
tell me more about you so you can know me better too.”

That, by the way, is verbatim.

“Do you really have to do this?” I begged. “Tony has two divorced cousins. TWO.”

“Greek,” Ally pointed out, “is not Jewish.”

“Greeks also see their parents a lot, eat a ton and yell at each other as a means of expressing love," I urged, but then I let it go.

Besides, as I’ve learned throughout my friendship with Ally, much like a ground floor 2-bedroom with a basement and backyard, a good Jewish boy is hard to find. And as Rachel is a shiksa, with no religious preferences in a man except financial stability and that he must love dogs, I’d actually been plotting for her to meet one of Tony’s cousins. I imagined the speech they’d give at their wedding, about how I’d been right all along and where would they be if I hadn’t introduced them. Then Rachel and I would be related, and could sit together at all the baptisms.

So last Saturday night, when cousin George had a gig with his blues band and all the cousins showed up, I was pretty disappointed that Rachel couldn’t make it. But Ally, bless her, still nursing the hangover she’d had since going to bed at 4am, drove out to the West Island to rock and roll with me and my future family. And 10 minutes later, she and divorced cousin Nick were giving each other massages at the table.

“He is SO cute,” she said later, in the ladies room.

“Really?” I said, excitedly. “Even though he’s not a Member of the Tribe?”

“I think I actually kind of like him,” she said. So, naturally, they went home together.

Because he comes from excellent stock, Nick has called, texted, and dropped by Ally’s (apparently he was in the area) several times since the weekend. I’m very pleased about the whole thing, and am equally thrilled about the prospect of having Ally as a cousin-in-law. But the best part is when Rachel called Monday to tell me about her fourth internet date.

“His name is Daniel,” she swooned. “He manages a business and has a 2-year old chocolate lab.”

“That’s great!” I said.

“And guess what else?" she said. "He’s Jewish.”

Diary of an Almost Full-Time Writer, Part II

2008-11-19T12:33:00.002-05:00

I figured now is as good a time as any to start blogging again, maybe because Tony's barfing. Last night, after he came home from his friend Howard's, he told me he wasn't feeling well.

"We had club sandwiches, hot dogs, fries, and then Howard made ice cream sandwiches with croissants," he told me. "But I don't think that's why." This was apparently confirmed by Howard, when he e-mailed later to say he had ham after Tony left.

So I spent the day alternately with my hands over my ears, at the drugstore buying Pepto Bismol, Gravol and Powerade, and hunting obsessively for wedding dresses on the internet. I'm bad with barf, you see. I don't know how I'll ever have children. When I was a kid, I remember stumbling into my parents' room, at 2 or 5 in the morning, to inform them that I'd thrown up all over my bedroom and would they kindly do something about it. I just assumed it was their job, like everything else, but since then I've gained so much appreciation for all they've done for me. I won't get closer to Tony than I need to to give him apple juice. I even made a trip to the mall specially so I could use the bathroom there instead of ours.

I'll fill you in on the wedding dress stuff soon. Wedding dresses and barf shouldn't be discussed in the same screen space.

Diary of an Almost-Fulltime Writer

2008-02-04T12:53:00.002-05:00

Day 1

9:08am: Drink hot water with lemon (good for the liver, apparently.)

9:28am: Make smoothie with protein powder (good for the brain, apparently.)

9:49am: Walk Ruble

10:08am: Research my report Living Montreal this week (although do not actually make any phone calls as it’s obviously far too early.) I'm going to talk about locally-made chocolates.

10:10am: Find further proof that chocolate is good for the brain, too. In order to cover all the bases, eat some of that, too.

10:20am: Official First Phone Call from former job, asking where some things are and how other things work. Obviously I can’t turn off the phone as an emergency could arise. I wonder when the mail’s coming?

3:30pm: Get showered, dressed and take the bus through the fog downtown. Walk around, buy two pairs of pyjamas as I will obviously be wearing them a lot more often.

6pm: Somehow turn simple dinner plans into beet, spinach and goat cheese salad with candied walnuts – a recipe which would normally scare the pyjama pants off me. The Greek pronounces it delicious and claims he likes it when I “stay at home”. I point out that I did actually work today, but he’s so busy eating I don’t think he hears me.

11pm: Get into bed with my iPod and listen to the podcast of “Dave Cooks the Christmas Turkey,” even though it’s January 6^th. I also bought a Christmas ornament for the Greek this afternoon, but it’s very multi-seasonal. Feeling incredibly optimistic about the new year, go to sleep.

Day 2

4am: Am jolted wide awake by burning sensations in esophagus and chest. Could it be the beets? Eventually, after much tossing and turning, I fall asleep again.

Only to have NIGHT TERRORS.

I am almost 31 years old, and have never had night terrors in my life. Yet I am certain, lying there in my room, that large, multi-legged creatures are coming to get me in the night. Is this what I get for following my bliss? Shouldn't it be unicorns, or at least rainbows?

FINALLY, I fall asleep properly and dream that the Greek and I are attending Paris Hilton’s birthday party, with about 10 of her brothers and sisters, who are all blonde but actually pretty nice.

10am: Wiped. Obviously writing about frolicking on the beaches of Greek islands is out of the question. I do interviews for my column instead.

10:45am: More chocolate.

12pm: Ruble comes to visit me in my office, chewing on a small, round, button-like object. I have no idea what it is, so I put it on the kitchen table and forget about it.

12:45pm: In the middle of making the bed, I realize my teddy bear, who I brought in for comfort last night, is missing his nose.

12:49pm: Ruble and I are not speaking to each other.

3:30pm: I take Ruble to the dog park.

Day 3

9:49am: I keep finding little signs that I’m doing the right thing. For instance, today, my Chatelaine yearly e-horoscope says

“Aries, you’re a rising star January 9th to 23rd, thanks to a long-awaited job opportunity or career coup.”

Isn’t that fantastic? Also, the letter from the editor in the December 07/January 08 issue of ReadyMade says this about New Year’s resolutions:

Nothing is gained by sitting still. Ignore the obvious things, like shedding a few pounds or quitting this or that vice, and consider doing something really bold. Whatever has been bubbling beneath the surface – starting your own business, writing a book, building something grand… nothing short of risking it all really works.”

Did you read that? Writing a book!!!

I feel I should post these on my wall for inspiration, but fear I will become like one of those crazy old ladies, whose walls are covered in magazine and newspaper clippings and pictures of dolls.

10:06am: Post them anyway.

Detox Rocks

2007-11-08T22:08:00.000-05:00

One Sunday, on a visit to my hometown, I went to see His Holiness the Dalai Lama give a public talk. I’m a big fan – in fact, this is my fourth time seeing him speak – and the experience was nothing short of moving and enlightening. However, on the walk to the Civic Centre, I found a bakery that sold gluten-free, sugar-free brownies.

I can’t tell you which was the more spiritual experience.

You see, I have not eaten sugar in over two months. I have also not eaten wheat in over two months. Or dairy. Or fruit, except for the occasional apple and frozen half-banana. No soy sauce, soymilk or tofu has passed my lips. I have not had honey, or maple sugar. Or Splenda. Or even organic cane sugar juice, which we have all been suckered into believing is somehow healthier and validates dropping $8.99 on a box of cake mix.

Nothing fermented, either. That means neither of my two favourite vegetables: pickles and olives. And you can forget about booze. I already have, which might account for what I am about to do.

When you can’t eat sugar, you realize that it’s actually used in just about everything. I challenge you to go to the grocery store, and buy only foods which are sugar and wheat free. You will spend most of your time picking things up off shelves, reading the packaging and then shoving them back in a huff. Even health food stores are rampant with both ingredients, albeit cleverly disguised as organic wheat and bloody organic bloody cane sugar.

You are now asking the question everyone asks.

Why on earth?

Without going into too much detail, I have something called Candida. You can read about it here, and here. I’ve had it before – in fact, I’ve probably had it for a very long time. But I’ve always been too lazy to do anything about it. And also too scared to go longer than two weeks without chardonnay.

But since starting this diet, I’ve felt like a million bucks. Don’t worry: I’m not bursting at the seams with energy, or glowing in the dark. But strange things have been happening. Things I wasn’t expecting. Things that I thought would never happen, because I’d basically gotten too old and partied too much in my youth. My mind is sharper and clearer than it’s ever been. Go ahead, make jokes, but that afternoon “fog” that so often descended upon me at lunch has lifted. I’m able to think straight, which I seemed to be having more and more trouble with. My stomach, for which I gave myself the affectionate nickname of “snake belly”, because of its protruding bulge after an even moderately sized meal, has retracted. And my PMS has all but disappeared. God knows there’s at least one person in the world – two if you count the dog – who are thanking their lucky stars for that.

I’m even happy to answer your next question:

What the hell do I actually eat?

Suffice it to say I spend a lot of time in the produce section. I also regularly frequent the spice racks, where I hover around and hem and haw over ground This and whole That. There are amazing things that can be made with brown rice, which include pasta, flour and yes, gluten-free brownies. And thanks to the wonders of modern science, I’ve got vanilla-flavoured protein shakes to get me through the morning.

I’ve got other tips and tricks, too. If you really want to know, drop me a line and ask. Because now, I am about to do something I have never done before.

I am going. To post recipes. On my blog.

Yes! The girl who once thought Montreal steak seasoning was the only spice she needed is cooking. And baking, and blending and mixing and even creating. It’s tiring, but it is also immensely rewarding. Especially when I’ve pulled off a Candida-friendly meal that’s actually – even according to the Greek – delicious.

So without further ado, I bring you:

Three Candida-Friendly Recipes I Currently Can’t Live Without.

Literally.

Desperation Salad
Amazing. Honestly. Even if you're not deprived.

You will need:

- A red onion (or half of one, at least)

- Olive oil

- dried rosemary

- A good amount of baby spinach

- Handful fresh parsley

- Sliced almonds (pre-sliced, obviously – I haven’t totally gone off the deep end.)

- Bacon (optional, and going Candida, without sugar. This is not as easy as it may sound.)

- Dried parmesan, if you’re using bacon and feeling devilish

- Goat’s Feta Cheese, if you’re not

Chop about half the onion up in big chunks. Put spinach into large salad bowl. Heat olive oil, add onions and rosemary, and fry it all up until lovely and caramelized. Dump onions and oil in with spinach. Toss. Fry bacon, adding almonds about halfway through so they get brown and crispy but don’t burn. Chop bacon, and add to salad along with parmesan. Or, crumble in feta cheese to taste. Add parsley last, toss, and serve.

Thank me later.

Existential Crisis Muffins
Enjoyable even with a cup of steaming green organic rooibos tea!

You will need:

2 cups gluten-free flour (I recommend a blend of quinoa and brown rice or amaranth flour)

2 eggs

1 cup applesauce

½ mashed banana

¼ cup oil

¼ tsp sea salt

1/3 cup (or less) apple juice

1 tsp cinnamon

Mix oil and applesauce together. Mash banana and add. Separately, sift all dry ingredients. Add them to the wet mixture. Add extra juice if needed to soften the batter. Spoon batter into a muffin tin lined with those little cupcake papers. Do not think about cupcakes. Bake for between 40 and 55 minutes at 350 degrees. Let cool before removing from paper thingies.

Hummus Which Will Cause my Ancestors to Roll Over in their Graves
You will need:

- one large can hummus (rolling already)

- 1 lime

- 3 large cloves of garlic

- red chili flakes to taste

- sea salt to taste

- cayenne spices (optional) to taste

- cumin to taste

- chopped fresh coriander leaves, to taste

Crush the garlic, mix everything up, and try not to eat it all, because the longer the flavours have to mix, the better it tastes. Serve with rice crackers, Mary’s Gluten-free crackers, or fresh veggie sticks.

And if all else fails, go to the Wild Oat on Bank St. in Ottawa, and buy all the brownies they’ve got.

2007-07-23T15:14:00.001-04:00

One Small Victory

2007-07-05T14:14:00.001-04:00

***Update: July 5, 2007***

The trial HAS been postponed. I was informed yesterday, and told that it was "due to the absence of the witness(es)". The new hearing date has yet to be scheduled.

I don't think it's because of anything I did, but I'm considering it a victory nonetheless. We can now hope that the Greek authorities, bearing in mind the main reasons their witness(es) did not attend, will proceed differently this time.

To all friends and strangers who gave their support, thank you, thank you, thank you.

Speaking Out

2007-07-02T21:59:00.000-04:00

Last February, I went to see a production of the Vagina Monologues at McGill University. They marked an "X" in black marker on my hand as I entered the theatre, but I noticed they were only doing this to some people.

Later, the actors assembled on stage and asked the members of the audience with an X on their hand to stand up. I, as well as about a third of the people in the auditorium, got out of our seats. We represented, they told us, the one out of every three women who has been the victim of gender-based violence. Then they asked everyone who knew someone who had been the victim of gender-based violence to stand, too.

There was nearly no one left sitting down.

I became aware of this sad statistic long ago, but there, standing amongst the others in that room, I realized I was shaking with rage. I wanted to cry, kick and scream as loudly as I was able, but when the audience - led by the actors - began to chant the V-day slogan, “Until the violence stops", I was too choked up to join in.

It was at that moment that I first considered telling this story here. But some of the most important people in my life still didn’t know, and I didn’t want them finding out through a blog. Bringing it up in casual conversation isn’t the easiest, so for the most part, I stayed silent.

Until now.

On June 28^th, The Gazette printed this story, although my name wasn’t used. On June 29^th, CBC Montreal and Radio-Canada ran their own reports on the 6 o’clock news, revealing my name and identity.

I’ve always struggled with speaking out. Maybe that’s why being a writer was a natural choice for me – a way, some might say, to be heard.

My story began the day after I arrived in Greece, in August, 2005. A man stopped me in the street and asked for directions. We began talking, and I eventually conceded to walking with him around the Acropolis, an area he seemed to know much about. He was friendly and told me he was a pilot for Air France, and that we might run into the stewardesses who worked with him, as they were out shopping. He liked to give tours to visitors to Athens, he said. He was proud of his heritage.

He wanted me to eat with him. Despite the fact that I was eating when we met, and I told him I wasn’t hungry, he insisted that I try tiropita, a type of Greek cheese pasty, which he went off and bought. He even shared the pastry with me, so I didn’t think I was taking a risk by eating it.

Then he took me to a bar. But by then, my grip on reality had already began to fade.

I remember the rest of the afternoon in bits and pieces. I woke up in a strange room. He dropped me off at a hostel in a taxi. I passed out in a bunk bed and woke up again, 3 hours later. That’s when I realized I had been drugged, and probably raped.

The officers at the first police station I went to that night turned me away, telling me there was nothing they could do. After explaining what happened at another station, I was taken to three hospitals, none of which would examine me. I wasn’t examined until 24 hours after the incident, which means that whatever had been put into my system was already gone.

There are no words to describe the following two days. The dream I’d always carried of traveling through Greece alone had become a waking nightmare. Once I came to terms with what might have happened during those lost hours, I had to accept that I wouldn’t know for another 3 months if I had been given an STD, or HIV.

In spite of this, I stayed in Greece. I spent a peaceful week in a mountain village with a friend from home and his relatives. I watched the sun rise on Mykonos, and set on Santorini. I saw the most magnificent thunderstorm from a remote island south of Crete, camping on a beach full of hippies, farther away from anywhere than I'd ever been. Despite how it began, the month I spent in Greece remains one of the most magical of my life.

The day I left, the friend I’d traveled with called from Canada and told me that an article had been published saying that Athens police had caught and charged a man for the drugging and raping of 4 women. Two were Australian, one was Danish, and one was Canadian.

The article was printed in The Gazette. In Montreal.

I hadn't truthfully expected the Athenian authorities to contact me, although they said they would if there was any news on the case. I was en route to London, where I planned to live for the next few months. I was stunned, but more than anything, I wanted to put it behind me. And when, that December, I was overjoyed to receive a clean bill of health, I thought I had.

Until almost 2 years later.

On May 15^th, 2007, I received a phone call from the Greek Embassy in Ottawa. They had a subpoena requesting my attendance as a witness at a trial in Athens, on July 2^nd, 2007.

Given the apparent lack of concern shown by the Greek law enforcement and medical system at the time of the incident, I was shocked, but glad, to discover that this trial was going ahead. When I signed for the subpoena, I asked how I should go about receiving my ticket and travel information, what the proceedings in court would entail, and how long I was being asked to stay in Athens.

They told me they didn't know. No one seemed to know, in fact, and it took several phone calls, made by my partner's father, who happens to speak fluent Greek, to find someone at the prosecutor's office in Athens who spoke English and was somewhat willing to give me the information I needed.

She told me that it was impossible to say how long the trial would last, and that they couldn’t tell me whether I would be cross-examined and blamed for the incident. I could come the day before the trial and find out, but when I pointed out that the trial began on a Monday, meaning I would have to arrive on a Friday, she told me they wouldn’t cover my hotel costs for any days preceding the trial.

In fact, I would have to purchase the plane ticket and pay for my accommodations myself. The hotel had to be 2nd class, she added, and she didn't know what that meant, but she could give me a number to call and find out. A number in Greece.

Then, I was to obtain official documents in Greek, attesting to the economy status of my plane ticket and 2^nd-class hotel, and giving the official Canadian dollar-to-Euro exchange rate for the first day of the trial.

I was to present these documents, and then I would be reimbursed - but not for a minimum of 2 months.

In answer to my concerns about the trial itself, I was told that I wouldn’t be given a photo line-up to identify the man, and that the defendant was no longer in custody. I was informed that I would not, aside from a translator in the courtroom, be given any form of assistance or protection during my stay.

After that phone call, I got in touch with as many Canadian officials I could find. It’s thanks to them that I’ve been able to obtain the information I have. But as of this writing, despite a request made by the Department of Justice, the Hellenic Republic Ministry of Justice has refused to front the money for my trip.

Through the Canadian Embassy in Greece, who have been in contact with the prosecutor’s office, I’ve learned that one of the women has already gone through the proceedings. The accused was given 5 and a half years in prison for drugging and sexually assaulting her. He has served 18 months, and is now out on parole. One of the other two women will not be attending the trial, and the other, last I heard, was undecided.

The conditions under which I told the Greek authorities I would participate were denied. I was not willing to travel to Athens for an undetermined length of time, only to walk blindly into a trial where I would, as the Embassy eventually revealed, be cross-examined a lawyer who is, in their words, “of the worst kind”. I was not willing to part with my own money for an open ticket and a hotel, and wait at least two months to see it again. And I would not accept their suggestion that I stay in Athens alone, without support or legal assistance of any kind, while the man who did this to me walks freely in the streets. So while the trial began today, July 2^nd, 2007, in Athens, I am at home, writing this.

Since the story ran in The Gazette on Thursday, complete strangers have come forth with offers of financial and moral support. To them, I am grateful beyond words. Especially because I know that there are far, far worse horrors going on in the world.

But sometimes, we have no choice but to fight our battles. Because for every one who's fighting, there are far more who can't. This is about more than airfare and a hotel bill, and it's about more than just me.

It’s about the other 3 women who came forward in this case. And the ones who didn’t.

It’s about every woman who has traveled to another country and has had this happen to her.

Most importantly, this is about the women it hasn’t happened to.

Yet.

A serial rapist is walking the streets of Athens. The Greek government, which represents a country that is a major tourist destination and a part of the European Union, is being given the chance to show that they value and respect the rights of women.

I am doing everything in my power to try to bring this man to justice and prevent him from raping again.

They can do everything in theirs to make sure of it.

_________________________________________________________________

I have made a request to have this trial postponed in the hopes that the Greek authorities will change their stance. If you would like to voice your concern, here are links to the e-mail addresses of several Greek Embassies and Consulates in Canada:

General Consulate of Greece in Montreal
info@grconsulatemtl.net

Embassy of Greece in Ottawa
embassy@greekembassy.ca

Consulate General of Greece in Toronto
toronto.consulate@greekembassy.ca

The Consulate of Greece in Vancouver
info@vancouver.grconsulate.ca

Closing the Book

2007-05-15T09:51:00.000-04:00

Imagine this. You're invited to a cocktail party. A really, really big cocktail party. Almost everyone you know is there: people you went to highschool with, your nemesis from the 7^th grade, your first boyfriend at university (who dumped you for his highschool sweetheart, which caused you to scrawl Tori Amos lyrics in chalk on your dorm room door.) People you work with are there too, and people you usually see on weekends. And your current boyfriend. And your brother.

And almost everyone they know.

The good news is that you're not naked, and it's not a bad dream. The bad news is that there’s no open bar. This is real.

Well, sort of. It's Facebook.

"Facebook!" say the people. "It's a great way to network!"

"Facebook!” add more. “It got me in touch with old friends I hadn't spoken to in years!"

“Facebook,” I said over the phone to a friend, “is the closest I ever hope to come to being a spy.” “A communist spy.” she added. “Because everyone on it is spying - and everyone knows it.”

For those fortunate enough not to know, Facebook is a website that, in theory, allows you to connect with others. Imagine a soirée without the awkward moments, or a high school reunion without the Botox.

Enticing?

First, fill out a profile of yourself. Where you live, your birth date, where you went to high school, and post-secondary school, what clubs were you a part of, what movies you like, your political beliefs.

You can even post a photo of yourself.

It's fun. It's like having a little presence out there in Cyberland, but which isn't a blog, ‘cause those are so 2003, or a MySpace, which has all kinds of scary flashing lights and stuff, or Friendster which sounds to me like a creepy morning show for kids.

Plus, it comes with that odd feeling of satisfaction that somehow, suddenly, you Exist.

Next, you ask someone to be your friend. It doesn’t matter how shy you are, how socially awkward, that the word “network” makes your skin crawl, or that you prefer cats to people. It didn’t matter to me that the last time I asked someone to be my friend, I was 7, she was 8, and it was it over the hedge of my backyard. I was out there on Facebook, every day, fearlessly making friends. And darned if it didn’t feel great.

Although if you want to get technical, I wasn’t so much making friends as, well, sort of retrieving them.

Friends from my old highschool, or the university I attended for two years before changing my mind about what I wanted to be when I grew up. And sometimes, other people's Friends. Or their ex-boyfriends, whom I’d met twice at parties. Or bridesmaids I’d been in wedding parties with.

Each Friend you amass gets listed on your Facebook page. They're in neat rows and categories: Friends from different cities, different schools, all with their profiles and nice photos of themselves.

Once you have a friend, you can “write” on their “wall”. This means you can leave each other messages, which, in turn, anyone accepted as a respective Friend of yours or theirs can read. Sort of like an answering machine attached to a foghorn, or graffiti in a bathroom stall. Except, as I recall, people don't normally make lunch dates or ask about other people's weddings on bathroom stalls, because those sorts of things are supposed to be sort of special, or personal. Aren't they?

Don't worry! You can communicate privately on Facebook, too. You can "send a message", which means no one else can read it, except the person you sent it to.

Kind of like e-mail.

But never mind. Because once you're a Facebook member, you can search the entire Facebook network and see who else is on it. Now personally, I haven't had any official spy training. But it didn’t take too many detection skills to suss out if someone:

A) is in a relationship

B) has babies, or

C) still just likes to hang out in bars and drink their face off.

In fact, just the profile photos people choose – specifically for these purposes, I’m guessing – is usually enough to tell.

And it takes no skills at all to figure out who that person’s Friends are, because you can just click on a link and take a gander, even if you’re not one of Them. Suddenly, you’ve got more insight into the life of the girl who never spoke to you in the 10^th grade than you ever did when her locker was next to yours.

According to an article in the Toronto Star, more than 430,000 people living in Toronto are members of Facebook – a number that has almost doubled in the past month. Why? Because spying on people you’ve always wondered about (but never actually liked) is incredibly addictive. Collecting friends the way you’d collect baseball cards, with the running total posted at the top of the list, is far too easy.

Don’t forget: anyone on Facebook – anyone – can ask you to be their friend.

It goes like this. You get to work in the morning, open your e-mail, and almost spit out your coffee.

"X," the e-mail reads, "has added you as a friend on Facebook. Please click on this link to confirm whether you are, in fact, friends with X."

X, naturally, will either be:

A) One of your Real Life friends, who you are in, at least, semi-regular contact with, via the phone or at the playground or even by good old-fashioned text message.

B) someone who was never all that friendly to you in person

C) someone you were never all that friendly to in person

D) someone who ruthlessly dumped you, and, after you hung out in bars and drank your face off with persons from category A, you recovered, wrote Tori Amos lyrics in chalk on your dorm room door, and years have passed, but you're still very glad they live in a different city - hopefully one you've never heard of.

Suddenly, you're face to face with this person.

No! Facebook to Facebook. Trust me – it's worse. Because now, like at the cocktail party of your nightmares, you’re forced to make a decision you wouldn’t in natural circumstances have to make.

"No," you reply, boldly and bravely, "I am not friends with X." Now X can write you off as:

A) a sociopath

B) a recluse

C) someone who hangs on to grudges for far longer than is psychologically healthy.

It’s sort of the social equivalent of taking half of an uneaten canapé and throwing it into their drink, and then walking away. Perhaps it’s time to reconsider.

"Yes," you reply, because you’re not that mean and besides, what’s the harm with being a virtual friend? "I am friends with X." Which means you:

A) are just as ambivalent about X as you have been for the past decade

B) have issues with confrontation

C) are desperate, or

D) are at a total loss as to what else to do.

The even eerier part of the whole interaction is that, generally, after Darren from home economics class or Jackie who went out with Dave during frosh week or Marge who you partied with regularly 5 years ago until her late-night phone calls about her romantic misfortunes got to be too much asks you to be their Friend, and you accept, it ends there.

It’s like you’re just standing there, holding your drinks, looking at each other but not actually talking.

I don’t know about you, but when that happens to me, I feel awkward. It seems impolite - since their profile lists that they’re about to buy a house or have given birth to twins or been married twice since you last saw them - not to mention anything. So I write on their wall.

“Hey!” I say. “Long time no see! Great to hear from you! What are you up to?” Which is probably what I’d say to them if I ran into them at the grocery store.

“Hey!” replies Darren/Jackie/Marge. “I’m great! I’m pregnant for the 8^th time/running for office/running a marathon in Dublin.”

“Fantastic!” I say, and then never hear from them again.

Or maybe it’s just me?

The thing is, when you do run into someone at the grocery store or a cocktail party, unless they are still as fantastically self-involved as they used to be, they’ll probably ask you some questions back. And then you’ll go on your merry way, never hearing from each other again for, hopefully, another decade or so.

You definitely wouldn’t know if they suddenly lost a parent. But now you do. And so you should probably send your condolences.

Or at least write something on their wall.

After 3 weeks as a user of Facebook, I gathered up my courage, took a deep breath, and checked the “disable my account” box.

“Please let us know why you are deactivating,” Facebook requested politely. And, next to that, in very small, grey print, it added: (required)

It seemed a very quiet way of reminding me that the interrogation wouldn’t be over – ever - until I gave that final bit of information.

I skimmed the list of available options to check.

“I don’t understand how to use the site,” read one.

“I have another Facebook account,” offered another.

“I spend too much time using Facebook,” was listed, as well as “This is temporary. I’ll be back.”

I resisted the guilt-charged urge to click that one.

And then I saw it. There it was, staring me in the face, right at the top of the list. “Facebook,” read the answer, “is resulting in social drama for me.”

I poised my arrow over the box, and then stopped.

Hadn’t I revealed enough about myself to the world for one month?

Could I hold on to one shred of dignity?

Could I leave the room – take that final, victorious march - and carry, with me, one last secret?

I could.

So I finished my drink, and got up from the bar stool. I took one more look around the room, at all the old faces. I nodded at the bartender. And then, I vanished.

But not before clicking: “I don’t find Facebook useful.”

They’ll never know the truth.

30

2007-03-11T20:38:00.000-04:00

Generally speaking, I have a pretty good philosophy on birthdays.

I’ve always enjoyed sharing it with people, year after year, when they moaned about getting old.

“One day,” I’d tell them wisely, “you’re going to look back at the memory of you at this age and think,

‘God, I was so bloody young.’

So why not just think that way now?”

I felt secretly very proud of my little theory, and even considered having it made into greeting cards, or, at least, bumper stickers.

But then I realized I was about to turn 30.

I have always agreed with whoever it was who said that the 30s are the new 20s. Come to think of it, they probably are the same person who coined Thursday the new Friday and staying in the new going out, both of which I get exhausted just thinking about. But I always imagined the me in my 30s as a wildly successful type of person, hanging around on sailboats and laughing amongst carefree groups of attractive friends, drinking Carlsberg. I would still have the looks, attitude and joie de vivre of my 20s, but would not yet even have approached things like babies, $129.00 face creams and inappropriate convertibles.

Of course, that was when I was 23.

Over the past few weeks, though, I couldn’t figure out why the concept of 30 was troubling me so much. I really do believe that age is a state of mind, that it’s a marketing conspiracy to glorify youth, and that growing wiser is a great thing. Yes, my 20s were great, even the confusing parts, but I don’t expect my 30s to be a lesser decade in any way. In fact, I’m really glad to say goodbye to some notions borne of my 20s. Like the belief that Ikea is a good place to buy home furnishings.

But I was definitely bothered. I started shopping far too frequently. I caught myself staring at my reflection in the mirror and wondering why I’d ever thought that smiling was a good idea.

Then, the other day, I watched some old home videos belonging to The Greek. Very, very old home videos. Like the kind with no sound. The Greek is nearing the tail end of his thirties and has no sympathy for me whatsoever.

They were a blast. There he was, in full plaid-vest-and-matching-trouser regalia (he’s going to kill me,) holding his baby cousin (who is now a heart surgeon), running around Disneyworld hugging Mickey, throwing himself into snow banks, etc. I thought of my own home videos, where I can be seen either performing one-woman theatre acts or sulking in the background while people cooed at my little brother.

God, I was so bloody young.

And then it hit me.

It’s not losing my youth that I fear.

Okay, I don’t want wrinkles, I like being able to touch my toes, and yes, every twinge and muscle spasm sends my mind reeling with thoughts straight from the season finale of “Gray’s Anatomy”. But find me someone who actually looks forward to the slow disintegration of their body and mind and I’ll find you a hydrating anti-aging serum that actually works.

No. What I fear losing is a way of being – and maybe this is saying something already – that I don’t even know the word for.

It’s losing what, in our home video days, allowed us to ask a total stranger if they want to be our friend. And to hug someone because we like them, even if we’ve hugged them already that day. To cry during a movie when something bad happens– or something incredible. To stop and listen to a street musician playing a beautiful song, because there’s really no place we have to be that urgently.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve been reminded from time to time to do these things – but those times have become less and less frequent. Other reminders have made themselves known instead. Like that I still don’t really understand RRSPs, for example. And that I’m probably not wearing the right brand of jeans. Like how I really should own property by now, and work longer days, and do more stomach crunches and eat more salad.

Reminders that I should be quieter. I’ve been told throughout my whole life that I’m too loud, and have apologized for it for just as long. And how, when I see someone I’ve missed, I smile and say hello, rather than opening my arms to hug them, because I don’t want to risk the rejection of not being hugged back. Like that I shouldn’t cry so often about so many things – good and bad. And how I don’t really have the time to walk the dog.

The truth is, while 30 is going to happen no matter what I do, the more I spend my days living that way, the older I’ll become.

So yes: 30 is going to change me. It’s going to start slowly. Sometimes, I’m going to take a nap when there are still dishes to be washed. At some parties I’m going to hug people I like even if they don’t hug me first. When I cry at movies or at acts of human kindness, I’m going to try not going to apologize. In fact, I think I’m going to try to get far less use out of the word “sorry”, period.

Some Saturday afternoons, even when there’s no proper groceries and the bathroom’s a mess and I haven’t exfoliated since I don’t know when, I’m going to spend in bed with a good magazine. Some days, when things aren’t going very well in my life, I’m going to try – try – to say so to a friend, instead of saying “things are not too bad”.

And last week, after that huge storm, I threw myself into a snow bank. It may sound like a small act, but let me tell you, it actually felt great.

And it’s a lot cheaper than face cream.

Writing Home About

2006-08-22T13:00:00.000-04:00

Since the age of 18 - approximately 11 (gulp) years ago - I have moved many times. Approximately 16, in fact. You’d think, what with my penchant for living out of a backpack, that moving house might be something I find pretty easy to handle. In this case - #17 – you’d be wrong.

There are several reasons for that. The first, biggest and bestest is that I am moving in with my significant other.

Co-habitation (in the romantic sense of the word) is not something I have ever tried before and I am very happy and excited.

And also a wee bit nervous.

Aside from the obvious reasons for this (like no longer being able eat, for the 4th night in a row, brie and crackers for dinner in my underpants at the kitchen sink while filing my fingernails), moving in with someone who is not a roommate presents a whole new set of variables towards nervous anxiety that I’d never previously knew existed.

First and foremost, the significant other is Greek. Yes – this is a good thing – especially when it comes to my affinity for a late night souvlaki. But, like most Greeks, he comes complete with a very big and very Greek family. As a person with only one first cousin, this is a concept I still have trouble wrapping my mind around. Especially 20 minutes after landing in Montreal when I suddenly found myself in a taxi on the way to their home.

“We don’t have to go,” the Greek insisted, “if you’re not comfortable.” But I shook my head firmly, applied several coats of lip gloss, and insisted I was. In truth, I had a swarm of butterflies doing the mambo in my stomach. Which didn’t help when, upon being introduced to about 12 people, I was sat down and presented with as many plates of food.

“I’ll put some steaks on the barbeque for you guys,” confided Mama Greek, patting my arm reassuringly.

And here I was thinking we wouldn’t have to have this conversation so quickly into our relationship.

"Aww," I patting my stomach, "you don't have to do that. We're not that hungry!"

Her eyes widened. “Of course! You have to eat! Have some spinach pie!” And she leapt up to pile more food in front of me.

I shook my head.

“The thing is,” I whispered, “I don’t eat steak.”

This seemed to stop her in mid-stride.

“You don’t eat meat?”

“Chicken and fish!” I yelped in desperation . “Love ‘em! Both!”

“No steak,” she repeated, sounding very disappointed.

I shook my head again, looking around for Nia Vardalos.

Fortunately, they decided to like me anyway.

And the feeling is mutual. After being back on Montreal soil for just over a month, I already feel like I have a whole new family. Being the Girlfriend of the Greek, (and residing in his current apartment,) seems to allow me automatic access to weekly shipments of food, frequent phone calls to inquire into my well-being, and serious parental concern over Reason to be Nervous #2:

Painting the new apartment.

No one likes painting – I know. I, someone who once thought painting an entire 1-bedroom flat Midnight Periwinkle was a really smashing idea, like painting even less. I’ve definitely had my share of it over the 16 moves. So I was relieved to be told that the new place would be freshly – and professionally – painted when we moved into it at the end of this week.

Which is why, when we finally saw the paint job at the end of last week, things didn’t go too well.

“It’s… bright,” I tried to tell the Greek.
“It’s hideous,” he said.
“We can fix it with lighting,” I attempted.
“It’s god awful,” he replied.
“It’s like glow-in-the-dark stars in daytime,” I said, desperate to convince us both.”

“Well,” he said, “I guess we’ll have to live with it.”

“We’re re-painting,” I said, put the dog on the leash, and stormed off to Rona.

We dreaded the idea of taping doors and ceilings, laying down newspapers, and grinding away with a roller.

That so was not the hard part.

Have you ever tried to agree on paint colours with another person? It all goes back to my theory that what one person sees as Cherry Blossom Red is seen by another as Evergreen Tide. This theory proved doubly true when taking colour samples from Rona and bringing back to rooms that seemed to change colour and hue entirely from morning to afternoon and then to evening.

“Too girlie,” the Greek would say one paint swatch.
“Too yellow,” I’d say of another.
“Too light.”
“Too dark.”
“Too cold.”
“Cold? It’s BROWN.”
“It’s a cold kind of brown.”
“Fine. What about this one?”
”Too powdery.”
“POWDERY?”

And on it went.

The man at the Rona paint counter has already given us three complimentary hats, perhaps in honour of the three rooms we’ve painted. (We’re repainting two of them tonight.)

There’s something keeping me going, though. Maybe it was the paint fumes, but other night, as I sat one the counter of our soon-to-be kitchen, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. I realized then that it had been a long time (11 years, in fact,) that I’d felt like I was really at home. And despite the sawdust on the unfinished floor (in which the dog was currently rolling,) colour ambiguity, and the Greek stomping around from room to room muttering things like “not Chihuahua Beige…but Tumbleweed Mellow?” I know that I am. And that that’s a good thing – and a whole new type of adventure.

And at least life is colourful.

Or, at least, many different shades of tan.