RED ROVER

I'VE MOVED!!

To a brand-spankin'-new website.

www.motherofallmavens.com

It's still a bit of a work in progress, but hope you like it. Feel free to pass along to your friends, family and bored co-workers.

Bye bye blogspot, helloooooo web.

Please enjoy responsibly.

All joy, no fun...

I recently came across a fabulous article entitled "I Love My Children. I Hate my Life."

I was dumbfounded. Flabbergasted. All those great words that describe that shock 'n awe feeling...

According to the most recent studies, having kids makes you unhappy. I'm paraphrasing of course, but when I read this, I wanted to refute it at every word. I'm deliriously happy. Except when I'm not. And staying home and being there for my children is completely fulfilling...

OK. Not really. But....How did they know??

I did prefer washing up the dinner to bathing my kids. And of course I'd rather bake something real then pretend cook fake food. Stacking blocks, fitting shapes into holes, doing the simplest of puzzles....No, no and no thank you.

Sure, I could get into playing - I'd build something kinda cool, only to watch one of my guys gleefully knock it down. I loved when my boys helped me with my mini-business in the kitchen. As long as they understood I was totally and utterly in charge and they followed by every direction. Not so fun for them, tho' raw dough is always a good incentive.

Yes, I confess: I hate the park. Ditto Sportball and other kiddie programs, watching Teletoon, and bro-on-bro (-on-bro) wrestling. We joke that it's Rated M for Mother. because this mother can't stand to look.But the park? Stresses me out. Either I'm standing still in the sun, repetitively pushing swings or, even worse, watching my 2-year old clamber up structures much taller than me - with several ill-spaced openings, perfect for falling from. That gut instinct that tells you not to walk off an edge? My son doesn't have it. Or maybe he does but finds it hilarious seeing me try to figure out which side of said climber he has the least chance of tumbling from. It's quite a dance we do. I envied my friends whose kids preferred the sandpit. They'd sit for hours and yeah, emerge filthy, dumping sand all over the floor, but my boys did that sans sand. And at least my friends got to shmooze with the other moms in the park. As one person pointed out: that's not the point. You're supposed to shmooze with your kids.

Oh.

A lot of my female friends have confessed to not being very good at (ie not really enjoying)"playing". Maybe because quite often, they've got other things to do (dinner, laundry, sorting through old clothes). One friend of mine told me the best day she ever had with her kids at the park was the day she figured she'd let them eat cereal for dinner.

Maybe it's a girl thing. My Man loves to play with our boys. Maybe they have too much access to me or maybe (gulp) he's just more fun. Apparently I'm more "talk-y". Not sure how to take that.

The article mentions the "golden age" of child-rearing: when the kids are 6-12. Babies and toddlers are hard, and teenagers are worse. Our guys are 2, 5 and 7. I fear we'll never be in that golden age. When my youngest turns 6, my oldest will be 12. Little kids, little problems and all that...

Either way, we're right in thick of it. There's a lot of "drudgery". A lot of "chores". And a lot of counting to 3 (and wondering what you'll do if you reach the magic number and your kid doesn't care). And yet, when my very busy baby starts singing "Imma Be", complete with fist-pumping, I howl. And when my not-so-compliant middle guy joins me on my errands - he doesn't like to miss a thing - he slays me with love and laughter (cliches be damned) every time. And when my super-sensitive eldest and I went to NYC, just the two of us, there was nothing better. It was like a honeymoon of sorts - but with my kid.

I feel like the "unhappiness" comes less from the kids and more from the loss of freedom that parenting brings. Same thing? Perhaps. Freedom is a luxury that I for one definitely took for granted. Going out wherever, whenever is no longer an option. Thinking solely of myself is impossible. Not because I'm the perfect wife and mother, but because it's literally impossible. There's always someone who needs something, somehow, somewhere. Or I get tired. Or distracted. But appreciating it now - is that about parenting? Or just growing up?

The grass is always, always greener. But seeing so many of my own "bad thoughts" put onto paper was quite gratifying. And enlightening. Therapeutic even.

But fleeting.

If you have a chance, grab NY Mag and head for the toilet. And don't forget to lock the door.

For those for whom this is impossible: check it out on-line:

http://nymag.com/print/?/news/features/67024/

MOAM BOOK CLUB

July 2010. It's hot. It's very, very hot. Too hot to handle. Like standing behind a bloody bus. There's not much on the tube, cinema is lackluster instead of blockbuster, Toy Story 3D not withstanding. (yeah, yeah... I cried too)

But I digress....This is the annual book list. The really good flicks start making their way into our air conditioned theatres tomorrow, so, without further ado, you asked for it, you got it:

The MOAM Summer Reads List

The Children's Book - A.S. Byatt
This is a big, meaty, sprawl of a book. It follows the lives of a famous writer and each of her children, their friends and families. Starting out in Victorian England, and finishing up at the end of the First World War, reading this baby was like watching the most exquisite period film and hoping it won't end. This novel is brilliantly written, and not just because I am biased towards AS Byatt. I've loved her since Possession (which you should also read) and read everything she's written. This one is totally accessible - and devastating. Not necessarily a beach read, but fantastic. Break out the tissues.

The Slap - Christos Tsiolkas
I was hooked from the very start. At a BBQ in Australia a man slaps a child who isn't his. And thus it begins. After the proverbial shrimp on the barbie, the incident is seen through various eyes, intertwining stories and characters while painting a spectacular portrait of life in the Melbourne suburbs. Modern families, domestic life, identifiable characters and yet....totally sex, drugs and rock 'n roll. I couldn't put this one down - you won't either. AWESOME.

The Help - Kathryn Stockett
Is there anyone out there who HASN'T read this book yet? What are you waiting for? The film? Good books almost always outclass and outlast their oft feeble adaptations (unlike the cheesy books which make for FABULOUS flicks)....Set in 1962 Mississippi, we've got a university graduate ahead of her time who tells the stories of, well, the segregated town's Help: the nannies, babysitters, and maids. Compelling, brave, awesome. It's been in softcover for months now, so no more excuses. Grab it and start. You won't be able to put this one down.

Stieg Larsson Trilogy

What? How could I do a summer reading list without these books on it? Blockbusters to be sure - but with good reason. All of Sweden can't be wrong, right? The rest of the world obviously agrees. The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. The Girl Who Played With Fire. The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet's Nest. Potboilers. Kick-ass female lead. They are NOT flawless - the late novelist would probably have a lot to answer for, putting his magnificent Lisbeth Slander through such gruelling, violent and downright deviant experiences. His details made me a little squeamish, for both the content itself and the dichotomy of the strong female lead stacked up against such gross brutality. Did he need to go that far? Is it twisted porn in some ways? Who knows? They're terrific reads and quick quick quick, ensuring you have lots of time to finish them before you see all the Swedish flicks (no. 2 out next week) or the American remakes. My fave was the second book. What's yours?

One Day - David Nicholls
Full disclosure: I haven't finished this one yet. While I was in London one of my favourite people raved about it, foisted it upon me, and promised I'd love it. I saved it for the plane, but then got all caught up in the third and final Larsson book. Meanwhile, my man scooped me, read it in a matter of days while I read magazines, waiting. He loved it too. And suddenly - this book is everywhere. Or at least seems to be (Helloooooo EW). It's about two people who meet on the night of their college graduation. We follow their lives, chapter after chapter, each one depicting the same day, but one year later. I couldn't wait. I wanted to love it, live it, breathe it. And.... I didn't like it. The characters bored me. They felt cliched and earnest, annoying and indulgent (especially The Girl). AT FIRST. And then, last night, Emma and Dex (said characters) turned 30. And I turned into a fan. A huge fan. Total 360. Gripped?! I am gripped.

Gotta go. Must finish my book.

ENJOY!!

Words with Friends

I adore my iPhone. It's the best. Damn. Toy. Evah.

Sure, I've had to have it replaced (I'm on my fourth, but feeling optimistic). And it's not great when you leave town and find yourself at the whim of the data-roaming packages. And the pictures are lame, at best. But still....I'm a loyal user. A true blue iPhoner.

Unlike those with crackberries, I wouldn't call myself addicted. I don't email at meals. I don't text 'n drive. And aside from a little show 'n share with other Mac Daddies 'n moms, I pretty much have the whole etiquette/right time-right place thing down.

Or, rather, I did. And then a friend invited me to play an innocent game of Words With Friends. And I told two friends. Who told two friends. And so on. And so on. And so on.

And everything changed. Those who know, know it all too well. They understand my pain and longing for one. more. turn. And those who don't - beware. Basically, it's Scrabble. Plain and simple. Only instead of sitting across from your competitors, waiting for them to hurry up and play already, you carry on with your day and everyone just plays as and when.

Sounds harmless, right? Riiiiight. Let's just say that it can be. One of my mates is working nights. In England. So I'm awake while she's at work. What could be better? But the rest of my games are E.S.T. And they're getting more vicious by the hour. It's reached the point where I'm making mental notes about good words to use. I see triple word scores as I fall asleep. I've learned that "heeze", "vag" and "thio" count. "Zoot" does not, no matter how many times I try. "X" and "Q" are always great. Gimme an "I" and it's points galore. "J" and "K" not so much.

I have friends with whom I chat at least 4 times a day. And we talk about our games. My mother sends me messages mid-game, berating me for not playing faster. Another pal and I stayed up past midnight, desperate to finish our match. Just so we could start another one. Which of course we did, and then proceeded to stay up so we could finish that one etc.

At one point I went rogue - and started up a game with a total stranger. I don't know which was worse - the feeling that I could be playing with some kind of creep, or the fear that this potential creep would kick my ass. Either way, I got too stressed and ended it after one round. And then returned to my usual suspects.

I went away with a couple of friends and it was all we could do to not play against each other - in the same room!! Instead, we poured a couple drinks and played real scrabble. Sure, it was fun - especially when we used our iPhones to look up questionable words - but it took sooooo long.

I've tried to stop, I really have. Sometimes it feels like I'm just making words up, testing the gadget to see if it'll bust me. It always does. But once in a while, it allows me to get away with words I never knew existed!! Good times! And now my Man has come over to the dark side. He's gone and got himself an iPad. It's cool. It's slick. It's downright magnificent. He says it's for work.

I say it's for Words.

Berg. Orb. Haw. Ugh. Heh.

Game on - gotta run.

Glee vs The Volcano

It's the 20th of April. Tuesday. For the past 3 months I've been dreaming of this night. The night I'd spend on an Air Canada Airbus, flying across the Atlantic in my business class seat - nay, fully reclining bed. In a pod. With a privacy screen. Sure, I'd arrive jetlagged and spent - after all who wants to waste a business class flight SLEEPING?! I'd be staying up to enjoy every second of it.

But 'twas not to be.

Bloody Ash. Stooooopid Icelandic volcano. My story's not a bad one. I canceled my flight a day in advance and re-booked for a couple of weeks from now. I'm not stranded, in transit or missing anything or anyone. I'm just staying put. At home. Constantly checking the status of the various flights to Heathrow because I've become addicted to British Airport Authority updates and all things Eyjafjallajokul (and yeah I had to cut 'n paste that one). I'm also watching the neighbouring volcano, Katla, the one that could really f&ck us all up.

It's all so "Day After Tomorrow", no?

I tried to put on a happy face. Until I took a shower and the pipes two floors down exploded. That's right readers, it's the plumbing. Again. No running water, no flushing, five people.

A far cry from business class.

But there's a glimmer of hope on the horizon as the 5 grand dig begins. And there was happiness in the air tonight, not just sewage.

Because of Glee.

Everyone watches Glee, right?

RIGHT?!?

If you're not. You should be. And you should start with tonight's Madonna Tribute episode. Yep, all Madge, all the time. The results? As Kurt says: Madge-ical.

Cheesy, yes. Absolutely, unapologetically and resoundingly so. And that's what makes Glee work. Musicals + one hour TV does not a perfect partner make. And to be honest, I was getting nervous about Glee. It started with a bang, totally remaking - and rejuvenating - network television. And Journey. "Don't Stop Believin'?" Never liked it the first time round, but love it all Glee'd up.

As the shows went on, they had their highs (Kurt's "Single Ladies") and lows (most of Emma's numbers). But I was getting nervous. It felt like the writers were pulling out the wrecking ball....and focusing on the adults. Sure "Acafellas" is a funny name for a group, but I'm not so big into Will Schuester. His fake-pregnant, soon-to-be-ex-wife? Yes yes yes. His romance with the bush baby Emma? Only as the B-story. Keep it with the kids.

But I needed Glee tonight. Early Glee. I needed to know that, stuck at home with backed up toilets, I could count on television to take me away....

And tonight, thanks to Sue Sylvester, it did. Fact is, Jane Lynch could stand stock still and have everybody howling. She's a master of comic timing and delivery but lately even she, well, her rivalry with Will, was starting to grate .... Until tonight.

Tonight was Sue's night. Her obsession/tribute to Madonna could've been a trainwreck. But it was glorious. She was glorious. Made me (almost) forget about the men I was paying to dig up my front yard tomorrow morning. Even my pvr cutting out (AGAIN) with 5 minutes to go couldn't put a damper on Glee tonight.

Perhaps it's becasue I was at the end of my rope. Or, more likely, because it was coming off yet another dreary American Idol. "Songs of Inspiration"?! Puh-lease. Songs to sleep by. Or cringe. Call me a cynical bitch but I thought Mamasox's breakdown was as contrived as....well, the show itself. I didn't see any tears. I think she was working it. And it worked. Maybe I'm just over it. Between the youngster and the grinner and the all-round earnestness there's just not much more left to say other than: it blows. You can read all about it on all the other blogs/mags/sites. Bye bye Simon. Tick tock Idol. Hello Glee!

Just when I feared it had prematurely run its course, Glee sucked me back in. Welcome back! My name is MOAM. And, yeah, I'm grounded by Icelandic ash. And practically living in a campground without the luxury of an outhouse. But I'll say it loud: I'm a Gleek and I'm proud.

For now. The winds could change.....

STATE OF THE UNION

Word of mouth is huge in the restaurant world. Well in all worlds, but especially for foodies. Buzz+hype+critical mass = big business for chowhounds.

We've all heard about places that are spectacular. We stalk the site, try to book, and somehow make our way. Some live up to the hype, and some do not. What I've noticed recently, however, is that there's much ado about a whole lot o' nuthin'. Nuthin' appealing, that is.

I blame the Locavore revolution. If I lived in California or in the Mediterranean I could get excited. Even some far-off tropical island would work for me. In these places I'd probably be so used to eating locally grown food that I wouldn't have to label it. But I live in Canada. Practically-but-not-quite Midwestern Canada. Even tho' we lean to the East, we're smack dab in the middle. The only coast is Lake. And it's a long cold winter. Eating locally grown food at the beginning of April is a challenge. Big time. Especially when said locally grown food seems to be too meat-y (only root veggies here!), adventurous (tongue, brains, innards) and silly (granola foam?!)...

Challenging.

Another challenge is trying to get a table on a busy Saturday night. On Ossington, Toronto's latest It street. We were four hungry souls, out of the prowl, looking for dinner. We were wingin' it old sckool....No bookings, no rezzies, no clue...

We split off and tried the olde walk-in approach. Without much luck....

Until we hit Union. Like it's neighbours, it too was filled to the gills but they agreed to let us loiter at the bar until the small window table/bench/bar was free. I'd read about it the place. I'd studied the very small menu. Union prides itself on having sowed, hoed, and growed their food. It's on the website (www.union72.ca) It wasn't for me. And yet...here we were. Blood sugar lowered, getting desperate, and cranky, it was Go Union or Go Home.

So we Unionized.

And it was, in a word, awesome.

Being forced to order something you wouldn't normally go for was a locavoric eye opener! Nervously, we perused the menu. Pasta special was ravioli with cheese, beurre blanc and....rabbit. Next, the fish special: grilled Spotted Lake Trout, or Splake. Geddit? Splake = SPotted LAKE trout. May as well have called it Splat. Pass. Luckily, there were no face parts on this menu (one of our group got suckered into veal cheeks the week before. We were over facial food before we sat down).

We looked for stuff we could share while standing. Started with a plate of Elk Sliders. Insanely good. Tempted-to-order-another-round (not to share) kind of good. Then we tucked into a tiny cheese plate. Laughably small. And yet....packed quite a punch. We could've used more than a sliver of bread each but we got past it.

And then we sat down at the bar. Somewhat uncomfortable with a persnickity waitress/bartender, the odds continued to be stacked again this place. But the Union salad, with it's fat slabs of bacon, creamy goat's cheese and mini rosti was a winner, ditto the sticky ribs. Polenta - yeah, two of us actually ordered polenta! I know - crazy!!) was crispy and cheesy with a side of braised greens that went down a treat. Didn't leave a drop! Apparently the real winner was the Plat du Jour: the Union Steak Frites that our pal swore was the best he'd had. Ev-ah. The piece de resistance? The massive side of smashed potatoes that came with the mains. A total surprise, they were laced with some kind of sour cream 'n chive-ish concoction and set alongside a slew of fries. With mayo. Yep, the steak frites came with frites AND a side of fries! Who knew? It definitely made up for the puny cheese platter.

We finished off with a communal molten chocolate cake. There was some debate over dessert. My man wanted the apple parfait but claimed he was full, and I secretly hoped the bread pudding would be ordered by someone...ok me...but the chocolate cake won out. Like the rest of the meal, it was damn fine.

And it wasn't even that pricey! Which just goes to show you...erm.... you can't judge a restaurant by its menu. Sheesh....who knew? Proud Canadian hockey fan, and now, food patriot? Viva la Revolucion!

TOP COPS

Yesterday afternoon, our street was a-blazin'. Literally. Another mom had just arrived to pick up her son. She pulled up in front of our house- OK, in front of the hydrant, in front of our house - and started getting her son ready to leave.
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Suddenly, we heard sirens. They seemed to be getting closer. And then closer still. We joked that she'd better move her car....Ha ha, hydrant humour....

No joke.

Next thing we knew, there were 5 firetrucks, an ambulance and a handful of cop cars. Our friend was gone like the wind. I, along with the rest of the street, ran outside to check it all out. Massive black smoke clouds billowed out of the house two doors west. Its elderly occupants were outside, watching it burn. A firefighter staggered out of the house, was ushered to a chair and stripped of his equipment. He left in an ambulance son after.

This 'hood hasn't seen so much excitement since, well, ever. The crowds gathered. My phone was ringing - concerned friends and neighbours wanted to make sure it wasn't our house (not that I could've answered if it was - but sentiments were very much appreciated nonetheless).

The entire street was closed off in both directions, so a friend had to ferry my oldest son home, and I had to walk him back from the corner of the road. As we walked passed the house, he asked me what was happening. Having no clue, I stopped to ask a trio of police officers for the scoop.

Let me be clear: the firefighting element of the scene seemed to be over, or at least well under control. There were no flames, no smoke. A lot of official-looking folks from police, fire, and EMS were chatting. As were the neighbours. In other words, we were not interfering.

So we approach the coppers and ask one of them, a lady in gender only as it turned out, what was happening. She looked at me and my 6 year old son and deadpanned "A plane flew into the house".

I looked at her. She stared back. I replied, calmly, "well, we know that's not true, is it?" The other officer told us they were waiting for the smoke to clear and an inspection would follow. Blah blah blah - officialspeak for "no clue".

As we walked home my son turned to me, fear in his eyes, and asked "did a plane REALLY fly into that house, Mommy?" And thus it began. I had to explain that the policewoman was, well, what WAS she doing? Making a joke? Scaring a child? Being a bitch?

The rebuttals came fast and quick - in my mind. I was tempted to go outside and tell her off. Report her to her superiors. Revoke her badge! Who tells a little kid something so stupid? And what if we were somehow affected personally by 9/11? The what-ifs were endless. As were my come-backs. If only I had the guts to use them. In time.

Needless to say, vigilante justice was not to be had. Or even contemplated. I didn't feel like messing with the police force. Even if our taxes do pay her salary. Luckily, my son slept like a baby....Erm, better actually, as my baby was up all night looking for the firetrucks to come back.

Still, it was a real blow. I took it personally. "Our cops are tops"? Hardly. At least not this one - she was the bottom of the barrel.

The firemen, on the other hand, were another story altogether. Brave, tall and handsome -even the ones that weren't, were! Toronto's finest indeed...

Looking good Luuuuuu

Nature vs Nurture. A puzzling conundrum for people everywhere. Is it our genetics or our environment that shape us? Or is it a combo?

As I sit and watch the Olympics, I can't help but ponder: are sports fans born? Or are they made? Because I find myself obsessed with Olympic Hockey and I can't take it anymore!!!

My hockey fandom was hardly a given, despite the fact that I was born and raised here in Canada. Sure I hung around the rink as a kid. But only because I had no choice. My brother played hockey and I had to go along for the ride. But skating was never my thing. It still isn't. Ditto for winter. And while I pretended to collect hockey cards, it was probably just to bother my brother, show him who was the boss - with the best cards.

I did go to the Saturday night games now and then. My grandfather and I, always leaving 5 minutes before the game ended, regardless of the score. That's just the way it was. And I loved going. Not because I had to get dressed up (I did). And not because my grandfather and I shared meaningful moments (he didn't speak). I liked those nights because of the pre-game dinner. Always a restaurant, sometimes a lobster.

So why is Team Canada making me want to hurl???

I hate sports. H.A.T.E. I'm the girl who brings a book to sporting events. Sure I watched a lot of hockey - mostly with various hockey-playing boyfriends. I'd grab my hot chocolate and feign interest, trying not to stare at the clock. I don't get basketball - and apparently never will as my Man has banned me from going to games. What? I was bored... And football? Well, that's an American thing. Almost a foreign language -that I have no desire to learn. That said, I did watch the Super Bowl for the first - and last? - time this year. Tennis anyone? Pas moi. Soccer? When I lived in London I found myself in a restaurant, alone, during the world cup. I was getting take out and could feel the pavement shaking when England scored. I thought it was some strange tremor. Hadn't a clue.

But back to hockey. A few years ago I went to a game as a lark. Something to do on a Saturday night. By game's end I'd bought a shirt and knew a handful of players. By the end of the season I knew every Leaf player. And number. I was in in in.

And then the league went on strike and I thought it was a passing fancy. A one-nighter stretched across a season. Nothing more.

I was wrong. I couldn't shake it. Despite watching my home team lose time and time again, I held out hope. I didn't just watch the games, I read the sports pages. I even watched the draft picks. And of course, the losses. Over and over again, the bloody losses.

And then......the Olympic circus came to town. Not my town, but to my television. And I got sucked in. Big time. And it was a revelation to be backing a winner. In their first game, my beloved Team Canada didn't just win in, they killed it! Showed the poor Norwegians no mercy. And I loved it. What a high! What a thrill! And then....they played the Americans. And what a nightmare it was. It was during this nail-biting and ultimately gut-wrenching game that I wondered what I'd become. And how I could shake it.

I gasped. I groaned. I squirmed in my seat. None of it in a good way. My Man couldn't take it. I was so tense I was stressing him out. I tried telling myself it was just a game. A hockey game. A bunch of mulleted, gap toothed boys skating around chasing a rubber disc with sticks. But it didn't work. And when they did lose, I took it personally. Maybe I jinxed them by poo-pooing the importance of it all? Had I, like the team itself, taken it for granted that they'd win? You'd think I'd be used to backing the losers. But I fell for this team. And all the bloody marketing that went with it.

And so it continues. I watch the games, and then I discuss them. I read papers and teach my kids. I feel like I'm living in one of those cheesy commercials. In fact, I've gotten so into it, I've started liking those cheesy commercials!

Auf wiedersehen Deutchland. Nyet nyet Soviets. Close but no cigar Slovaks.

And now.....the Americans are coming. Coming back. And I'm trying to relax. Not get myself too worked up over the whole thing. It is after, all just a hockey game. At the very least, they'll get a silver medal which is, in itself, pretty impressive, right? RIGHT?!

If only I believed that. If only I didn't care. But I do. Please - let it all just end happily ever after already. So I can get back to my life or cheering for the losers. I didn't think it'd be so hard to back a winner.

GO GOLD OR GO HOME!!!!!

THE EYES HAVE IT

Jeepers creepers....where'd you get those peepers?

'Tis the question.....

When I was a little kid I had showstoppers. Crazy eyes. Big, blue and beautiful. As I grew older, they got greener. Still my best feature - or so I thought. Yet, with each blue-eyed baby I birthed I'd hear it over and over: where did they get those eyes? I'd open up big and doe-like and pretend I didn't understand the question. Because I kinda didn't. Hellooo?!? Green eyed lady, ocean lady???

How could this be??? Bodies come and go and stretch and shrink....but eyes? The windows to the soul? I owned eyes. They were my parts. The ones. IT.

Or were they?

Apparently, it was time for maaaaaaake-up. I'd never worn make-up. Looked like a tranny - or a granny. Specifically, my friend G's granny who was known for her baby blue... eyelids. That said, they kinda worked for her. For me? Erm....no.

I'm just not a make-up person. Products? Yes. Potions, lotions, tonics and tinctures? Yes, yes, yes, and yes. But now that tans are verboten, the wrinkles are creepin' in, and my eyes have apparently turned to mud, I knew the time had come.

First stop was the eyelash lady for extensions.

Two hours and $200 later I looked like Carol Channing. Crazy, right? But they were a gift. One that kept on giving because they all fell off after 4 days. Correction: they all fell off of ONE EYE after four days. Hello Clockwork Orange!!

Luckily, I have a couple of make-up artists as pals and they, together with the lovely and talented Katie at Laura Mercier, sent me in the right direction...I soon found salvation in a handful of tubes, bottles and palettes. And if I, who hail from the Crayola School of Makeup, can apply, so my friends, can you. Here goes:

Step One: Primer. Laura Mercier Primer.

I still don't know what this is or how it works. All's I DO know is that a little shmear of this topped with a couple o'dots of Origins "Sunny Disposition" and you've got a mini face lift. Whether you thought you needed one or not. Looks awesome. Smooth, glowing skin.

Step Two: Concealer. Nars Concealer.

As I said, Crayola School of Macquillage. Which is why this concealer, in a little lipstick tube, works every time. No fuss, no muss, no f&ck ups. Whether you're over-forty or just over-tired, there's really no excuse for not using this. Even on the weekends.

Step Three: Invisible Eyeliner. Laura Mercier Again.

This stuff is the coolest. Looks like a small pot of dried up paint. Add a few drops of water, swirl with your handy eyeliner brush and apply UNDER the upper lid. Sounds weird. Looks great. This is where the magic happens, ladies and Lamberts. Once you get the hang of it, this stuff doesn't come off - ever. But in a good way.

Step Four: Mascara. Any kind, any time.

Of course you can keep on keeping on. Blush, lids, liners, and lips. But I can't. The tranny thing. Plus, after so many years of living au naturel I was loath to commit to a daily regimen. And I'd hate to go to bed as one woman and wake up as another... Trippy and kinky as that may sound, the only thing less appealing than morning breath is morning face.

Laura Mercier Primer: $40
Nars Concealer: $22
"Invisible" Eyeliner and brush: $50

Looking like a million bucks having only spent $122 plus tax: Priceless.

STORM IN A B-CUP

Boobs. Tits. Jugs. Knockers.

Helloooooo there!

When I was younger, I'd go down South to visit my grandparents every Christmas. Aside from the weather, the Apple Jacks, and the all-you-eat early-bird specials, there was the shopping. Aventura, Boca Town Center, Galleria Mall, Pompano Fashion Square. They all had one thing in common, aside from Burdines: Victoria's Secret.

One of the highlights of each trip would be my annual Vicky's Secret excursion with my grandmother. My Bubby would install her plus-sized self in one of the fitting rooms - preferably with a snack - while I grabbed as many 34-B bras that I could find. At first they were simple: nothing too lacy, nothing too showy and absolutely no falsies! I'd bring armloads of bras and start trying. One after the other, until she'd find herself at the bottom of a sea of underwear - and underwire. We'd bring them back to Palm Aire and I'd model them for her underneath my various t-shirts and dresses.

This went on from my teens until well-into my twenties. Sure, I erred on the nippy side, but I didn't care if my headlights were showing. Heroine chic was all the rage. And while I couldn't compete with the waifs, I certainly had the chest for the tops I liked.

And then I tried on a WonderBra.

Well! Helloooo ladies indeed!

Victoria's Secret? Out. Marks and Spencer? In.

And so it went. I lived in London and the Florida trips became more sporadic. I still went and we still shopped, but I'd moved on from Victoria's Secret. A large and in charge Marks & Sparks bra fitter had helped me to see the light - not the headlight. I was loyal to my bras. And they were loyal to me.

And then I got pregnant. And breastfed. Repeat three times. Lovely babies. Lovely boys. Less than lovely boobs despite my fabulous M & S underthings. They helped me through the ups and the downs. And the further downs. Until I noticed there was an awful lot of...room...in them there cups. It was time. To reinvest.

And then a few weeks back I found myself staring into an enormous pair. It was a Victoria's Secret window and it was huge - as was the bust. Or was it? I stepped over the threshold and let myself go. Shopping American Style. Claire guided me to the bra area. Vivian whipped out her tape measure and got to work. Lynne ushered me into the fitting room. With a bra box. And a t-shirt.

This was not my grandmother's VS.

Gone were the rummaging through tables and rifling through drawers to find my size, shape and colour. No more undressing mannequins to find a bra that wasn't fuchsia. This was civilized.

Inside the bra box was each and every bra in the Victoria's Secret arsenal. In black. The idea being you try 'em all on and find the ones you like. And that like you. Then you ring the "service bell" and they get to work finding your choices.

Incredible.

25 minutes later, I emerged, head held high, tits even higher. Leopard-lined and seamless, biofitted and bombshelled, there were some new bras in town!

The icing on the cake? I was the same size as pre-children. A little lower, maybe, but with the new boob technology out there, who cares? Comfy AND sexy were no longer a contradiction in terms. No fuss, no muss, no knives.

Their latest bra is The Plunge - guaranteed to add two bra sizes for "hourglass ooomph". A boob job for $45! If my Bubby could see me now....

GLUTTON FOR SAN FRAN

My man turned 40 last week. Trying to figure out where to go and what to do for this particular fellow was a bit of a nightmare. He's one of the most social cats I know, so a party could be deadly - in every way. And trying to pick a handful of pals for an intimate soiree would result in no end of ribbing, jabs and possibly even stabs, so that was out. A weekend away with the family was out of the question. Aside from the fact that we'd be going South in December, hanging with the under-6 crowd wasn't really the ideal way to ring in a 40th. Plus we do that every day, so no chance Lance. The whole thing was giving me enough anxiety to give me a mid-life crisis.

So away we went. Gone. Outta here. Sa-yo-na-ra. Adios suckers.

Aaaaahh....if only it were that simple. Planning an escape in mid-November is less than ideal. The hot spots aren't hot, the exotic spots are too far for 3 days, and the close ones had the same weather sitch as being home. Hit or miss. My man claims he'd be happy in a neighbouring basement with a couple of bottles of wine. But we all know that would suck. Everybody says that - they don't care, they could go anywhere, etc. CRAP! Having spent one birthday in Niagara Falls, and another in Los Angeles, can you guess which was infinitely more enjoyable?!? Uh-huh, go west young man.

And so we did. Our surprise destination was San Francisco. My man always talked of it adoringly and I'd never been so it really was a no-brainer (once I got the idea into my head, that is).

The big reveal came the day of his birthday. In verse. I contemplated the at-the-airport suprise but post 911 airports aren't so festive. Plus half the fun of going out of town is bragging....I mean, getting excited about it. Plus, let's face it - it's hard enough to pack for myself, let alone choosing his outfits.

He read my dare-I-say awesome poem (which I wanted to post but he wouldn't let me and it is/was his birthday) and, as I suspected, he hadn't a clue. Genius surprise! California wasn't even on his radar for this birthday, which could be why it was all the sweeter...

That, or the food.

Who knew the City by the Bay was such a gourmet paradise? "Fog City"??? Totally inappropriate. Every day was sunny and glorious. It should be renamed "Food City" because, aside from walking off all the meals on those crazy hilly streets, all we did was eat. And some other stuff which I shall leave to your dirty little imaginations. This is a family site for f&cksake!

Frisco. NorCal. SF. San Fran. In three days we couldn't possibly sample all the city had to offer....Nor did we have a chance to venture away from the city limits, let alone the rest of the Bay Area or 49-Mile Drive. But we did see - and eat - blew our mind.

First off, the Hotel. We stayed at the Campton Place Hotel in Union Square. We thought of a couple others but this was the winner for us terms of location - and price. It's part of the Taj group of hotel. Swanky swanky. Tho this once was kinda Taj-lite, it was still AOK. Especially because of the INCREDIBLE concierge, Kyle. He figured us out in about 7 minutes. Maybe he's somewhat telepathic, or maybe we're easy reads, but either way, he had us down and pointed us in the right direction.

But back to the food....

First stop, Yank Sing. Best Damn Dim Sum. Ever. Apparently there are two locations. We hit the one in the Rincon Center. As we walked through a deserted (and very clean) financial district we hit this odd - and empty - mall. And then we followed the waft of garlic and found ourselves in dumpling heaven. Traditional dim sum like Har Gow and Sui Mai? Stupendous! Szechuan chicken? Crazy. And the chili fried green beans? We wanted to take the sauce home....Oh, wait, we did! Yes, you can even get their "delightfully spiced" (their words) chili sauce to go. the only regret? That we didn't buy some more when we had the chance. And they don't do mail order (I've already checked).

From there it was a short walk to the Ferry Building. On Saturdays there's a farmer's market there. We were too stuffed from our dim-sum-a-thon to go too wild, but there's an old saying that you feast with your eyes. So we did.

After sleeping off the jet lag (and dim sum hangover) we hit Spruce in Pacific Heights. The bar and main dining room were pretty amazing sights to behold. Which is why we were somewhat amused to find ourselves sandwiched between the pensioners' table in the back room. Kinda felt like losers, to be sure, but, as would be proven time and time again in this town, the food made up for it. Fine food, fine wine, and the nicest waitstaff in the west.

Sunday found us skipping breakfast and hitting the hotel's open air gym. Nothing like a sweat to get you ready for brunch! Especially at Absinthe in Hayes Valley. Kyle pointed us in its direction, but we ordered two massive breakfasts and some (literally) bad-ass pork product sides all on our own. Duck Confit Hash? Corn Cakes with wilted chard and poached eggs? Homemade sausage and bacon? Accompanied with beers and cocktails? We were outta control. And so was the food. Again. Best Bacon we'd ever had. And, like so many of Our People, we know bacon. A little too well...This one was smokey and maple-y and ridiculous. And stayed with us for hours, so we could enjoy it throughout the day.

Next stop was Foreign Cinema. No, not a movie, another bloody restaurant! This one was in the Mission. With an enormous outdoor patio and screening of flicks on their outdoor screen, we'd heard this place was not to be missed. But to be honest, we could've. Missed it that is. The setting far-surpassed the meal. It was tasty enough, and the wines were nice, but we probably should've blown it off for a Sunday night movie instead.

Monday took us to Nellie's Crab Shack on Union Street. We stumbled across it by mistake and it was a damn fine find. Especially the Cobb Louis. And the Bloody Mary. Oddly enough, the woman who ran the place had worked at all the restaurants we had been to. In fact, she overheard us arguing about the gluttonous theme of the weekend and insisted we keep the reservation we had for dinner that night.

Yes, we argued. Once. All over Gary Danko. the restaurant, not the man. I managed to snag us a reservation - apparently quite a challenge. And I'd heard that if there was one place you HAD to go to, it was there. And my man felt full. He was finished with eating. He couldn't stomach another restaurant meal. It was our last night in Frisco and he was done with dinners.

Except, in the end, we went to Gary Danko. And, in the end, he didn't like it. He LOVED it. Riding the cable car over there helped, but the meal was over the top. The service was impeccable, the food divine AND they brought us a birthday dessert. They remembered why we were there in the first place - even tho' I seemed to have forgotten! They have a roving cheese plate that they cut 'n serve table side. They have petit-fours that come with the coffees. And they send you home with a prettily-wrapped breakfast cake for the next day. Yum yum and yum.

We did other stuff too! I swear. Union Square was shopper's paradise. A little overwhelming but we managed. Hayes Valley is a great afternoon out. Restaurants and cake shops aside, they have some awesome independent boutiques. Sean, Gimme Shoes, Flight 101 to name a few. Chinatown, North Beach, Russian Hill, Cow's Hollow... All walks, all the time. And yes, we walked UP Lombard Street, the crookedest street in the world.

We also hit Alcatraz. The cruise, the walk, the audio tour. Aside from being iconic, cool and a great morning out, it saved us hundreds - in shopping and calories. We needed the break between meals. And we needed to NOT spend it shopping. Being shipped off to The Rock was just what we needed to round of our 4-pounder weekend.

If you're heading to San Francisco, enjoy....And bon appetite!

THE GOLDEN MOMENT

January 1, 2002. D and I walk out of the Chinese Restaurant downtown. It’s freezing. He looks at me, his eyes smiling…

And thus the anecdotal Golden Moment begins...

I could write the script of my man’s marriage proposal word for word. It’s so etched in my brain now that I sometimes wonder if it happened as I remember it, or if I made up some of the lines. I could make a highlight reel of my wedding day. And night.And the fantastic once-in-a-lifetime honeymoon that followed. I could provide a play-by-play of the births of each of my three sons: the one that was induced, the one that came sailing out, the one that waited until after the needle but before the epidural could kick in to arrive. Not just Golden, these moments were Platinum, true life-changers in every sense of the word.

Don’t get me wrong, 100% pure gold they were not. Throw a few lumps of coal into these experiences to really make them true to life. That whole “best of times, worst of times” speech couldn’t be more true or appropriate if I made it up myself. Which I did not. Maybe that would’ve been my Golden Moment.

And yet, as life-changing as they were, to relive the dawning of my life as a wife and mother seems so clichéd…

Breaking up with a live-in lover after 5 years of unhealthy obsessions? That was a Golden Moment. Reaching my goal at Weight Watchers (unrelated to the intense weight loss after said break-up)? Another Goldie. Scuba diving at night – at night!? Blindingly gold. Even reading a eulogy for my beloved Grandmother was a Golden Moment for me, twisted as that might sound.

Then there are the times that are more gold-plated. The ones I look back on and smile, sometimes smugly. My first titled job in film and my name in Variety? 18 karat. Returning to the Kibbutz 6 weeks after bidding my temp-o-life there Shalom forever? Zahav. Watching Bono and The Edge perform in front of 100 people while seated in the third row? Gold-Record Gold.

For me, the Golden Moments aren’t what we see in coffee commercials. At least none of my moments are. Rather, they’re the forks in the road. Whether less travelled or well-trod, they’re the paths taken that lead us in totally different directions. Choose left and you’re an Academy Award-winning screenwriter, with a ton of air-miles and no personal life. Choose right and you’ve got a loving family, a cottage business and ONLY a personal life. For better and for worse. Those forks in the roads are the life-changers. The Golden Moments. THE moments. Full stop. And let’s face it, many of them are far more tarnished than they are Golden.

I guess I needed to rattle off the Golden Oldies’ Greatest Hits because a side of me wonders if those were the good old days. Or maybe throwing down these glorious slices of life onto the page plays into my suspicions that I’m still waiting for the Big One. Or worse: what if the Golden Moment has already come and gone?

And what if I missed it?!

Can you imagine? What if, while waiting for my time to shine, for that stand-out moment that would change my life – and possibly the world - for all eternity, I blinked? Would the moment be gone forever? Would I miss my chance to be something? Or someone? Someone other than who I am?

I guess what it comes down to is that life is full of so many Moments - golden, bronzed, and tarnished to shit. And you never know which are the real life changers until after they happen. At least I don’t. Retrospect is a beautiful thing. Weddings, divorces, births, and deaths. Travels, friendships, books and films. Even the blackest of moments become golden when they’re over. Because they’re over. And we’ve made it through. The beauty of life is the alchemy that helps keep us going. Turning crap into gold and hoping it sticks. Maybe it’s coming to this realization that makes up my Golden Moment. Or maybe it’s all just Fool’s Gold.

ISA WHA??

There's a new crash diet in town. And I'm all over it. All. Over. It.

Look - I've tried every diet there is. The nutrisystem deliveries? Revolting. Nutritionists? Evolved into whack-job emotional eating therapy sessions. One summer I tried the Montignac/GI Diet/Suzanne Somers thing with a friend of mine. After a month or so we agreed we'd never felt better; never had more energy; never enjoyed so much cheese. She looked tremendous. I couldn't do up my pants. And of course as any who know me know....I'm a Weight Watcher lifer - right down to the app on my iphone.

I know what you're thinking - obviously having been on every diet means that I....erm... needed to be on every diet. Not so. OK, maybe a little, but I was rolling along quite nicely until I got pregnant. Over and over and over again!

With each weekly WW meeting I figured out new and improved ways to beat the system. And then suddenly, the system stopped working for me. Or maybe I stopped following it....Either way, I'd reached that dreaded zone we never-say-diet-it's-a-lifestyler hates: The Plateau.

So when my dear friend told me she was going to do a "cleanse" I poo-poo'd her. Crash diet now, gain it back later. That's what I'd heard, read, studied. Belittling her efforts became a bit of a sport. What was she thinking?

Question is, after she lost 11 lbs in 11 days - what was I thinking? And when could I start?

September 8 was D-Day. After all, Labour Day's the new New Years, right?

Bring on the Isagenix.

My new mantra became shake, shake, meal. Breakfast and lunch are replaced with these shakes, followed by a "healthy" meal. And I must tell you the first day was brutal. BRUTAL. I was warned I might suffer a headache or two, but when I crawled under the covers, fully clothed, ice pack on my head and gel mask on my eyes, I thought I was in rehab. Turns out this cleanse was, in every sense, a detox. I also happened to have had a tetanus shot that morning. I can blame the shot. Or the lack of Diet Dr. Pepper. Either way, I was sure this was it. The end. The end of isagenix, and the end of my life.

But the sun rose again and I carried on. Shake, Shake, Meal. Shake, Shake, Meal. I ditched the gag-inducing Ionix (a Vitamin B liquid/motor oil that failed to get my engine running) and stuck to the shakes. I added a few pineapple chunks and a smattering of mango to the vanilla and I swear, it could've passed for a pina colada. Almost.

And then came cleanse day number one. The moment of truth. I shot back 4 ounces of the Cleanse for Life liquid and waited for the magic to happen. I had to do 4 glasses of the stuff which, while not completely vile, isn't something I'd ever savour. But whatever natural speed/appetite suppressant was in there was working. It was a breeze. So much so that I went for it and did another cleanse day the next day.

Now, if someone had told me I'd drink nothing but 16 ounces of some sort of aloe vera berry juice I'd have shown them the door and ordered Chinese, just to prove them wrong. But I did it. With only mild cheating. A couple of carrots here, a cuke or two there. And then there are the oddly compelling IsaSnacks. Strange little wafers that taste like chalk and yet.....become somewhere comforting when there's nothing else to chew.

And so it went....For 11 days.

I stepped on the scale, whipped out my measuring tape - supplied by the kind folks at Isagenix to prove their point - and....Lo and behold, I'd lost 10 lbs. And 18.5 inches. I don't know how. I don't know why. And to be honest - I don't care. I did get a bit nervous that there may be some sort of heart-attack inducing natural speed in there - but according to my trustworthy chiropractor - it's all good. In fact, he wants to start taking it now too!

It's no secret that the whole isagenix world is based on a pyramid scheme. Tho' I guess it's not a scheme if it works. But there's a shady feeling about the whole thing. And yet... I'm all over it. Hook, line and sinker. I don't miss my diet pops or my processed turkey sticks. I have a new-found appreciation for water, almonds, and tea. I know how evangelical I sound - ironic when you consider one of my many sidelines of work is writing inspirational blogsites - but when something works, it works.

Oh - and for those naysayers who wonder how much more I've gained back? I'm down another 3lbs . Schadenfreude - kiss my shrinking ass! Everybody else, hop on the IsaTrain - it's a sweet, clean ride.....

WHAT I DID ON MY SUMMER VACATION

Looks like summer is officially over. Tomorrow it's back to school. Back to carpool. Back to chauffeuring. Being a night-before stylist. An enforcer. A chef. And my fave - The Warden.

I had all these grandiose plans for the summer....

Seeing lots of movies. Check.

Exercising. Started off well.

Getting back to Bikram yoga. Got too tense - and had nothing to wear that wouldn't either constrict in the most unflattering of ways, or flip over my head and blind me if I bent over.

Writing a script. Did a rewrite... okay, a polish... of an existing project. But that kinda counts.

Spending lots of quality time with my kids. I extended their day camp. But we did hang out a lot at the cottage. And I took them to an amusement park by myself, went on loads of rides, ate as much junk as possible, went onstage during a clown performance, AND got stung by a bee and didn't cry. Yes, I am supermom.

I also saw how enlightening a summer can be, even when you're 1, 4 and 5-and-a-half years old. While my baby conquered walking and learned point instead of scream, my big boys picked up all kinds of other equally important stuff this summer.

They are now gaga masters (that's dodge ball for those of you out of this particular loop). They love archery. They can swim in the deep end and jump off diving boards. They pretty much know the entire Beatles catalogue by heart, and are counting down the days until Beatles Rockband arrives (-2. We pre-ordered). They've become terrific bikers, soccer players, and catchers. They can wield a tennis racquet with the best of 'em - and sometimes even hit the ball. Over the net. They know street names, directions, and how to do English accents. They appreciate the BBQ. They're not afraid of sunscreen, and they like wearing hats. Their phone manner and overall sportsmanship has improved tremendously.

And they can swear like sailors.

It started off innocently enough. Weiners. Balls. Butts 'n bums.

Jackass. Piss. Crap.

Stupid. Idiot. Stupid idiot.

And then shit happened. "Say shit"... "He said shit"... "You're a shit!"

Inevitably, they dropped the big bomb. The F-word cruised into our house on a barrel of laughs and blushing cheeks. Apparently, FUCK was one they learned here at home. From their father, God bless him. That they happened to pick it up only when off at camp and yet blame their dad amazes and amuses me. But it's here to stay (not that it ever left!) And joining the F-word is the B-word (Buck) and the C-word. Everyone gets a little shifty and nervous when they mention the C-word. But - get this - they think it's Cuck! And so it goes with every letter of the alphabet.

Except L.

The L word is Love. As noted by a 5.5 year old.

So while they stub their toes and scream fuuuuuuck like banshees, and call each other dicks, jackasses, and shits - but only "for pretend until school starts" - I take heart that the L word will stick around, even in grade 1.

Fucks, shits and pisses be damned.

Happy back-to-school... for those who go, those who drive, and those who remember!

MOAM BOOK CLUB

It's that time of year again....the "have-you-read-any-good-books" season.

And, yes, as a matter of fact, I have! Not as many as I'd like - magazines and falling asleep mid-page can do that to a girl. As can watching a bunch of losers being batted into a pool by a mechanical arm. Or seeing how long a slew of idiots can stand being hung from the ceiling in their underwear..... But hey, that's summer TV. Which is why I'm talkin' bout books. Even if you're not a huge reader, in summertime it's hard to resist the lure of the page? After all, how many times can you go see The Hangover?

OK don't answer that. But when you've had your fill of Mr Chow and the boys, and you've admitted that Bruno was boring and that you actually liked The Proposal, then it's library time. Besides, 500 Days of Summer isn't out yet.....

Here's a small list to get you through the rest of the season.....Or at least a couple of weeks...

The Book of Negroes by Lawrence Hill - I actually read this one last summer. Maybe I blogged about it back then too. Whatev. It's worth a double take because it's awesome and devastating and impossible to put down - or forget. It's historical fiction at its most brutal - and most stunning. One of those books you read in two days. And you cry. And you discuss with everyone else who's read it. And rave about it to those who haven't. And then they buy it. And read it in two days. And cry. And discuss...And so on. Required reading.

The Cellist of Sarajevo by Steven Galloway is another one. Historical fiction? Check. Well written? Check. Read in a weekend? Check. Brutal? Devastating? Brilliant? Check, check and check. Part character study, part thriller, part morality lesson, it's a love letter to a city torn apart during our lifetime... as we watched it on the news.

If you like deep and brooding, then The Outcast by Sadie Jones is for you. Set in 1950's England, join our anti-hero on his hellish journey to prison and back. Innocence lost. Troubled times. Terrible crimes. Or maybe not. Like our main man, you'll find yourself heartbroken as you look for love beneath the darkness. There's something familiar about this book, whether in the telling, or the tale, but in a good way. Think Ian McEwan....

The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox by Maggie O'Farrell isn't the most brilliant book of all time, but it's extremely readable. A young woman learns she is the only surviving relative of an aunt she never knew existed - a woman who didn't play by the rules, who was ahead of her time. While it's tempting to simply file this away under "women's fiction", it's much more than that...
And it's by the woman who wrote After You'd Gone, so how bad can it be? (If you haven't read that one, grab some kleenex and start)

Is this more like a winter reading list? Is it getting too heavy for you? Had enough of the depressing stuff?

Sunnier times can be found in I Love You Beth Cooper by Larry Doyle. The author was one of the writers on The Simpsons and Beavis and Butthead. Need I say more? The book opens with the class Valedictorian giving his graduation speech... and announcing his love for the most popular girl in school. School's out, so wat's he got to lose, right?? With snappy dialogue and genius coming-of-age moments, it's no big surprise that this one's coming soon to a theater near you. The book's hi-larious. The movie? Who knows...

The Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell is more of a conversation piece than a thumping good read. Those who like Mr. Gladwell, like him a lot. And no wonder. He dissects pop culture and makes you feel like a smartypants as he articulates things you never knew that you knew (does that make sense?) This is great for idle party chatter. Or dates.

10 Year Nap by Meg Wolitzer had all the gals talking last year. Except me who had to wait for the paperback version. Again, "women's fiction" to be sure, but resonated with, erm, some people as it's about a group of moms who ditch their promising careers to stay home with their kids. Of course, one day they "wake up" to find their kids at school and themselves... erm... lost in their own mundane lives. If that sounds at all familiar, then give it a whirl, if only for the "hey! I-know-her/she's-me" moments.

Last, but by no means least, make sure Bitter Sweets by Roopa Farooki is in your cottage bag. This one's an intricate, inter-generational story about an Indian family. A family whose very foundations are laid on lies and deceit. These folks aren't grifters exactly, more like "spicers", whose stretching of the truth will catch up with them, eventually. This one's a fun, clever, soap-opera of a novel. Perfect for summer. Or any time.

Enjoy......

LA WOMAN

I've wanted to go to Hollywood since, well, forever. As a little kid I'd sing songs from Annie, hoping to be discovered... in the privacy of my bedroom. If anyone came even close to my door I'd immediately clam up. Broadway, Hollywood - it was all the same in my 9-year old mind. When I finally got to Hollywood it was the Florida version. And even a 9-year old knew it was pas la meme chose.

And then, I wet my feet in Show Biz, where all roads lead to Hollywood. Except the one I was taking. It went directly to Toronto instead. Yeah, yeah, Hollywood North (or is that Vancouver?). Whatever. I wanted the real deal. And finally, this past weekend, I got just that. My Man took me away from all this and we headed West. To Los Angeles. Hollywood, California. Sun, Sand, Sea...

Stars!!!

Yes, kids, I went on my very own private Celebrity Safari!!!

Everyone who's anyone knows that when you're on safari it's all about the acommodations, the food and of course, the animals. Wildebeest and giraffes are cool as hell, but it's the Big Five that count. Lion. Leopard. Rhino. Elephant. Buffalo. And when you go to LA it's no different. It's about where you stayed, where you ate, and who you saw. With a side of where you shopped.

Off we went, eyes peeled, looking for stars and pretending not to. Which is, of course, the Canadian way. Except in the end we may have been a little too nonchalant. We came, we ate, we shopped. But the celeb sightings? Few and far between.

Our safari began almost immediately, with a sighting of Tanya Kim. I know, I know.... Who? OK, she's not technically a star, but she is one of the hosts of an entertainment show and, as such, counts as a celeb. A local one, sure, but she was in business class. In full makeup. At 11AM. On the safari equivalency test, we'll say vulture.

We landed at LAX, rented our love machine, and hit the road. First stop, Shutters on the Beach in Santa Monica. A vision of loveliness by the Pacific, it would've been even more idyllic had we not arrived at the same time as June Gloom. Never heard of it? Neither had we when we booked our trip. And, apparently, neither had The Weather Network. But it's the annual cold front that reaches LA at the beginning of June. Accompanied by grey clouds. Lots of 'em. And blustery winds. Especially by the beach. Still, it was perfect walking around weather. Except we were in LA, where everyone drives everywhere, and we'd rented a car. A convertible.

But we wrapped ourselves up in our new scarves and jackets - that's right - and hit the town. We were on a mission: to relax, eat well, see friends and shop (in no particular order). And of course we presumed we'd see stars on every corner. Because that's what people do in LA right? Right?!

My Man decided it'd be fun to play a little game where he tells me about the various actors he's spotted while my head was turned. Kind of like those annoying Euros on African Safaris who claim to have been chased down by rhinos, faced off with leopards etc. Only the Hollywood stars were far more elusive than the Big Five. And my husband was way funnier. Except he actually did see Silver (real name unknown, and unimportant) from 90210 while I tried on outfits. And he did work out with Dennis Leary in the hotel gym while I was sampling free chocolates at See's Candies. Harumph. I saw Atom Agoyan at LAX. From behind. But my guy didn't think that counted. And it probably didn't. Too locally accessible. Raccoon.

Strange thing is, all the locals know that all the visitors are looking for the stars. They know where they hang out, what they do, and no one's shy about telling you where to go to find them. The watering holes they like, the best season to find them. They're starf&cking and we're star-hunting. And everybody knows it. It's weird.

So it became all about where we ate and who we saw. Ivy by the Shore - pas de. Apparently all about the one on Robertson. We shopped and idled a bit but no sightings. But food at the Shore was awesome. And massive. Seriously. Too big even for us. And for those in the know, that's saying something!

Next day was a local spot to start- Cora's. Perfect for breakfast. Not so much for movie stars. Followed by Robertson shopping a cruise down Sunset and lunch at Mel's Diner. Because it's funny. And it was en route. Mel's Diner! Hilarious (tho' the real one is in San Fran....But you make do with what you've got, right?) Out with friends for the food and the vibe at STK. Both very good.

But where were all the movie stars?

We headed to Joan's on 3rd. A guaranteed celeb hangout. Just not while we were there. But incredible food, and hung out with an old friend who happens to be married to an actor who we actually recognize - by face. We imdb'd him on the spot and shared an "I love that guy" moment. So that was kinda neat! Especially since our pal invited us over to meet him in person if our celeb safari turned out to be less than fruitful. We never had to take her up on it - tho we would've loved to, had there been more time....Stopped in at that great Los Angeles equalizer, In 'n Out Burger and went animal style. Bun for him, lettuce for me. Incredible. All they say it is - and less. No frills, no fuss, lots of muss (mess) and deeeeeelish.

It was Saturday night. That's the equivalent of mid-day on safari. You see nothing. Still, Katsuya held some promise for us. Food was incredible, and the place was crawling with paparazzi - and loads of loser civilians with cam-corders at the ready. According to the bartender, some Lakers were coming. Whatever. Sports stars don't count. For me. My Man was on the edge of his seat. But no luck. No shows. We were then befriended by a wacky makeup artist who, I was convinced, was looking to grift us in some way. Told us she was working the red carpet the MTV Movie awards the next night and could get us in to all the parties. Even offered to do my makeup. Thought she was just some freak (until we got home, checked out her website and learned she was totally legit. Ooops. Too late.) As we waited for our car, the gawkers whipped themselves into a frenzy....Over Zach Braff (not that any of them knew who they were looking at. The just knew he was "Someone") . And yeah, he was. He is. But I don't watch Scrubs. On the safari scale? Impala.

Where were the Lions? The Elephants?

There's nothing remotely elephantine in LA, despite it being the land of good food. And also, presumably, the land of pukers, druggies, exercise fanatics. Or probably some sort of combo platter. Chateau Marmont showed us the most magnificent creatures we'd ever seen. Ever. One stunner after the next. Had no idea who they were, but it didn't matter. They just were. Magnificent to behold, fun to watch in their natural habitat, and interesting to witness life behind The Bubble first hand. Breathtaking. Migration of the Wildebeest.

Sunday was the day of rest for us. No safari. Biking in Venice instead. Carney boardwalk. Drum circle that managed to walk that fine line between between cheesy and cool. Freakshows left, right and center. And the laid back hipster vibe of Abbott Kinney. Which I LOVED. Ate quite well at 3 Square Cafe and spotted what looked like Hank's wife, Karen, from Californication. Which is kinda funny 'cuz we were in Venice, it's set in Venice...And it ended up being her! Natascha McElhone. At last! Someone we knew (not personally) from something we'd seen (and pvr'd!). How exciting! How thrilling! We even ooh-ed and aah-ed over a puppy together, cooe'd over her baby together, and acted like we were really cool and didn't know she was a star of stage and screen (even tho we did) together. We had a moment. A brush with stardom. More a giraffe than a leopard, but still...

Ended our Celeb Safari in Malibu. At the impossibly romantic (yet borderline geriatric) Geoffrey's. Which they pronounce "Joffrey's". Strange. But tasty. And host to two wedding receptions and many dates. Fun fun fun!

On the very last day I drove. By myself. In our car. It was a bit warmer, the sun poked its head out and I realized I'd fallen in like-a-lot. Despite the dearth of sun and stars, my Man and I had the best time. Amazing what 4 nights in a hotel sans kids can do. And who knew LA was such a perfect destination for a long weekend getaway? Definitely beats Buffalo.

As the good guv says, we'll be back.

TWOFER

At long last, they got it right. They really truly got it right. On Idol that is...

SURPRISE!!!

What? You didn't think I'd let the entire season slip by sans commentary, didya?

Those calls and emails keep coming in - let's discuss idol. And I do. A lot. But I've had some issues.

First off, I've been reading some seriously funny commentary. If you haven't already, you mst check out dlisted.com and ew.com. Their idol chatter is awesome. Hi-larious. Because it's all true. Yes, Homer, the old adage "it's funny 'cuz it's true" kicks in every time. So all the pet peeves (and pet names) are already out there. I can't even claim to be scooped. It is what it is: Matt G's mole... Adam as kd lang... Lil's wigs... Anoop's sweaty upper lip....And of course all the freaky families.... I mean, gosh - who hasn't noticed and discussed all that, and more?

Aside from those hold outs who still refuse to tune in. You know who you are.

Anyhoo, another issue was Blind Scott. There. I said it. The whole affirmative action element of his being there stressed me out. 'Cuz he sucked. He was Bruce Hornsby week after week after week. And for those BH fans out there, if there are any, let me add: not in a good way. Sure he was funny but hello? This.....is American Idol. Personality takes a back seat. And sometimes doesn't even get to come for the ride. I felt I couldn't discuss openly and honestly until poor old Scotty was given the boot. He was holding me back. Until he finally got the boot....

And still I held back.

Maybe because of Adam. The guy is so above and beyond the rest of the kids. Fat tongue aside, he kills it every time. Not only are the others not in his league - they're not even playing the same game. The boy's a pro. The rest, wanna-be's. He's Annie Lennox in drag... but not... mixed with kd lang and Elvis, add a sprinkle of Scissor Sisters. A pinch of Mr Bowie. And run the gamut of references that don't make any sense and let you know I'm zonked. But you get my drift. I think.

As for Frat Boy Anoop Dog and Wiggy Lil - as in "Lily" (why is that so hard to get? Silly Yanks.)... now that they're out of the picture - at last - we can focus on the rest. And for the first time evah, none of 'em really really bug me!

Which also makes it hard to care too much. Because at this point it's all good.

Tho' not perfect.

I still think Alexis Grace's early boot was a crime. Remember her? The little blonde sexy sprite? She should've stuck around - more so than the rubbernecker and flitty chick. And I must admit - I'm bored of Hokey Gokey. One friend called him "the high school friend who you can't get rid of" and I fear she might be right. His Robert Downey Jr looks and widower status had me at hello. But now? I'm ready to say goodbye.

Unlike Not Hot Kris. Over the past few weeks I find myself looking forward to his performances. And not just to watch those thin lips of his dance across his face - because they do y'know - but because he's really, really good!

Like Alison Iraheta. At first I found her to be....how shall I say this....somewhat unappealing. That's putting it mildly. She's got a real face for radio, that one. Repeated fashion crimes, that terrible lid. Don't get me started. I know she's only 16 but what's wrong with using a stylist like everybody else??? Yet that voice... Heart-esque tho it may be, it is wicked. She's completely won me over. Which is why I can't for the life of me understand how week after week she ends up in the trash heap. At least she climbs out.

Like my man Matt G. I don't know why, but he's been my main guy from the start. Yes, even from the audition shows. I think it's because he's a duelling pianist in real life. Love that! And the whole Vince Vaughan Timberlake thing? Can't beat it. Sure he's somewhat misguided when it comes to genre and song choice. And yeah, he can be a bit of a sour puss - personally I think he should get over it and let the tears flow. America loves a cryer! The judges are very hot and cold with him. But I think its's their strategy. 'Cuz everytime they bash him, he gets votes. And when they sing his praises, he's a goner. Almost. The judge's save would've saved whoever was out last week (timing and all - they had to use it, right? And too obvious to do it on the final day, right? ). Still, I'm glad the ass they saved was his. I'm a sucker for a pianist. All those lessons....

That said, I do think my boy Matt will be the next to bite the dust. Followed by Rouge Iraheta. And Flappy Hands Gokey. Leaving us Kris and Adam duking it out in the final. Which wouldn't be such a bad thing.

Unlike Archie Archuleta's performance ce soir. Same earnest spit smile. Same insipid song choice. Could've been worse. Could've had no pvr....

BEAUTY IS IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

A few weeks ago, my eldest son looked up at me and told me I was ugly.

Suddenly I flashed back 30 years, when I met my father's then-girlfriend for the first time. I came home and told my mom all about her, stressing that while the girlfriend was much prettier, my mom was much nicer. As if that were a god thing! How could I have been so dense? And so blind? As it was, this chick wasn't nearly as attractive as my mom. And I'm not just saying that in hindsight. (Or because she's my mom. And there's a family resemblance.) No, I'm saying it now because it's true. The girlfriend's long gone now, but memories of her tiny mouse-like face and curling-ironed hair still remain...

As does the fact that my 5-and-a-half year old thinks I'm ugly. UGLY!!!!!! I may not be a supermodel but I've been known to turn a head or two. And with 3 babes and 40 years under my belt I may not be at my peak but I can say with certainty that I am not, I repeat, NOT ugly.

Or at least I wasn't.....

Maybe this is some kind of intergenerational, cosmic payback. According to my eldest, I'm a hag. What the f&ck?!?!?!?! Aren't your children supposed to see you as the epitome of all that is good and beautiful in the whole wide world? When my second son socked him for insulting me (yeah, he does that), my bigger boy explained through his tears that I looked ugly because my skin looked a little bit green. Green!

Now I know I'm coming out of a pasty-faced winter, but I tend to be more peaches and cream...OK, white... rather than green. Hence the sunburns. If I were green...olive... I'd bronze like a goddess. Or my husband. But no, according to my five and a half year old, I was green. Ish. That said, he did watch the Wizard of Oz recently....

Coincidence?

Perhaps. Or not. Maybe I am green. Maybe I do look the wicked witch of the west. Or maybe I'm just, gulp, getting old?

There's been a lot of talk about aging lately. "Lately" meaning I'm the one talking about it with my people. Is that what happens when you enter your 40's? Suddenly, I find myself checking out the surgercized chicks with more wonder than cynicism. I've been contemplating growing out my bangs but think that maybe now's the time to keep 'em. That or botox. I've become invisible at the cheap 'n trendy shops, yet a star in the pricey ones. All these older women keep checking me out. Or are they older at all?!? I notice that I don't often spot people my own age in the streets and on the town....because maybe, just maybe, all those oldsters ARE my own age?
YIKES!

But it's what's on the inside that counts, right?

Right?!

Luckily for me, my second son thinks I am all that. He likes my toes - painted or plain. Doesn't mind me in glasses, and likes pony tails. And when I wear red. Which I never ever do, but that's what he says. I'm thinking it's 'cuz Elmo is red, but I'll take it. Anyhoo, he tells me I'm beautiful. Daily. And that he's going to marry me when he grows up. OK, so maybe he's the kinky one, but still. They all seem to know what they like. Or like what they know. Whatever. My biggest boy cried when I got my hair cut ("you don't look like my mommy anymore!") My middle one likes jewellery. The more the better. Even my 9-month baby seems to have a fetish for high heels. Literally. He sits in my cupboard and sucks on them. So the particulars and preferences obviously start young. And they tell it like it is.

Which can be a god thing too...Because I got all spiffed to go out the other night and both of my big boys looked at me like I was a movie star. They actually gasped. Told me I looked nice. Reeeeeally nice. A princess-y dress would be better, but in bad-guy, Darth Vader black, I was beautiful. It made my night. Even coming from the under-6 crowd, hearing you look good never gets old.

Unlike the rest of me....

SSSSHHHHHH!!!!

To call or not to call... that is the question.

Yes kids, I feel the need to revisit that little thing called "mobile phone etiquette". It seems that many of us our lacking it. Big time.

I'm not anti-mobile. Not by a long-shot. I love my iphone. Can't/won't leave home without it. I quite liked my old flip-top too. Hello Moto? Hello! I've never been a crackberry head - but only because I went Mac instead. So, no, I'm not some throwback who thinks we'd all be better off landed. Au contraire. I'm all over cellular telephones of all shapes and sizes....

Except, of course, when used inappropriately. Then, I have to temper the rage I feel bubbling up inside me. The anger that wants to march over to the offending phoner, smash their cel, and walk away. Without uttering a word. Smash. Leave. Silence.

Time and place, friends....Time and place.

I was at the gym today and I had The Rage. I was sweating to the oldies, ipod blaring, in The Zone. Suddenly I found myself inadvertantly listening to a conversation. A phone conversation. The woman next to me had received a call, and proceeded to talk for 18 minutes. I know because I timed her on my elliptical machine. I concentrated on pushing with my arms, she talked. I increased speed, she talked. I changed directions, she talked. Finally, I began the cool down...Yep, still talking. 18 minutes of discussing whether or not her friend should move in with her new man.

On the one hand, it could've been kind of entertaining. On the other....the ol' Time 'n Place thing. At the gym? Shoulder to shoulder with other people? Hello? Inappropriate!!! You see, I could hear her through my headphones, over the sound of the loudspeakers and the hum of the machines. You know when it's summertime and you're trying to sleep and a mosquito buzzes right in your ear??? It was all I could do to slap her away....I moved on to the free weights, but she kept on going. From the elliptical, to the inner-thigh machine, to the mats. Is it me? Or is that weird? (It's also quite impressive. She must be in spectacular shape if she can carry on a conversation while workin' workin' workin' it...)

Later this afternoon, I went to pick up my 3-year-old from nursery school. There were parent volunteers manning the parking lots because there have been issues with cars, preschoolers, and blind spots. I was standing with my son, talking to one of these faux-wardens, when another parent turned her SUV into the driveway, and headed straight for us. I promise you without any spice that she stopped about a foot from my friend's chest. I banged on her window but she was too busy chatting. Exasperated at the lack of parking spots, she finally rolled down her window to start bitching. When the parent volunteer pointed out she'd almost hit her and the young child next to her (mine!) the woman shrugged and said she hadn't noticed BECAUSE SHE WAS ON THE PHONE.

Well. I. Never.

Is it me? Or are these people, erm, challenged? Who drives through a preschool parking lot without noticing that there might be, oh I dunno, PRESCHOOLERS in it! I'm all for using your phone in the car...If you can handle it. Is talking in the car phone like having good taste? Y'know, everyone thinks they have great taste, but most people don't. It seems everyone thinks they can talk and drive at the same time...But can they?

Time. And. Place.

There's a time and place for talking. I know because I'm a chatter. If you need to talk, do what you must. But ask yourself - does everybody else need to hear? NO. If you're late for picking up a carpool, do you have the right to stunt drive? NO. For those too dim to figure it out, here are some examples of places wherein you may want to turn your ringer off - or get outta dodge:
restaurants, spas, theatres, performances of any kind....The list is endless.

So next time you're in your doctor's waiting room, or having a pedicure, or in any other close-quarter situations, think about sending a text before you answer that call. Not only is it rude to subject the rest of us to your convo, but, in a town such as ours, it may be hazardous to your social life. The person next to you pretending to read the Us Magazine is, in fact, listening in. Because he or she has no choice.

Time. And. Place.

So please....a little self-retraint, a little etiquette, and a little quieter up front....for all our sakes....

BREAKING UP IS HARD TO DO

I've been getting over a breakup. A professional break-up, that is. With our vet.

We have many animals living at our house. Children and husband aside, there's the dog, the cat and a revolving door of fish. We - or should I say, they - have had the same vet for as many years as they've had this owner. But after repeatedly bumping into an old friend and animal doctor, I realized it was time to take the plunge and switch over. Sure "our" vet was kind, capable and convenient. But our soon-to-be-new vet was all those things too. And a personal friend.

And then one night our dog lost a fight with a jagged wooden spike that embedded itself in his paw. It was late at night and we were at a loss. Our friendly vet was closed. But our friend-the-vet was always open. At least he said he would be if we needed him. We needed him...

And he was there! He talked us down, helped us out, and metaphorically held our hands. I knew the time had come to take the plunge and switch vets. He told me all I had to do was make a couple of calls: one to his office to register my pets, and one to the old vet to ditch him.

Huh? I had to actually call the old vet?! Couldn't we just not rsvp to calls for flea meds and rabies shots?

Apparently not. Like all medical specialists, the new vet needed records.

Professional break-ups are tricky. I'm not talking hiring and firing, tho' those can be pretty brutal too. I'm talking about the professionals you - or your health plan - pays. Doctors, lawyers, contractors. Agents, teachers, dressmakers. When you tell a lover "it's not you, it's me" it could be true... sure.... uh-huh. But with a pro, it's a bold-faced lie. Of course it's them - otherwise, why would you ditch?

Unless you've reached some sort of "goal", it's usually the pro's failings that make you wonder if you could do better. Like your waxer. Right, ladies? If you're moving on, unless you've gone laser, it's because they're too pricey. Or too rough. Or too booked. Or there's someone way better/cheaper/gentler on the horizon.

Question is: do they care about being dumped?

I had the same GP for years. I thought she'd see me through to old age. Until I got pregnant. Suddenly, she bugged me. Her old-school advice wasn't what I wanted. I knew it was time to move on to a younger, newer, model. And I did. No muss, no fuss, no phone call. I'd absconded, and it was over...until I bumped into her a couple of years later. It was out of context and I hoped against hope she wouldn't recognize me. But of course she did and she couldn't have been nicer. I felt awful.

I ditched my contractor too. Thought he was ripping me off and being an overall cheeseball. He'd worked for everyone in my family for years. I was outraged that he'd try to cheat me. I vowed never to work with him again. Until my roof started leaking and my kitchen ceiling looked ready to cave. Then I came grovelling. He sent one of his minions to fix the problem. For a hefty fee. Sure, I paid the price. Maybe it was payback. But it was well worth it.... We were back together.

I've changed schools, swapped swim instructors, moved camps... always for the sake of my children. Well, almost always. But scapegoating them was OK. No one was offended, and everyone was happier.

But the vet? What'd he ever do to me? Or my pets? Aside from care for them?

Well, he charged a lot, for one. Convinced me to go gourmet - pet food - for another. OK. So he never did anything "to" me? But what did he do "for" me? A whole lotta nothin' that's what! I was right to dump him. Out with the old, in with the new! I called and announced that our pets would be moving on. There was a pause. Would they beg me to reconsider? Convince me they were the best vets in town? The silence was deafening.....Were they even there?!

Once the receptionist came back on the line, she sweetly asked for the name of the new clinic. And with a "have a good day", our relationship was over. Quick 'n painless. I was devastated. Because it wasn't them. It was me!

I just hope they don't recognize our dog on the street.