I stopped cooking with cheese, but they still live at home

If someone told me 20 years ago that the life of this mother was going to turn out this way, I would have never believed it. As I reflect back on the parenting of my young brood, twenty years ago I was preparing infant formula, changing diapers, and reading bedtime stories.  A young mother of two at the time, I wanted those special moments with my babies to last forever.

Fast-forward to my present-day reality, and I cannot stop perusing the newspapers  for apartments for rent. To clarify any confusion, the young brood, now young adults, have made it perfectly clear that life with Mom and Pop is quite comfortable, affordable, and downright convenient. In other words, even though I stopped cooking with cheese, they still won’t move out.

In-house laundry, a revolving door 24-hour a day diner where meals are free and dishes are miraculously washed, and last but not least, the toilet paper rolls are mysteriously replaced, the milk bags magically refilled, and the bills, whatever they may be,  are somehow paid. They are living the dream life, but according only to the husband and I.

I have concluded at the ripe old age of 45, that every woman should have her own little apartment, located strategically away from the family home. Perhaps I would sign the lease under an alias name, and the children would never be the wiser. Mother would cheerfully appear at the family abode for meals, laundry, and of course, to replenish all necessary supplies ranging from apples to toilet paper and everything in between. The only difference being, mother would appear surprisingly relaxed, pleasant, and holding a cranberry vodka martini in her hands when the brood and their dear friends rush in and out of the door of home central. Mother could now keep her composure at the sight of yet, the piles of dirty sneakers left by the front door when the closet is only inches away. Mother would now shrug her shoulders at the mountain of dirty laundry, knowing full-well, she would be heading to her safe secret haven for an afternoon of chick flicks with her girlfriends.

So while number one son approaches me for the $800 he’s short to insulate the basement he is converting into an apartment with the girlfriend, I simply smile, stroke him a cheque, all while calling the drugstore to see if that prescription is ready for pick up. Again, more smiles, more shoulder shrugging, more foreign films with English subtitles.

In an age where the experts are telling parents that family dinner hour is vital to keeping kids off of drugs, off the streets, and ensuring future success, husband and I are doing everything in our power to avoid the family dinners we once looked forward to and insisted upon. Rather, we have become collectors of restaurant menus, salivating at not the food, but the thought of quiet meals out, away from the volume, interruptions, and piles of dirty dishes. We hear ourselves repeating the questions:  “where did we go wrong?” and “why do they like us so much?”

I constantly remind the children that “when your father and I were your age, we were married with children and a mortgage.” The sad reality: “your father and I are still married, have aged because of you children, and you are the reason we still have a mortgage.”

Perhaps husband and I can blame our circumstances on our old-fashioned Italian up-bringing.  We were indeed raised in tight-knit Italian families, by over-protective, over-nurturing Italian parents who suffered from separation anxiety the second their children left the room. In Italy, it is standard procedure for children to remain at home until they are well into their ‘40’s. The very thought of this is causing my stomach to flip and a headache to come on.

I should have taken my father’s advice some 15 years ago when he warned me that my “Italian-mother style of parenting” was creating a trio of dependent monsters that would never leave my side – not even as adults. I remember laughing out loud when papa repeated this to me, every time I fed the children in front of the t.v. set. Today, I am crying at the very thought of papa’s words.

Now, back to the Italian newspaper and the apartment for rent ads.

25 years of love, honour and shoes

They say it takes a village to raise a child, and I agree with that statement wholeheartedly. As the mother of a young brood of three now young adults, I do thank my tribe, my neighbours, and my village for their support in helping me survive their rearing over the past 24 years.

On a similar note, this week marks my 25^th wedding anniversary, and with this milestone event, comes much reflection. If it takes a village to raise a child, I can’t help but wonder if it takes a village to grow and sustain a marriage.

As a mere 20 year-old young, impressionable girl leaving home for the first time, getting married to the man of my dreams was the most exciting event of my life. Amid the love and laughter of newlyweds, reality quickly set in with the arrival of bills, cooking, cleaning, laundry, and a whole new host of responsibilities. On more than one occasion as a young bride, drowning in dirty laundry consisting of men’s briefs, men’s athletic socks, men’s hockey equipment, men’s baseball equipment, men’s workout clothes, and men’s dirty towels, I felt as though life had take a turn.

Things certainly didn’t look like this in those glossy honeymoon brochures of couples bathing in heart-shaped pools, sipping champagne, somewhere in the Pocono Mountains. I couldn’t help but wonder where those couples are today. Are they still married? Who did their laundry? Did they seek the sage advice of older, wiser, more experienced married couples?

Suffice it to say, I have been one of the lucky ones. Husband lived away from home on more than one occasion, and that meant learning how to cook, clean, and do his own laundry. Today, he is the main grocery shopper, meal planner, cook, and in charge of the laundering of all sport-related equipment, including athletic socks, jock straps, and sweat-laden articles. Could this be the key ingredient to a happy marriage?

Sharing the household duties, from hunting and gathering to raising the young, married couples could learn a lot from looking right outside their door. Birds of all species, cats, rabbits, all kinds of wildlife share the duties when it comes to survival and raising a family. It also helps to have somebody older and wiser to look to when things get tough. For me, the husband’s 80-year old grandmother arriving to Canada the year we got married was the best wedding present I could have received. Newly-widowed, my grand-mother in-law soon became my advisor, confidante, and best friend. Thanks to her, my Italian improved ten-fold, and my “how to cope with the Italian husband” skills improved a thousand times.

I learned that being “in love” isn’t a stage in life reserved only for the young. I learned that “patience and understanding” often meant “blind eye, deaf ear”. I learned that expressing your true feelings works best over a delicious dinner of eggplant parmigiana, a pan of lasagna, a pot full of meat balls, a flask or two of Chianti. Of course, an Andrea Boccelli or Luciano Pavoritti CD playing in the background doesn’t hurt either.

Seeking solace in one’s own passions, interests, and friends is another skill I learned from my sage Italian advisor. This is where the shoe situation came into play. I cannot count how many hours I have spent over the past 25 years looking at shoes, shopping for shoes, trying on shoes, compiling a collection of shoes, organizing, storing, cataloguing, photographing, and finally, showing those shoes to many, many family and friends.

This time away from the husband gave him the opportunity to divulge in his interests – cooking, beer, football, hockey, basketball, baseball, beer, cooking, burping, and more beer. I tell you, it’s been like a match made in heaven.

I now look forward to, God willing, the next 25 years ahead, and growing alongside my mate, my companion, my husband, my best-friend. Thanks to my dearly missed, beloved grandmother-in-law, I’ve learned that a husband and a wife don’t have to like the same things, share the same interests, or even shop for shoes together to have a strong relationship, a friendship, a bond. I’ve learned that chemistry will get you through the toughest times, and I’ve learned that laughter is worth is more than Dr. Phil’s latest book on relationships. I’ve learned that forgiveness is the greatest challenge, and at the same time, the greatest ally.

Here’s to the next 25 years!

An Italian girl walks the half-marathon (without stilettos)

I've walked to many places in my lifetime – school, church, the corner store, shoe sales, but it always seemed to be out of necessity rather than for pleasure or exercise.  Growing up in Little Italy with parents who didn’t drive, walking was a part of everyday life. Fast forward to the teen years when drivers’ licenses come into the equation, and walking quickly took a back seat to the luxury of driving.

It was the early 80’s and I found myself driving a number of interesting vehicles from a red Chevy pickup to  a burgundy 70’s something Cutlass. My parents, still not interested in learning how to drive, now had three daughters who owned their own cars, so  they could rely on us to drive them to many of their errands, appointments, etc. However, they still continued with their daily walking regime. To this day, my 80-something year old parents do not miss a day of their daily dose of the “walk around the block”. Ma usually hits the pavement as early as 7:30 a.m., while pop still insists on walking to his own appointments and errands for as long as he can remain upright.

I always considered myself a fairly physically active person, especially since I taught aerobics during the dreaded ‘80’s spandex craze, the dreaded ‘80’s headband phase, and the dreaded ‘80’s “20 minute workout” phase. Long after leg warmers, body suits, and wearing a thong overtop your leotard went out of fashion, I continued to exercise, only now I was lifting not only weights but groceries, diaper bags, car seats, babies and toddlers. While the extent of my walking now took place behind a baby stroller, behind a grocery cart, or behind a laundry basket, I began to notice that walking, simply for the sheer enjoyment of it, barely existed in my world.   

Fast forward two decades and the babies and toddlers have now grown into young adults and traded in their strollers for cars and bus passes. This seemed like the ideal time to follow in the footsteps of mom and pop, and take up daily walking. I soon found myself completely hooked and decided to take this new -found workout routine a step further. Although I spent many a morning sipping my steaming coffee and looking out the window at the dedicated runners, I knew I could never cross over to their world. To me, running means rushing, and I will only run for shoe sales, buses, or after one of my three beloved pet cats. Instead, I registered to power-walk in the National Capital half-marathon, much to the shock of my entire Italian family. Mom and pop’s reaction: “Why? Will they pay you?” and “I no believe!” as well as “No makea sense.” Even though I would have loved to have had them waving their beloved Italian flag at the finish line, I knew they had other plans – the weekly CHIN Italian program. Be that as it may, the training regime began. Now my daily walks were being timed, my steps counted, distances measured, and not event the elements could stop me from getting out that door (note to self: a two hour walk in pouring rain wearing rubber boots is not a good idea). The clock was quickly ticking towards race day and I had to keep up with the intense race schedule  I had discovered on-line. I was watching videos of professional race-walkers and attempted  to mimic their every stance and step, regardless of how foolish I looked swinging my hips and trying to keep my knees straight as I walked down my street. But, as race day approached, I began to question my preparedness. Had I trained enough? The forecast was calling for record humidity. Would I be crawling on my hands and knees to the finish line? Would I collapse and be carried off the course on a stretcher? Those very thoughts kept me up almost the entire night before the big race. Of course, it could have also been the late-night partying at a friend’s 50^th birthday bash, where I just had to sample a tidbit of each of the nine cheesecakes.  

With rattled nerves, I arrived at the starting line amid a crowd of thousands. Donning my official race bib and chip laced to my sneakers, I suddenly felt more athletic  than I ever had in my life. The energy was so powerful, the camaraderie, beyond moving, and before I knew it, I had made a four wonderful new friends and we were determined to get each other across that finish line in 3 hrs., 30 min.. I faced many firsts that day my friends -  my first taste of Gatorade, my first taste of relieving myself behind a Quebec  Police cruiser, and the first time I received a medal for any sort of physical activity.( I was more of an academic type of girl.) Now I could check “power walk a half marathon” off of my 2011 Bucket List.  Next up on the list:  a pat on the back and nod of approval from Mom and Pop.

An enthusiastic phone call to the parents went something like this: “Why would anybody walk for three and a half hours and not receive any monetary compensation? If you wanted to walk so badly, why haven’t you come over to walk with us, just once in the past 25 years? In three and half hours, just think of the amount of gardening you could have helped us with, or the bread we could have baked, or the errands we could have run.”  

Note to self: Someday, someday, maybe after the purchase of a breadmaking machine, or if I can grow the largest tomato, or get the best deal in town on olive oil, Mom and Pop will finally be proud of me.  In the meantime, I have officially traded in my beloved stilettos  (if only during a powerwalk) and continue with my new regime.

  -30-

Ding Dong! Avon Calling!

Hello my beautiful friends,
just a little announcement to let you know that I am officially the neighbourhood "AVON" lady. Yes, it's true. After my longtime AVON rep moved out-of-the country, I was desperate, lonely, and downright blotchy. I decided I had to take matters into my own hands, and rather than pay shipping costs from Singapore, I've started my own AVON business. It's only been 5 days and guess what?? It's booming!! If things keep up like this, I'll be considering early retirement - but not before I spread the beauty word with all of my beautiful friends - because I want you all to remain beautfiul forever.
Now friends, I sincerely mean it when I say you are beautiful. Because you are - beautiful! However, our beauty must not be taken for granted, and we have to accept the fact that we won't have these beautiful faces forever. That being said, I highly recommend AVON's ANEW skincare products. So fabulous, they've been featured on Oprah on more than one occasion! Now Oprah has beautiful skin - and we can't just attribute it to her gene pool - she really has firm skin for a woman in her 50's! Check out her eye area - outstanding! I tell you, it's the ANEW skincare line from AVON.
I'm also excited to inform you all that now the AVON brochure can be viewed on-line - yes - online -  (http://www.avon.ca/)  much like the Victoria's Secret catalogue only without the large-busted, tiny waisted, no cellulite, lean and toned tanned models (they seriously piss me off). So if you hear a ding-dong at your door, please don't curse thinking it is I - your new AVON representative, it could be a canvasser for charity, a lost soul with a flat tire or very large abbsess in his back right molar, or a neighbour needing to borrow an egg or a cup of sugar. Now that AVON has moved into the 21st century, I won't have to intrude on you and your family - during dinner, bedtime, breakfast, or those intimate husband-wife moments, because you know me, my beautiful friends, I would never, ever even dream of being intrusive - ever.
To those beautiful friends that have caught me climbing their window sills, if only to sneak a peek at their new decor or 42" flatscreen Plasma tv's - forgive me, I will replace the Virginia Creeper vines as soon as the garden centre at Robinson's opens up.
To those beautiful friends who would like to receive their brochure the good old fashioned way,in the privacy of your home, over cake (no lemon please), a cup of  fresh-brewed fair trade swiss-water decaf coffee, I will deliver it to you - at your convenience, I promise.
And finally, to those beautiful friends who now think they have to duck behind the aisles of the grocery store, post office, drugstore or bank, because I may approach them with my wares, no worries, I will be respectful, kind, patient, and above all, beautiful. I will graciously wait for you at your car with some samples and a couple of brochures for upcoming campaigns. Also, you may notice AVON car magnets on either one of your driver or passenger doors. No worries, they won't damage the paint one bit!
Remember beautiful friends - you are beautiful, no matter what anybody says.
Now I want you to march straight to the closest mirror, stare at your beautiful face for a moment, and repeat after me, "I AM BEAUTIFUL!"
Wow!! That felt great didn't it? I love doing this!
You know beautiful friends, I truly believe it is my purpose here on Earth, to make everyone feel beautiful, if only for a moment.....
I'm crying now beautiful friends, and thank God I'm wearing my AVON waterproof eyeliner and mascara.
By the way, lipsticks for under $5  (or 3 for $12).  I'm losing sleep over this deal I'm telling you!!!
Bye for now,
much love and stay beautiful.

Rain Rain Go Away

It has been pouring rain all day today, and as much as I have been itching all winter to don the new polka-dot pastel knee-high rainboots, I somehow find myself wishing for snow. Could it be due to the fact that I happened upon an incredible deal on a pair of snowshoes??? I am beside myself with excitement and am already planning a solo expedition out into the wilderness the second it starts snowing again. Then again, I think I should start out by practicing in my back yard first and then take it from there. Also, there have been reported coyote sightings in these parts, so maybe a solo expedition isn't such a great idea. Perhaps a local golf course would prove safer. No matter. The details will work themselves out as they always do. In the meantime, I will dream about a Robert Frost-like afternoon of snow falling gently on cedars whilst I take a meditative walk in the woods. Perhaps I can convince the husband to join me, although he doesn't own a pair of snowshoes, and as much as I was willing to fork out another $35 for a pair for him, the weight restriction only went up to 176 lbs. and I did not marry a 176 lb. Italian man. In fact, I'm not sure that a 176 lb. Italian man exists, at least not one over the age of 15! I will just have to leave the snowshoe shopping to him.
I promised myself that I would get out this winter and partake in as many enjoyable outdoor activities possible. It is now March 5 and thus far, I have participated in the following outdoor winter activities:  walking, shovelling snow, cleaning off my car, and, I think that about wraps it up. I best get out on our backyard skating rink before this balmy spring-like thaw takes over. I hope to skate, snowshoe, and maybe even make a snowman and a snow angel before the month of March expires.
In the meantime, I will enjoy winter from the safe and warm confines of my white Ikea sofa by the window, with three cats purring on my lap, while I sip my blackcurrant tea.
Somebody hand me my polar fleece pink throw please...Until next time.. Happy winter

These shoes were on sale!

Ah Sunday, a day of rest, church, and time spent with family. That's not exactly how my Sunday has been thus far,  however, the day is far from over. A frantic phone call from a dear colleague locked out of the office catupulted me from my deep, drooling sleep and into the car wearing my favourite orange Amerian Eagle sweatpants and cozy baby blue cashmere sweater. Certainly not the kind of attire one would wear when leaving the house unless a fire was merely feet behind, but, in a hurry to help a friend, I threw caution to the wind and a long trench coat over my makeshift pyjamas I assembled in the dark, at the end of a foreign film with English subtitles, somewhere between 2:30 and 3:00 a.m.
Nonetheless, an hour and a half later, including an expensive locksmith who didn't speak much English, and I realized that I was merely minutes from my favourite thrift store. What to do - go home and spend Sunday with the husband and young brood, or escape into the aisles of a shoppers paradise, where an ensemble from the glossy pages of Vogue can be put together for under $40?
I decided that the family could wait, and as luck would have it, they could not be reached via numerous cell phone attempts, and as far as church goes, I did manage a quick sign of the cross as I drove past Holy Cross church.
For the next two hours, I chatted with complete strangers about the great deals, the crazy weather we've been having, and immigration issues. I felt as though I was among family. With the lights dimming, I knew that was my signal to beeline it to the checkout, but not without one last lap through the shoe department. And there they were. Nine West, black patent open-toe sling back sandals, small square heel, soft, supple leather, definitely retailing at no less than $150, but not here at the thrift store. For $14.99, I became the proud owner of these cannot live without, Audrey Hepburn, Breakfast at Tiffany's, husband will never be the wiser, girlfriends will be green with envy, can't wait for the snow to melt, match everything in my wardrobe, can even be worn with old faded jeans or a mink stole sandals!
What a day! Success!!! Yes my dear friends, these shoes were on sale, and that's exactly what I proclaimed to husband as he opened the front door with a stern face and an apron on.
Until next time, happy thrift-store shopping, Keep it real - recycle, donate, and share.