I Don’t Care if You Don’t Like Me. Well, I Actually Do.

I don't care if you don't like me.

Life is a journey. And along the way we hope we learn a few things, yes?  At least I do. Because I’m self-reflective. Probably too much. You know what I learned recently?


I don’t care if you don’t like me.  Well, in theory.


I’ve spent my whole life being overly self-conscious. Those whispers in the playground, the funny looks, the odd comments and pointed remarks? They’ve tormented me into the early hours as I’ve wondered if they were about me. WHY DON’T THEY LIKE ME? WHAT DID I DO WRONG?


You’re confident in your skin and most likely oblivious to the fact that you’re wounding me. To you it’s nothing. You probably weren’t even talking about me (well, you might have been.. what were you saying? Was it about my shoes? Something I said?)


Here’s the revelation: I’m surprisingly shy and I have shockingly low self-esteem. Most of my bright shininess is bravado. You didn’t know that, did you?  Most of the time I feel just wrong. So when you don’t like me, I feel it. To you, it’s just a fleeting thought or emotion. But for me, It’s not you just not liking me, it’s a tormented sinking feeling, even more than thinking about bungee jumping or nobody showing up to my party.


Walking into a room full of people (strangers or not) by myself who may or may not like me and who are nonetheless expecting witty repartee and small talk is the the worst. Except for holding a snake. Or going on the subway. Or eating raw tomatoes. But, it’s on the list. If I have to go somewhere by myself without a clear purpose except to wander around talking to people who are already talking to each other, well, I lose sleep (yes, I know I like to talk but only to people I know want to talk to me). Networking is a swear word to me. 


I’m not aloof, I’m panicking. That’s when I start babbling and talking so fast and so much all the while yelling at myself to shut the hell up. Just STOP TALKING or they won’t like you MORE.  I’m not insanely inappropriate, I’m completely out of my element (note: when you tell me that people are trying to get away from me, you make it worse. Keep your observations to yourself).  Maybe you’re doing ok, you’ve got a thick skin or maybe you’re pretending too. But know the whole time this cocktail party is making me think one thing: NOBODY LIKES ME HERE. I SHOULD GO.


My neurosis is based in my imagined reality. I’m pretty sure that there are a lot of people working hard to avoid me. And even more who just plain don’t care for my flavour of tea. But honestly, don’t talk about me right in front of me in another language to the manicurist. I can speak bitch, you know.


Who gives you the right to just stop liking me. Oh yeah…you do. 


It’s taken me almost half a century to realize this fact. You get to not like me. But you know what? I get to NOT CARE if you don’t.


How liberating.


So here we go: Think what you want about me, say what you want about me, because I’m free of your opinions. I just don’t care. There’s only ONE PERSON I ultimately have to answer to, and that’s me. I’m the only one who has to like me. Not even my husband (he only likes me 40% of the time), or my kids (it’s their job to not like me 48% of the time except when they want money then it’s 74%).


So stop making me feel bad (on purpose or in my extremely active imagination) about who I am.


Let’s be honest. Everything you’re thinking about me is true. I know this, because as I said, I’m self-reflective.


I talk too much.

I can be annoying.

I can be embarrassing.

I can be exhausting.

I’m a little awkward and quite possibly strange.

I’m no good at small talk.

I often say the wrong thing.


But tell me you’re none of those things none of the time and I’ll gladly let you hang a kick me sign on my back.


But otherwise, keep your pie-hole closed.


This is so AMAZING. I don’t know why I didn’t think of not giving a crap years ago. 


Now, I can walk into a whole room of people I know can’t stand me with a smile on my face. When I just sit down and start bending their ears with my chipper shit-talk and I can see them cringing, I’m going to actually enjoy it.


I’m joking. I’m not going to. It’s as painful as wearing a bathing suit, this not-caring. It’s a work-in-progress. But, it’s good to have goals.


In conclusion, if you don’t like me, I don’t care. But, please like me. Because it bothers me if you don’t.


PS I like you. I really like you. Unless you’re nasty. Then I’m going to whisper about you in the playground. No I won’t. That’s mean. But I’ll want to.








Long. Live Pie. Who Wouldn’t Want to Win PIE for a YEAR?

Mccain Long Live Pie


Let’s talk pie. Not pi, because that’s math. PIE. Yummy delicious, often humble, but always the perfect dessert (according to my husband who really loves pie). While other dessert trends may come and go, pie is here for the long run.

Fun facts:

Did you know that the first mention of pie was in 1590? Robert Green’s Arcadia said, “thy breath is like the steame of apple-pyes.”


In 1644, Oliver Cromwell banned the eating of pie. He declared it a pagan form of pleasure (it’s THAT good.) For 156 years, pie eating and making went underground until the Restoration leaders lifted the ban and declared open eating on pie in 1660.


If you lined up the number of pies sold at U.S. grocery stores in one year, they would circle the globe at least once.


The Three Stooges were quite possibly the greatest pie fighters of them all.  In the Sweet Pie and Pie (1942) is possibly the funniest Moe Howard, the Stooge leader and expert pie thrower, led one of the most perfect pie fight in movie history.


The first great movie pie fight was in 1927. The Laurel and Hardy silent film “The Battle of the Century” featured what might be the biggest pie fight ever in a motion pictures, and used over 4,000 pies in the pie throwing scene.


Eating pie is a cinch. You don’t even need a plate or fork. That’s why the expression ‘easy as pie’ was coined in the US in the late 1800s. But pie is also comfort food. According to an official study I found on the Internet, more than 1/3 of Americans have admitted to eating pie in bed (we’re not sure we want the details), and have CRAVED pie in the middle of the night (most likely nursing mums, insomniacs, and that guy stocking shelves at 7/11.


So you can see, pie is worth our attention. It’s classic and delicious and in the case of McCain Deep ‘n Delicious Cream Pie, it’s made with real dairy and comes in three wake-up-in-the-night-to-crave flavours (Cookies & Cream, Double Chocolate, Coconut and Cream).


Worth indulging for, I’ve got to tell you. And I’m ready to shout it from the roof tops #LONGLIVEPIE. Are you in? Want to join me? This is your official invite to the #LongLivePie Twitter party.


When: Tuesday, June 10

What time: 8pm – 9 pm


There will be PRIZES galore including PIE FOR A YEAR and $1000 in Visa Gift Cards.


So, what are you waiting for? Go RSVP. Do it here. And don’t forget to wear your pie t-shirt. I’m joking. There aren’t any.


Oh yah. If you’re not on Twitter, you can STILL win pie for a year. Click here to enter. If you win, just let me know what time to be at your house. I’ll bring my own spoon.


Happy Pie-Day. xoxo Mara


Pie Fun Facts: Pie Council of the United States. 

Movie facts: Today I Found Out. 

You’ll Wish It Were You Living the FML Life

Living and Loving the FML Life

Periodically I like to entertain People Who Read This Blog (PWRTB = my mother and maybe you) with the how Murphy visits me. A lot. Shall we call them FML moments? They’ll make you wish you were me. I swear. Not really.


I think it’s character building to be able to laugh one’s plight, plus when I make fun of myself I look more like a mensch when I’m making fun of other people.. I’m trusting that when I share my FML Lifestyle that you’re laughing with me and not AT me.


Now just to be clear, I’m not saying that nothing good ever happens to me. For every toe I stub, glass I break, cell phone I smash, and appointment I forget about, something else nice also happens. For example, in the last while I’ve received both a Sodastream and Blendtec for review (appliance porn to those of us in the know). And my other website is doing pretty damn well. And once I got to interview Isaac Mizrahi. But what I AM saying is that if something is going to happen, well dammit, it’s going to happen to me.


And when it does, it’s really, really good. Juicy and hilarious. Sometimes unbelievable.


How do I know I’m living the FML Lifestyle?


FML evidence: The Rainmaker. 


Nearly very time I get my hair cut and styled or even just blown out for an event it precipitates in some way. Seriously. The second I’m ready to leave it starts to unnaturally rain or snow. Unnatural as in it’s sunny and the end of April and as soon as I’m paying, a pop-up mini blizzard blows up. Right over the strip mall. It can be clear and blue skies and the beginning of July and as soon as I utter, Thanks! I love it!, it starts to sprinkle. Just like God tipping his watering can. On my head.


Seriously:  Don’t get your hair cut on the same day as me.


Not convinced? Here are two recent FML moments that you won’t believe could happen to the same person.


FML Moment #1: The Boots


So about a month ago, just when everyone was optimistic that the winter-from-hell was coming to a final end, I wore my pristine black Uggs to the gym. (Say what you will, but I adore my Uggs. I hate winter boots and they’re so easy on, easy off, especially when I’m in a hurry. It’s not like I play in snowbanks.) So anyways, I left my ever-loved Uggs in the boot tray at the front of the gym (next to the coat rack – you’ll need that information later…) and toddled off to my Crossfit class.


Fast forward one hour (well, 70 minutes because I’m me, and chatting…). I put my coat on, I put my boots on. Except I couldn’t put my boots on. I put ONE boot on my left foot. Because the other one was also for the LEFT FOOT.  And was big. Much bigger than my Ugg. And stretched out. And all covered in salt.


To recap: Someone had taken my size 6 right foot and left me their size EIGHT left foot.


Just so you’re clear: this person had taken TWO right foot Uggs: one new size SIX, and one old & stretched out size EIGHT.


No biggie you say? End of WINTER I say. She probably grabbed the boots and threw them in the back of her car, never to be looked at for at least another several months. My gym sent out an email and after about 4 days she gave me back my boot. I never found out if she was as ashamed as she ought to have been.


FML Moment #2: The Coat


..think you know where this is going? 


About one week later, when the winter-that overstayed-its-welcome returned for another glass of Merlot, I rushed into the gym, nearly late as usual, and hung my coat up on the coat rack (see, I told you that you’d need to know about it. Now I don’t have to explain it’s location). It was chock full with black jackets.  Traveling light, I had my car keys in my pocket. I toddled off to class, secure in the knowledge that I hadn’t worn Uggs.


Fast forward one hour (and ten minutes later. Chatting, you know…).  Ready to head home, I hit the coat rack to grab my jacket. It looked a bit empty. Only three coats remained. And NONE OF THEM WERE MINE. No big deal, you say? You were tired of that jacket anyways, you say? Big deal. REMEMBER MY KEYS?  


Fucking hell, someone had taken my coat with my car keys in the pocket! My size TWO TNA coat!


The likely culprit? The owner of a size EIGHT copy of my TNA coat that was covered in make-up around the neck and had a fur-ish trimmed hood (I had taken my fur-ish trim off in November and had promptly misplaced it.)


To recap: Someone obviously taller and larger than me had taken my size TWO expensive coat and left their size EIGHT  cheap coat.


Just so you’re clear: MY KEYS WERE IN THE POCKET. I COULDN’T LEAVE. Plus, my husband was sure to think I’d created the whole scenario get a new jacket. I can promise you it was nothing like the time in Grade two when my mother forced me to use a Tupperware Bento-type lunchbox when all I wanted was a Donny & Marie lunchbox with built-in thermos so I threw out the Tupperware one but the custodian kept taking it out of the garbage and putting it on the bench.) The gym receptionist called every single person who had been in that morning and a lovely VERY TALL young woman sheepishly returned my tiny coat about an hour later. Thank goodness there’s a Starbucks in the plaza.


Now before you say, that could happen to anyone, remember FML example #1. So rethink your statement. Really, could those BOTH happen to just anyone? 


I think not. I think they could only happen to The RAINMAKER.


And on that, my friends, I wish you a lovely day. And remember, if you see my stuff, please, for the love of all things covered in both pink himalayan sea salt and dark chocolate, just keep walking.


XOXO  Mara #OneLove


photo credit: quapan via photopin cc

When Mommy Gets the Plague. A Whiney Story of Despair

When Mommy Has the Plague


It all started with an itch in my ear and tickle in my throat. I thought my headache was hormonal (the joys of getting older). My nose was a bit stuffy, but since I’m allergic to dust (as well as removing it), I thought it was that and took an allergy pill. But then, when I started feeling icky all over, I knew what was happening. The germs had gotten me. I had the plague.


Not that anyone cared. Especially the ones that gave it to me.


mom is sick

My two sons have been a revolving door of sick over the last couple of weeks. The older brought it into the house, and then the younger contracted a strain of red-cheeked fever last week. Then on Monday, the big man came home from work early (unfortunately to discover that we’d left all the doors unlocked and a huge mess in the kitchen) with some non-specific symptoms that necessitated supper in bed and excessive watching of every spin-off of storage wars in existence. I will say that he arose long enough to change the batteries on the front door key pad (I KNEW I’d locked the door!)


I’m The Mom, so I took good care of them. I gave them snacks and soup and medicine and tissues and tea. I bought them lozenges and medicine, and drinks. I wrapped them in blankies and smothered them with love and encouraged them to stay in bed. Because that’s what you do when people are sick. Even when they have non-specific symptoms. 


So, back to me. Yesterday I was feeling my own set of non-specific symptoms that were beginning to become a lot more specifically like total crap.


I’m pretty sure none of them noticed. Even though I tried to use body language to share my ever burgeoning symptoms. I tried really hard to look pathetic, I did. I gave it the good college try.


Groan. Moan. Sneeze. Trumpets blaring.


But no blankets were offered. No cups of tea, no soup.


Mom, what’s for dinner?


Mom, can you help me with this?




Sneeze. Cough, Sniffle. Shaking of Tylenol bottle.


Can you get up and make lunch? I have to leave for work.


Why are you still sleeping?


Why are you in bed? 






When mom gets the plague


Hork, groan, sneeze.


Expectant looks. Like little hungry birds. That are all taller than me. No sympathy. Just a big mess in the kitchen after they ‘made’ their own dinner. Guess what time the father of the children waited until to clean up the kitchen? Just guess.




It was a game of kitchen hygiene chicken. And I won. Not really. Because a better half-assed job you have never seen. Please tell me. What’s the purpose of putting old, already cut and washed browning lettuce into a brand new package of baby spinach?


I’m ranting. It must be from the fever.


They gave it to me. I didn’t want it. But yet I have it. I didn’t go out and bring plague into the house. They did. And now they won’t even let me enjoy it.


Can someone send a Mommy over here? Because this one needs to be wrapped in a blanky.











I’m Closing Down My Blog (But First the Naptime Video)

I'm Done Blogging.


This is it folks. The ride is over. I’m turning over a new leaf and closing down my blog. This annoying piece of internet real-estate takes up too much of my time and really with so little reward. You guys don’t appreciate me. Nobody even comments anymore. I’m depressed. I hardly smile. And I feel the limited years I have left on earth would be better spent doing other more productive things like growing my own vegetables, cleaning toilets, and organizing my closets. I might take up really Grown-Up Endeavours. Like being a banker or lawyer or serious person.




As of today I’m going to become a pillar of society. I may even run for office. After I learn about politics.





In addition:


  1. I’m going to start cleaning my house every day. In particular, I’m going to learn how to use the vacuum.
  2. I’m going to get up at 5:30 am every morning.
  3. I’m going to do a LOT of math.
  4. I’m not going to use social media at all. In fact, I’m closing down my Twitter and Facebook accounts.
  5. I’m not going to read books anymore. Reading books is boring and useless.
  6. I’m going to start micromanaging my kids. And there will be no more joking around in this house. Dancing will be prohibited.
  7. I’m never going to the gym again. It’s not worthwhile and I’m not accomplishing anything.
  8. I’m going to be very mature. Practicing immaturity is really..well..immature.
  9. I’m going to become rude and mean. Being nice is like being a doormat. Those days of caring about other people are so over.
  10. I’m not cooking anymore. I’m only ordering out or opening cans. With lots of preservatives.
  11. I’m never drinking wine again.
  12. I’m going to use punctuation inappropriately. In fact, I’m going to misuse all the apostrophe’s that I can.
  13. I’m going to get a full triple full senior executive fancy time job out of the house. Working from home really isn’t working for me.
  14. I’m never going to play April Fools jokes on my blog again.


GOTCHA! WHAT? A girl has to amuse herself.




You knew I was joking, right? And if you didn’t, then you deserve your panic. Because Option A: you couldn’t honestly think I was going to take up housewifery as a daily activity. Or, Option B: you’ve never read my blog before. In which case you would have had no idea that I was joking and probably think I’m a total knob now. Forgive me yet? No? This bribe should work: what can happen when people misuse quotation marks.


I leave your with this additional conciliatory gift which advertises a valuable product integral to successful parenting.

Hopefully, it will make you forgive me for the cruel joke April Fools Joke I just played on you. Or maybe not. Depends if you have a sense of humor. Or if you were actually wishing that I was quitting blogging.



Back to regular programming tomorrow!


xoxo Mara. Stay real.

Are You There God, It’s Me, Gwyneth

Sorry for posting twice today, but I wrote this on a whim on Google+ (do you follow me there? It’s +MaraShapiro) . Anyways, I think it’s pretty funny, and I hope you will too. 


Are You There God It's Me Gwyneth


Are you there, God? It’s me, Gwyneth.


The last few days have been really hard. Even meditating with my tantric master in my carefully curated english wildflower garden hasn’t been enough to relieve the stress of my conscious uncoupling. These kinds of separating from togethernesses are so hard on the heart chi. I don’t know what to do. I developed a stress blemish on the right side of my nose, which you know is connected to the emotional centre. Even rubbing baby caterpillar excrement on it didn’t relieve the redness. My personal eco-esthetician said she couldn’t see anything, but I’m telling you it’s there. There isn’t enough concealer in the world to cover a spot like that. Oh, why can’t they make auto-tune for face?


God, people don’t understand what it’s like to be me. Existentially even, they can’t begin to know what I go through everyday. Chris, handsome and talented as he is, truly perfection and kindness in a man, was so hard to live with. I mean, he wouldn’t wipe his shoes on the naturally harvested hemp door mat before he came in to our english manor home.




After I worked so hard singing and dancing on Glee to pay the chef to make his special Buffalo milk kefir for him. He ate a Yoplait. With artificial sweetener. Can you imagine? Truly intolerable.


Making the decision to sever the silk cords that bind our souls has been so difficult.


After I flew in my hybrid private jet (the germs on commercial airplanes are appalling plus the seats seem to soil my white linen pants) to the Maldives to seek the advice of a Shaman I realized that Apple and Moses would be better off if Chris and I co-parented separately but together. We are still a family, we just can’t be together and together. It has to be together but separate because Chris eats Fatburger.


There I said it.


I’ve outed the big secret and the real reason why we are rarely seen in public. He smells like greasy meat and it makes me want to vomit up my mango-cilantro Freekeh (recipe on Goop Thursday the 29th! It’s delicious!) When he hugs me, I have to mist essential oils from the deepest deserts to remove the odour. (You can read about those oils on GOOP next week, by the way. I found the most fabulous woman who pounds them out of indigenous plants while ululating.)


Anyways, thank you SO much for listening, God. I feel so much better now that I got that off my chest. Oh, look at the time! I must fly. Moses has swimming lessons and I have to remind the 3rd nanny to take him.


x0x0x GwynP.


PS, if you act fast you can get my how to uncouple e-book at 20% off. Its a good one. Byee.





For Mothers of Sons: A Peek into the Minds of Boys

The Confounding thing it is to be a mother of sons

I told my kids I was going to write a post about what it’s like to have sons. According to my daughter, it’s a bad idea. Apparently, there are lots of posts out there for mothers of sons (MoS for short). According to my sons, it was GRUNT.


Being a MoS is very different than being a MoD (mother of daughters. Or in my case, mother of one very time consuming and emotionally draining daughter). Sons are different. Many people say that they’re easier to raise, and I have to concur. While they certainly can get up to a lot more ‘trouble’ than girls (this isn’t gender bias, it’s from empirical observation of a woman with 6 siblings, 3 kids of her own and 24 nieces and nephews) their ‘trouble’ seems to arise from a more simple and less complicated place, as does their whole outlook on life.


Remember. Boys are just small men (well, not mine. Mine are taller than me now). So they process and think like men. It’s all pretty linear. Or at least appears to be on the surface.


Here’s an example.


When she was younger, my daughter got in a fight with her friend and was accused of kicking or pushing. I asked her if she did it. The answer was, “Well, first she started to look at me funny and then my bag was slipping down and she said that my bag was dumb so then she said that her friends was going to tell that other girl that my dumb bag hit her and I got cold and I wanted a sweater and then I told her she’s not my friend and then she said…”  at which point I lost interest and started to think about whether 3:30 carpool was too early to start drinking.


When he was younger, one of my sons got in a fight with his friend and pushed him. I asked him if he did it. The answer was, “Yes.”


Do you see my point?


Anyways, since I’m a female, my sons never cease to amaze me with their interesting and colourful outlook on life and man-child way of doing things. While I’ve gotten used to being mooned by a big hairy butt at the dinner table (I do have two brothers after all), I still can’t fathom how someone can eat SEVEN pieces of chicken and still be hungry or drink an entire litre of milk without even taking a breath.


Also, while I totally understand the value of a nice big gaseous release (whether from the same hairy butt or by mouth), I don’t know why it a) is funnier while we are eating b) even more funny while I’m trapped in the car with them c) not possible to do in the privacy of anywhere that I’m not.


I won’t even get into food dares. Once they thought it would be totally the best to ‘let’ me join in on one of their games and I got unwittingly hot sauced. I still have nightmares.


Some other things that just escape me:


  • why it’s funny to wave your weiner in your friend’s face or take your clothes off just about anywhere or pee on the side of a building but it’s embarrassing to say hi to your mom at the mall
  • why it’s the best game ever to watch your friend stuff 14 cookies in his mouth at once and then make him laugh
  • how one can feel immense pride at the size of one’s bowel movements (sharing photos, natch) yet blush bright red when the doctor asks to see ‘down there’
  • how one can enjoy the feeling of orange juice bubbling out of one’s nose or refuse to shave the scratchy brand-new caterpillar growing atop one’s lip


But the most confounding of all boy things are the attitudes to personal hygiene.


Why wouldn’t any person with an ounce of logic realize that their paint-peeling breath is a dead give away for the whole wetting-the-toothbrush ruse?  Or that their pit stink isn’t a tell for the fact that no, they don’t have anymore deodorant or body wash left and they haven’t had any for at least one month*. Or how they can never ever have any dirty underwear to put in the laundry basket, but apparently do NOT go commando.


There are things I do understand now, though. The other day my sons explained two of their greatest mysteries to me.


1. Shower shits: If you haven’t noticed, sometimes your young man showers at random times of day after spending an extensive amount of time already in the loo. Apparently, these impromptu showers are necessitated by dumps so large that they cannot be dealt with by simple wiping. Who knew?


2. Why boys don’t like to bathe at all: because it’s too much work. It’s not that they don’t like to be clean, it’s that they don’t like to expend the effort getting that way. And so it begs to be asked, why stay in there for 30-45 minutes? This analogy was made: it’s like going to bed. You don’t want to do it, but once you’re in there, you don’t want to get out.


And that my friends, is a little peek into the mind of teenaged boys.


Stay clean x0x0x0 Mara


*It’s been requested that I tell you that these two things haven’t happened for approximately two years.


Note: At the time of this writing, the one who made me write the disclaimer just above was walking around with a piece of kleenex stuffed up his nose. 


P.S. In case you didn’t get the point, boys are somehow gross and disgusting and yet totally endearing at the same time. 






Teenagers on March Break and Strangers Kissing.

March Break with Teenagers

I was going to share with you what it’s like to have teenagers at home on March break.  And then I saw this video about strangers kissing each other for the first time. So I decided to do both. And then I remembered this video that re-enacts the rain kiss from The Notebook. So I threw that in too.


First, what I hear and what I say on March break. You know you’re interested. Just read it. It’s not boring. Don’t just skip to the videos.


On constant replay in my ears over March break:


Mom, can you drive me to my friend’s house? 


Mom, can you pick me up from my friend’s house?


Mom, there’s nothing to eat. Can you go grocery shopping?


Mom, can I have some money?


Mom, leave me alone. I’m sleeping.


Mom, there’s no clothes. Why don’t you ever do the laundry? (Ok fine. That one is all the time. And possibly my fault?)


Mom, can we have take out today? It’s March break.


Mom, I have nothing to do.


Mom, leave me alone. I just want to do nothing.


Mom, why do you always say you’re working when I WANT TO TALK TO YOU?


MOM! You got CARDS AGAINST HUMANITY? Can we play? That game is the COOLEST (Yes, I’m cool. Thanks Netflix Canada. More on that later).


Dear, why does the kitchen look like you just had a frat party? (BECAUSE IT’S MARCH BREAK! Go Fark yourself, also.)


Dear, why aren’t you dressed yet? It’s 5:30. (Dumb question. I’m honoring March break.)


What comes out of my mouth on March Break: 








Leave me alone I’m working.


Do it yourself.


Get a job.


Clean up the kitchen.


Clean up the kitchen.


Clean up your room.


Clean up the kitchen.


Do you want to play Cards Against Humanity? You JUST asked me. What do you mean you’re sleeping?


Get off the computer! Why don’t you read a book?




No! I can’t drive you somewhere. I’m busy. Find something else to do.


I don’t have to make school lunches!


The Videos (which is what you really came for, but then I made you read that other stuff first):


These videos are completely awkward and wonderful at the same time. Even more awkward than that time my son used the expression ‘circle jerk’, and absolutely far more wonderful (well, wouldn’t anything be?).


They’ll really make a movie about anything. This one is entitled, “First Kiss”. Basically, the filmmaker asked a bunch of strangers to come and be filmed kissing each other. For the first time. You can tell by the H.O.T. factor which couples wanted to get it on and which ones were like “EWW. He kissed me.”


Inquiring minds want to know: a) would you do it? b) if you did, would you use tongue? c) I want to kiss that first guy. If I wasn’t married, of course.



Also, have you ever dreamed of kissing in the rain? Or just by Ryan Gosling. Watch this one. (PS dude is a really good kisser. You might need a cold shower.)


Don’t know why I’ve got kissing on my brain today. Happy March break Tuesday, y’all.


xoxo One love.



45 Ways You Know You’re The Greatest Mother Your Kids Ever Had (and Not a #momfail)

45 Signs You're the Best Mother Your Kids Ever Had

45 Signs that Momfail is Totally Ridiculous

Every day I hear laments about #Momfails. I hate hearing that. I don’t think sending lunch to pizza day or forgetting it’s orange t-shirt day or being 5 minutes late to pick your kid up is a failure. Screwing up is part of being a parent. And contrary to what the Internet says, being an imperfect parent is part of being human. Nobody gets it right all of the time. Not even Beyonce. (Oh, also, google ‘momfail’ and see what you get. I’m pretty sure it’s not what you all have been thinking it is.)   Look. I’ve been a mother for a while. In the good old days of the mid-90s, we were much more relaxed. Or maybe it was just a lack of access to information. You see, when I had my daughter in 1994, the World Wide Web was still a big and exciting new tool that you used to email people and maybe type in a website address to obtain hours of operation. You couldn’t use Pinterest to become sick with envy about someone else’s lunchbox skills or their immaculate home and designer crafted bedroom. Or Facebook and Twitter to give your opinions about everyone else’s parenting practices. We had to stand in the preschool parking lot to judge people. Which was a lot more difficult (you know, and face-to-face) and far less interesting, if I’m being honest.

No More Momfails photo frame

No More Momfail

The expression Momfail is the worst thing that ever happened to mothering. It implies that there is a certain standard (often times in our own minds) to which we are held, and if we falter, we are failures. You know, in case you missed the memo, being a Mom is damn hard. There are a million opportunities to dash our own (not to mention everyone else’s) expectations every day. So, I challenge you to lower your standards. If you can accomplish 70% of the items on this AMAZING MOTHER list at LEAST 70% of the time (do you like that I’m using math?), you’re doing amazing.

  1. You change your baby’s diaper, feed it, burp it, hold it, and basically do all the baby stuff even when you don’t want to like at 4 am.
  2. You remember to strap your kid into the car seat before you drive away. You make your kid sit in the car seat even when it becomes embarrassing because safety first.
  3. You mostly give your baby (toddler, preschooler, child, teenager) age appropriate toys.
  4. You don’t allow your baby to eat dog food or other things that are not food.
  5. You bathe your child at least 3 times a week or when they’re really dirty. When they’re older, you remember to remind them about personal hygiene.
  6. You read to your child. Or you let your baby who is a prodigy read to itself while you read magazines.
  7. Mostly, you let your baby only watch ‘educational’ tv. With the volume off. You know, to protect her ears.
  8. There’s clean underpants and socks that match (45% of the time).
  9. When your child asks for a sip of your diet coke you say no three times before you let them pretend to drink out of the empty can.
  10. You have never forgotten a child at carpool. Or if you did, you went back to get them.
  11. You have never forgotten to drive carpool, and if you did, you covered it up with an elaborate lie that is unverifiable.
  12. You remember to send snacks to pre-school on your child’s birthday.
  13. You remember to send out your child’s birthday party invitations, you write down the RSVPs and you have enough loot bags.
  14. You RSVP for every birthday party (100% efficiency required for this one.) You remember to go, and when you forget, you cover up with elaborate lies that are unverifiable.
  15. You check your child’s bag for notes within 3 days.
  16. You remember it’s a PA Day.
  17. You feed your child meals that include most of the food groups (60% allowable).
  18. You remember to get birthday presents for the birthday parties and you don’t buy them on the way to the party but when you do, you cover up for the lack of gift wrap with an elaborate eco-conscious excuse about wrapping paper and a non-belief in the wastage of birthday cards.
  19. You remember to go to your child’s school performances and holiday concerts and you’re 5 minutes late on purpose because you don’t want to be ‘embarrassing’.
  20. You take your child to the first day of school and when you meet the teacher you don’t hog all of her time explaining the intricacies of your kid’s unique personality.
  21. You fill out all of the first-week-of-school forms and paperwork within 2 weeks of the deadline. Your child only has to remind you three times.
  22. You remember to fill out the homework and reading logs (50% efficiency allowed).
  23. You can locate the brown envelope that comes home with the report card and that is supposed to be returned when you remember to sign the report card.
  24. You attend parent-teacher interviews (at least up till grade 4).
  25. You provide a well-balanced lunch that fits the 5-item profile – main, fruit, veggie, snack, treat. (Forget Bentos. That’s whack. Ain’t nobody got time for that…Plus, sticks are weapons to small boys).
  26. You remember your child’s teachers’ names and know what they’d like for gifts (well, until rotary, then you only have to know the homeroom teacher or the the individual who favours your darling and forsakes all others).
  27. You answer all of your child’s questions about bad words they hear in the playground, INCLUDING explaining how babies are made (AWKWARD).
  28. How do you spell RELIEF? P.L.A.Y.D.A.T.E.
  29. You listen to your child’s problems and retain about 50% of their story that takes at least 150% longer than it needs to.
  30. You remember what time your child’s programs begin and end and if you ‘forget’ to go because it’s cold out and you’re tired, well, you make up an unverifiable excuse like it’s cancelled and then give your kid an Oreo.
  31. You go out at 11 pm on a Sunday night to purchase a bristol board for the child that ‘just remembered’ they have a project due tomorrow.
  32. You vigilantly supervise all playdates and you don’t allow your child to use Sharpies to turn anyone into any kind of superhero.
  33. You always reciprocate playdates (50% efficiency allowed, depending on the child).
  34. You have pictures of your kids. Even that last one.
  35. Your child has the latest gadget because they ‘got a good report card’ and not because they’re annoying.
  36. You buy books because it’s nice to build a library at home and not because you can’t remember to return books to the real library.
  37. You act interested in your child’s education even if you don’t sit with him when he’s doing his homework because independence (and that is SO boring).
  38. You teach your child important life skills like how to use the internet without getting arrested, how to make a grilled cheese sandwich, how to fill out a cheque, and where the bus stop is.
  39. You know where your child is when they’re not at home.
  40. You know who their friends are.
  41. You’re honest with your child. You call them out on their mistakes and praise accomplishments.
  42. You build a culture of trust and respect in your home.
  43. You raise mensches who honour other people.
  44. You make your child feel loved and wanted.
  45. You ignore everything around you that makes you feel like a bad mother. We’re all just getting through the day.

Tell me this. Are you ready to give up calling yourself a #momfail?   photo credit: Mataparda via photopin cc

Where Do the Socks Go? Five Completely Implausible Explanations.

Where Do All the Socks Go? Five Very Implausible Explanations

Where Do All the Socks Go? Five Very Implausible Explanations


Have you ever wondered where the socks go? I do. No matter what, no matter how careful everyone is, the socks just seem to disappear. It’s not right that I’m forced to continually buy new pairs of socks while the singles languish in a basket of their own, awaiting the return of their errant partners.


There seems to be no rhyme or reason to how or why one sock from a set goes missing. It’s not like I find single socks all over my house just waiting to be paired up. Two socks go in the laundry hamper, two socks go in the washing machine, and one sock comes out. My pile of lonely socks just keeps getting bigger and bigger. I’m at a loss. And past caring, I ‘ve just started rolling mismatched socks together. I’m not made of money, you know, and my teen sons don’t seem to care as long as both are white (husband hasn’t noticed. Thank goodness for black.) Me, I’m not picky either. I wear two different socks all the time. I tell people it’s my jam.


When I had my old dryer, I knew exactly where the socks were going. They were all in the drum, which had come loose and was eating footwear. There were years of socks back there. But I have a fancy steam dryer now. The only thing it eats is my wrinkles. And so since the only explanation is gone, I have come up with some other theories.


Here are some.


  1. They go to find their other single stocking friends. Somewhere, out there, there’s a giant singles bar for socks. Called the White Stockings, it’s sort of like Match.com, only for hosiery. When the socks go in the dryer, they find their way out – somehow, I’m not sure how –  called by the promise of ‘More Dates, More Relationships, More Pair-ings‘ than they could find in even the nicest Sorels. I guess even the lowliest pair of Dollar Store crews are entitled to happiness.
  2. The washing machine is magical, just like the cupboard in The Lion, the Witch, and The Wardrobe. After they’re roughly shoved into my front loader (I do laundry with great violence and resentment), one sock travels to the back of the drum where it’s transported via the water hose to a fantasy land. There, it joins the other sock travelers (assigned to duties according to their status – dress socks are the brains of the operation, fashion socks perform the strategic planning, while sports socks are the brawn…) in a journey to conquer the White Queen and bring rest to the sock population and glory to the flip flops.
  3. The socks have heard that there is a wonderful place where the candy grows like odor eating mushrooms (oh yeah, even socks like a good gummy bear). While waiting in the laundry basket for their cleansing, they’re randomly chosen to receive a golden ticket. The journey begins as they’re washed away on a river of Tide Pods. However, some are greedy and try to suck up all of the stain remover / whitener all to themselves and are punished by the wizard and doomed to a fate of disintegration. As they  disappear through the tiny holes that are supposedly meant for water, their partners are horrified and tear holes in their toe area (this also explains all of the holes that appear during washing.)
  4. Seeking a life in a new country, the socks draw straws of who has to stay behind and who gets to visit the land of opportunity. Forced to stow away in the bottom of the washing machine, the adventurers sneak up to first class where they try to fit in with the hoity-toity crowd, see Victor Newman of the Young & the Restless in his movie debut, and bring their fancy lady down to steerage to make-out and dance the jig. When the ship hits an ice breaker and starts to sink the single socks become too waterlogged to escape (plus, meant for dry land and shoes, they never learned to swim). They sink to the bottom of the sea, sadly never to be seen again. Their partners mourn the loss but find new happiness with other abandoned hose.
  5. As they’re transferred to the dryer, the odd sock gets hit on the head by the button on a pair of jeans. Suffering amnesia, it loses it’s bearings and somehow makes it’s way into the exhaust tube. Sliding down (whee!) it lands on the ground outside the home. The smells of freedom are overwhelming and joyful but are quickly interrupted by angry calls of  ‘Come back here, you sock! I want to wear you!’. The sock runs down the street as it sassily calls back, ‘Run, run, as fast as you can. You can’t catch me. I’m a…I’m a… I’m a..‘ and then nothing as it gets picked up by the wind and hung over a hydro/telephone wire or dumped in the middle of a mainstreet (see, I’m explaining all mysteries…)


Do you have a better explanation?



photo credit: *¦·sindorella·¦* via photopin cc