The importance of being "gypsy"

There is a very good reason why I didn't study medicine.  I excel in faking I am super cool and composed while mending minor scrapes or pulling splinters out of a screaming child’s finger with tweezers - wielding the triple action Polysporin as if it was a magic wand. However this only stems from the fact that the accountant in the family would have handled it worse than I. Far worse. Forget the Discovery Channel's Shark week - I can't even watch a tooth extraction on close circuit TV let alone be close to an open wound, blood or layers of skin stretched open. And speaking of stretched open, that moment when I was told to push and was politely offered a mirror to actually see the baby's birth: "If I was supposed to see that, I would have been a giraffe. No. Please. Thank you!" is what my skilled Mt.Sinai Hospital team heard back. "Never ask me again!” Although, two years later - they did.  So when a young gypsy boy entered my pharmacy for the fifth time that week, limping on little crutches, I felt uneasy.  I knew this kid. He was about 10 years old and I saw him every morning as I walked to work. He would be sleeping on the street on a flattened cardboard box covered with a dirty blanket next to his mother, who would, with a baby in her arms, set up her post at about 6:30 a.m., right at the entrance to Belgrade's main hospital complex. The sight of her 'coming to work' always bothered me, as I had heard many stories of how these women are just exploited peons in one stream of organized crime, having the pimp-like characters who would 'protect' them take all the money they collected sitting endlessly on a dirty street. With their kids. Breastfeeding.  Each time the boy entered the pharmacy I would tense as I wasn't allowed to let him stay and linger due to the threat of him stealing something or robbing one of the waiting patients. He certainly wasn't buying anything. But then, he was just a kid and I felt that possibly I might be that one person who would always be kind to him. Besides being a brand-new pharmacist, I was also a brand-new wife and I didn't have a child of my own yet. So what I tried to offer, as I walked past the little family each morning was a banana, or a granola bar, a silent blessing and sometimes spare change.  When his turn came to approach the window, he signalled that he couldn't speak, his one leg lifted up so high that only his dirty bare toes with their black toenails peeked out of his trousers. Was he really disabled? I tried to recollect whether he was the one I saw playing with a tennis ball, accidentally hitting me in the back one afternoon when I was walking home from work? I wasn't sure. Trouble is, Belgrade has a family of gypsies lining all major corners; begging is a career. I tried to envision what these slender, swift, dark-eyed children would look like should they have a chance to belong to a normal family. One that owned a bed. And a shower.  "How can I help you?" - I forced myself to address him as I would every other patient.  Instead of replying, he signalled again that he could not speak, pointing to his throat. "Do you have a sore throat?" - I attempted to see what he was looking for, suspecting that he just wanted a few dinars.  He shook his head and slapped his forehead. "Does your head hurt?" He shook his head more vigorously, clearly getting annoyed with me, pointing again to his throat as if to say "woman, I told you already I cannot speak" and stretching one of his arms as if asking for money, his unwashed little palm open in front of me. "I am sorry, I can not give you money from the cash register. Is there anything else I can help you with?" He pointed back to his throat. Then moved even closer on his little crutches to the glass that divided us.  Some people in the line behind him started getting impatient. A few coughs and a loud sigh were urging me to end his visit. In Serbia, many things seem to be 'behind' the advancements of the modern world. I won't argue that. But not the pharmacies. From what I have witnessed in my time as a pharmacist in North America, they have yet to learn what a pharmacy should be like, feel like and smell like. It is a place of individual care and education. It is a temple of sophisticated smells of compounded preparations made according to the unique prescription. The lab behind the row of shelves only staff can access houses both prescription medications and OTC's (yes, teens can't actually buy six bottles of pain killers, at least not at the same place). Behind that wall is an orderly, white and well-lit lab where we mix our knowledge into creams and lotions. And suppositories. The dark glass storage containers are lined up in divine order, their Latin names whispering secrets to us, the pharmacists, in crisp white, starched and meticulously-ironed coats. We are that chosen extended hand of not only the doctor who saw the patient last; we are channeling Panacea and Hygeia and of course Hippocrates. We are chanting his oath with everything we do.

In stark contrast with North America, there is no fridge with Coca-Cola. There are no Nachos. Or Doritos. Or isles of junky chocolate bars. There is no mascara either. And for sure there are no cigarettes. There is only a counter and shelves behind it. And if you need a heart medication or an antibiotic, I will check your prescription for the dose and contraindications, and hand you your medicine with counselling not obtained while reading the computer screen. In an unrushed minute. Or five. Whatever it takes other than a 16 page print-out set to spook you and confuse you with it's dire legal warnings. No you don't have to roam around the store for the next half hour hopefully remembering you also needed a greeting card, a toilet cleaner and a TV dinner. It is not a convenience store. Or a local grocer. It is a pharmacy.  The hand of the gypsy boy now entered the little opening in the glass divider where we usually exchange prescriptions and payments.  "I don't have anything to give you." - I was starting to sound desperate as the line-up stretched behind him.  With one hand, he now lifted his shirt, attempting to show me a wide yet old scar of what was likely an accident with boiling water. I cringed. Closed my eyes. Then in total panic blurted out loud:  "You are not sick, I saw you playing with your sister this morning!"  Hearing that, the gypsy boy promptly stood on his feet, tucked both crutches under his right arm and feistily marched towards the door. Right before he kicked it to exit he turned around and in front of all of my other patients snarled, spitting on the floor first: "Pu, apotekarice, 'lebac ti jebem!" which can be only translated, for sure losing some of its original charm, as: "I f*ck your bread, pharmacist-lady!" I don't remember ever having laughed so hard while at work. A few patients whose ailments did not tamper with their sense of humour also giggled. The others just moved closer in line as I continued with my regular work, pursing my lips yet still laughing.  One of my favourite movies What was so funny to me? I laughed feeling the relief that he was gone but healthy - his leg wasn't injured. And he wasn't mute. Or crazy even though he kept pointing to his head. He just grew frustrated that his gig didn't work this time, knowing exactly what to curse - not me, but the way I earned my living.  Twenty-one years later I still laugh at this. This time, I laugh more because it strikes me how much I learned over the years from the gypsies. Not only from my young friend who spat on the floor of my pharmacy, but from all I came across, all I met over the years. They packed lightly, moving swiftly.  There was an importance to setting up a home even if it were only for a day spent on a cardboard box.  And they often lived more joyously than those who had everything. This benignly profane line when said in Serbian is what works for me when seeking refuge from stress. It gives instant relief while I long to let something I cannot control go. And it does it completely and swiftly. Both crutches under my arms, slam the door, I'm done with this! It doesn't have to be smart. Or sophisticated. I just want it to work. This one works for me.  Realized I lost my favourite wrist watch. Pu 'lebac ti jebem!  Husband gave kids' large school photos to his mother leaving me only the wallet-sized ones. Yes, she already framed them. Pu 'lebac ti jebem!  It's -19 C outside. Pu 'lebac ti jebem!  It's gonna be -19 C for the next four months, if we are lucky. Pu 'lebac ti jebem! It might sound very un-sage like for me to suggest you find your own relief profanity. But if you can create a shortcut out of some daily crap not spending too long simmering in what you cannot change? What the heck, be a gypsy!

ATSL: All the single ladies, all the single ladies!

Picture this: I just drop off my kid to a screaming-and-bouncing play-place for a birthday party, grateful he quickly releases my hand while at the same time kicking off his shoes and dropping the gift bag topped with fluffy tissue paper before savagely throwing himself into the mayhem of the jumping castle.

On that note, can we please agree to stop with the fluffy tissue paper - that flimsy, useless layer camouflaging the gift? No matter how expertly I swing my arms up and down, left and right, hoping to fluff it up, it over-wrinkles and quickly collapses looking re-used. Ok, I was desperate so I did re-use it a few times, like today. But I feel and look guilty even when I open a brand new package - the special one with built-in sparkles. Tissue paper and loot bags will have to be on the elimination agenda at some point soon - not kidding!

As seen in LSL's Facebook post

As a rescue strategy out of that play-place hell where all the happy moms stay behind to chat, I sneak out onto a bustling Yonge St. and find the closest Starbucks. The lucky parents in charge have my cell phone number, so if my son gets hurt or cranky I can be there in a jiffy. With two hours to kill, I order one of those mega drinks, whose calories can keep me alive for half of the following week. I pull a book out of my bag and find a seat at the bar - a long wooden plank lining the front window. Perfect light, perfect smell, perfect peace. 

The only thing is, I can't get myself to read the book. It is a sunny Sunday on a ruthless Canadian winter day and although still cold and crisp, it is undeniably optimistic. People have crawled out of their homes to take in these much-needed rays, especially since the gloomy overcast weather started sometime in early November. I am people watching. One of my favourite activities.

Call it a curse, but all I am seeing are ridiculously happy families, strolling past my window, dressed like a Ralph Lauren spread in the winter Vogue. One family in particular decides to stop right in front of the glass, the glare protecting the anonymity of my stare. Mom looks fit and rested, despite the double stroller she is pushing in front of her. Toddlers, likely twins, a boy and a girl, are all bundled up, their pink cheeks and indigo eyes sparkling behind the little clouds of mist they are producing like tiny cute steam engines. Mom is very pretty, with long blond shiny straight hair cascading down her back, as if there were a possibility in some parallel universe to leave some fancy salon after a full hair and make-up session, right before stopping in front of this coffee shop with her brood in tow. I glance at my reflection in the window - signature dramatic glass frames, pixie cut and lip gloss. The maximum I was capable of investing in my appearance while I was looking for the damn invite, a gift bag and tissue paper, and while reminding my son to finish breakfast as he sloppily drew a card for his friend. We had just run out of the generic happy-birthday-to-you cards.

The door jingles cheerfully as the dad of the happy family enters with their orders and I notice immediately that he is handsome as hell - rugged boots, washed out jeans, coarse knit turtleneck and an unzipped pale grey goose down jacket. Inside of it he is sheltering a baby carrier. The infant is sleeping in a snuggly of the best kind, some Swedish name - the one in which sufficient air goes through the comfy yet firm fabric and also keeps the baby's posture safe and perfect. With the confident moves of an experienced multitasker, he hands over a bottle of formula to be warmed up as he orders coffees of different kinds and grabs an orange juice. Vanilla bean non-fat extra foam latte and a 'red eye' - an order of coffee spiked with an extra shot. Why do I still know this?  He smiles and thanks the baristas as he swipes his card, then a second later swings the doors open and hands the latte to his wife, who melts into a grateful smile while smelling the divine hot beverage. He remembered a touch of cinnamon. The orange juice goes to a kid with a skateboard, sporting one of those cool spiky hats, who just caught up with them. This kid has swag. Who is this kid?

The mind of a then unhappily and chronically single mother could not have fathomed that this was anything but the happiest of all families that ever lived. High-school sweethearts who had one kid a tad too early and who, sure of their love, pulled through their respective schools and first jobs building a solid foundation for the family to expand. This past year as they both approached forty, they just winked at each other, kissed and decided in a hushed tone - let's have one more!

I never envisioned a scenario in which the older boy was hers - the battle for sole custody with the estranged father not over yet; this weekend, it was their turn to have the twins, his ex-dropping them off, as usual with a three-hour delay, forgetting the asthma puffer for the girl and the security blanket for the boy.

The blended hot mess that we are

Life sometimes does happen that way - the Ralph Lauren commercial way. More often it doesn't. And as my life all these years later greatly resembles the life of the family I mercilessly stared at for as long as they hung out in front of that Starbucks on Yonge St. (minus the infant dangling in a snuggly - thank goodness!), I learned an important lesson backwards.

With a π/2 delay. 

Instead of looking at their lives as blessed and perfect, look at my life as blessed and perfect. Or in addition to seeing all of the life around me as blessed and perfect, feel deep in my bones, that my life is indeed its own unique blend of blessed and perfect. No matter the story. And until I love it, really LOVE IT, with all its non-Vogue-spread-worthy qualities, I won't move on. At least not in the direction I desire.

That's the long answer to the question: Should I date myself first?

My favourite quote

The short answer: HELL YES!

Before any of the desired life can materialize we need to know some basics: What we don't want.  What we do want -- the all-inclusive, greedy version of the wish list. Screw compromises.  How it feels to live the "I want it all" version of life (without the "I want it now" burden.)

Then go each day with the seemingly selfish: "Hmmm, what do I feel like doing today?" Sushi-lunch? Power-walk in the ravine? Quiet-time journaling? (What about? See 1-3 above) Girlfriends? Movie night out? Sofa, blanket and dark chocolate almonds night in, watching Sidewalks of New York for the umpteenth time? I kid you not, at one point my mother warned me in her always-tactful Serbian manner: "He is not gonna come out of that sliding DVD tray. You need to get out!" Gosh I love my mom! Go on a blind date; day-time, Starbucks, order an espresso... and if he is no second-date Americano material, act surprised: "Oh, I guess my coffee break is over! Goodbye." If there is more to explore, go for a walk - you'll walk and talk faster, he'll get to know you better!  Cook a dinner for friends. Become a big sister. Host a neighbourhood meet. Browse the library. See what books jump at you - they know the best what you need to hear! Write old-fashioned letters. Mail them with pretty stamps. Draw. Tear, rip and burn what you no longer need. Not the ex's pictures. We'll cover that in one of the next ATSL blog editions! Sleep. Power nap. Play hooky. Do yoga. See a matinee. Then go on another date. And another. And another.  Your guy, who already has all the traits you can happily live with, is out there. And looking for you. The best, funny, flirty, effortless you. That's why you need to date yourself first. To find her. Meet her. Get to know her. Fall in love with her. Then see her go! GO! Alert for all my readers:  Please don't get sucked into that scarcity all-the-good-ones-are-taken thinking. Alert for my Canadian and US readers:  For the love of G-d, please don't start the new season of "The Bachelor".  Alert for any of the single guys reading: You are better than the GAP.

To the woman writing the "To the Woman" letter

I know what you are doing, woman with the smirk and the giant Jackie-O-like sunglasses that fail to cover it. I can tell you're not a fan. As we speak, you are writing me one of those letters titled something like:  "To the Woman Who Let Her 4-yr-old Cry Non-Stop for 25 Minutes at the Pool", aren't you?

Our happy place

Yes, my child has been crying, or rather whining, for me to come into the pool for many minutes now. And yes, he might have greatly impeded your reading of Ken Follet's: "Edge of Eternity". Coincidentally, your own child of similar age has been behaving like... Well, I don't even know like what - I have never NEVER seen a child not make a peep for an entire morning! I only noticed a second ago that there is even a child next to you. Is she yours? Don't get this the wrong way, please, but I want your child!

Before I go any further let me remind you that this is a family-friendly community. Please accept that booking a trip here to visit your parents at this particular time of the year will eventually involve other people's children. Some may cry. In the baby-boomer era, Florida is bursting with so-called "55+" neighbourhoods - perhaps you convince your folks to move?

In the meanwhile, I've been asked to be the escort to the washroom, how many times? I have seriously lost count. I provide healthy snacks on demand. You see this blue and white box? It's the fridge equivalent of Mary Poppins' bag. Between two boys, these tasks are pretty much on-going. I am also frequently charged with pressing the button on the fountain to refill water guns - apparently, it's not nearly as much fun unless the water is ice cold! In addition, I sit like a hostage for 40 minutes on an 'airplane' assembled of lined-up deck chairs pretending to hold a proper boarding pass and passport for the 6-year-old pilot who checks in passengers himself. And he is meticulous - there is no way to escape!

I successfully arbitrated a number of "I had it first" conflicts thereby preventing World War III. I re-applied sun-screen according to the instructions while chasing the swift and slippery semi-greased children so I can finish the area under their eyes without touching the eyes, mouth or nose and so possibly risking a visit to Emergency. I've been a life guard, making sure at all times I keep track of the two heads that are popping in and out of the water, now that older kids have taught them how to 'thunderbo-o-o-o-lt!'. Then the drinking of pool water - gurgling it and then spitting it at each other while laughing uncontrollably, which also poses a safety hazard.

The reality of my happy place.

Ironically, I too had a book open on my electronic device: page 79 of 1441. Yup, ten days into it and I'm making good progress. My book club is scheduled for the third Tuesday in January, but I thought I was in excellent shape with these two plus weeks in Florida -  who can't finish a book, for once, on such a long and relaxing vacation? But, my friend, I am yet to be on that lounge-chair adorned with my favourite beach towel - that is secured by a clip in the form of a flamingo no less - for longer than five - not fifteen, not fifty - uninterrupted minutes.

So, when I refuse to get wet in order to play "ding" please consider cutting me some slack. You see, I invented the game we fondly call "ding" few years ago. Fully immersed in water, with my arms outstretched to touch the edge of the pool, I play the 'security' at this very gated community. When the visitor arrives at the entrance ramp (aka my arm), he needs to recite his first and last name, age and the purpose of his visit. When the ramp opens, I must sound the "ding" to mark the occasion while, needless to say, delighting my visitors. While at the gate, the older one is required to list his full address in Florida, including the zip code and my cell phone number - a precaution from a few years ago when he wandered away in the local outlet mall (saving that for the reformed-shopaholic post.) So, “ding” is certainly an educational game. After a few entries, these visitors simultaneously become both cocky and crazy and start skipping the intro part, one jumping over the ramps, the other one diving under. At that point, I have no other choice but to dial 911. When the police car arrives (me again, this time with sirens) it takes them both to jail (stairs of the pool) where they have to sit and count (the JK sentence) or do simple math, such as adding to 10 (suitable Grade 1 punishment). Now that I see it in writing, I am surprised they love it so much given the heavy math content.

But this is not the first time you and I met. I saw you at the gym yesterday morning when you walked in on my moksha yoga sequence just as you were picking up two 25-lb dumbbells so you could complete the most punishable sit-up routine I have ever witnessed. Really, I wouldn’t have looked, but you parked your mat right in front of me, obscuring my view of the pool. I could see nothing but your face in pain, to be specific, that bulging vein - the arteriovenous fistula - rapidly growing in the middle of your forehead. Just for the record, I’m no slob either. I power walked six miles, pausing only occasionally to talk to a passerby or two, before I returned to my pigeon pose, trying to save these gluts from aching tomorrow. The fact that my toppling tree kept toppling is because you, Woman - writing the "To the Woman" letter to me as we speak - for whatever reason chose my knee as your focal point as you completed your self-inflicted boot camp. My yoga teacher taught me to breathe into my ribs and smile with my eyebrows; I understand that that expression might have thrown you off.

My walking trail

My meditation path

The way you keep glancing at me while still scribbling no doubt suggests you do not approve of my figure. Trust me, sister, neither am I. But somehow, all this walking I am doing fails to make a visible effect, although it makes me insanely happy on the inside. Who wouldn't be happy walking through this tropical paradise, appreciating life and everything in it? Well not everything, I suppose... Not you. Not today.

Back to my child's whining - and yes, I am aware he is still whining - I am really not ready to commit to the "ding" game yet. This might surprise you but I am, sort of, a retiree at heart. When we come here in April or during the summer, I am the first to rush into the ocean, never mind the pool. But in late December I am more the type that contemplates for a minute or two or ten on each step before getting deeper. The spa is, on the other hand - totally my cup of tea.

This crying marathon actually started when I got up from the lounge-chair, clear no reading was going to happen, but headed for the hot tub instead of the pool, starting the jets full force. My right ankle thanked me!

You see, as I am replying to your letter that I haven't actually read yet, the jets are so loud I don't even hear my kid yelling any more. And no, I'm in no position to change my parenting for your comfort. If I do, he will drive our rent-a-car tomorrow. Or eat sixteen fruit yogurts, all blueberry, instead of dinner. Or sleep and shower with my iPad - the one I have that book club reading on.

The spa's bubbles ended their 15 minute sequence. All is quiet. And look, my boy is contently playing in the shallow part of the pool all by himself! And now, NOW you are leaving?! Or no... You are coming to talk to me? To personally hand me your letter?!

“Here, your mom asked where we got three-wheeled bicycles for my parents. It was at Engel's. Here is their address and website. They're pricey but very safe. Say Betsy sent you!"

“Oh... Thank you...”

“Also, I wanted to ask you... Where did you get your bathing suit? I love that frilly little skirt!"

“Simon Chang... in Costco...”

I simply adore Byron Katie. I love her observation: "Defence is the first act of war". Teaching us to lead the life without explaining, without justifying and independent of the good opinion of others. Just loving what is.

When will I learn? Until then, beach it is!

"If you're happy on vacation clap your hands (clap, clap, clap)..."

All I want for Hanukkah is... SILENCE (not X-mas)

The last one that has to do with Holidays, I promise. At least until the Valentine's Day or whatever our local Dollar store starts displaying a week from today -- they always know best.

I should've known what to expect three years ago when a new neighbour moved in around the corner from us and erected a contraption that, at a click of a button, made his outdoor swimming pool go indoor. Or when he installed two of those garage elevators so he could store his four SUV's - vanity license plates carefully yet not originally chosen - in the double car garage. 4UQT! Barf bag, puhlease!!! If that wasn't enough, by the end of the summer a contractor came and started work on what had seemed to be a perfectly good driveway (after all, the house was brand new), only to reveal some 20k later - are you ready? - the blue & white logo of the Toronto Maple Leafs smack down in the middle. I promise to take a picture of it and risk trespassing. It would be totally worth it! The next owner will no doubt have to be a fan! The only thing missing on the house was a mezuzah. So I should have known...

Few days after that year's Halloween when a giant inflated pumpkin was unceremoniously removed from the manicured front lawn, a big truck pulled in with the sign: "It's a Christmas Affair". It gets dark so damn early this far north in the Northern hemisphere, that the sun had already set by 5 p.m. when I brought my favourite middle child home from JK. Worry not, no kids have been emotionally harmed with this blog-post. I'm a mother of three and call each of them 'my favourite insert the order of birth child'. They are used to it. Turning the corner approaching our home, we were blinded by the glow worthy of the Las Vegas strip.

- MAMAAAAA - exclaimed then 4 yr old Daniel - DID YOU SEE THIS HOUSE?!??!!!
- Yes, it's really pretty!
- Can we DO THAT to our house???!!!

The house

- Ask Aba*!

[*Aba - dad in Hebrew]

So now, I am not too proud of dodging this request by referring it to my good husband, I figured that he is a Sabra (born in Israel), an original Jerusalem boy. Just by his birthright he sounded better qualified to explain the why not vs. why not today, which I was ready to handle.

A lot of my fellow Jewish moms have the same issue with their little ones and we kind of all feel a bit of relief when kids start Grade 1 in one of the Hebrew Schools and joyously become experts on Jewish holidays. The joy comes from learning the traditional songs and stories. The enthusiasm to remember it all, comes from the fact the schools are closed for every single one of these holidays. And there are so many!!! No kidding the kids are happy -- school is out a lot!

A mommy-blogger wrote this week a nice article on parenting in general and this dilemma that haunts non-Christmas-celebrating families - clearly we are not the only one! It also inspired the title of this post.

Seemingly unrelated, I know a thing or two about the Pharmaceutical industry -- it is often criticized for 'creating the market' for the medications they promote. If you can't recall the TV commercials reminding you the dry patches on your skin are embarrassing in addition to being itchy and bothersome, followed by the insanely undesirable list of side effects including death, everyone certainly remembers a man hopping around town on his way to work, singing a children's song. Yup, subliminally we all tend to diagnose ourselves, while washing dishes as the TV chimes on: do you feel tired? No, really, you do! Of course I'm tired. Shut up, I'll ask my doctor, all right?

Demoted to a lower case "s"

But what happens when the tiredness comes from the exhaustion of feeling pressured to buy and buy big on every single step. That's all they do since mid November - the TV and Radio stations - sometimes starting even earlier. "You'd better get ready, the shopping days are dwindling down" "Show how much you love them". The Malls, the shops, the billboards, the noise, the shiny happy people and the golden wrapping paper... I mean, just look at this woman, on the commercial for one of the major electronic retailers. Show of hands, who doesn't want to be the enchanted her? Or better yet, who doesn't want to be the owner of the hand 'as seen on TV'?!

This year, my e-mail got legitimately spammed. I started getting messages from a spa I once trusted with a facial, with the personalized "The clock is ticking if Marina still wants to get the glow for the holidays". The blender I diligently registered in order for the warranty to work is reminding me it's the last day to order... How many 600$ blenders do I need, darling Vitamix people?

Actually, I am very proud to have completed soon-to-be an entire year of starting my work-days with a green smoothie. One of those resolutions, I miraculously held for 12 months! How much more should I slurp to qualify for peace from these marketers?

My biggest disappointment came when self-improvement publishers, renowned teachers and guru's, coaches and authors, who I actually enjoy reading and following, started flooding my mailbox with countdowns and subject lines such as: "It's Now or Never" or "Last Chance" to sell their programs, books and related merchandise. The closer we got to the ominous Dec 25th, the bigger the discount, the smaller the ask: get the stocking stuffers, at least! Forgetting the prevailing principle of their very books and teachings that "There is no such a thing as a last chance - every day is a clean slate". Now or Never? I'll be adventurous and go with the never. Let's see what happens, between now and next December, shall we, when the next round of bargains and last chances start flooding in.
To tell the truth, this whole time with the holiday frenzy spinning uncontrollably, I think to myself that if it was only for this year-end madness, becoming Jewish was a true blessing.

Then, last week, as we were killing some time in Chapters, a big-box-book store, in Bayview Village. I saw it clearly: This end of the year business, is nothing but... business. For those hoping for warmth, closeness to either God or family or both, all this pressure and counting and guilting sounds like one big fat lie. An approved scam.

Who the heck is Elf on the Shelf?! Mensch on a Bench??? You must be kidding me! But then again, I've seen the trees with only blue & white lights, dreidels happily dangling around, star of David proudly displayed on the top. December toy drive in a Synagogue. Who are they baking the cookies for, Hanukkah Harry? And his camel? Why does everything need to be for profit?

I know only one way of dealing with this. Silence. Whether it's my personal prayer, a meditation, a long walk or sitting alone in a room, I know how I want to feel come calendar year-end: complete and alive. I want to count my many blessings. I want to extend thanks. I want to offer help to those going through tough times. I want to review all the mistakes I have made and learn something from them. Cringe at my bloopers one last time before I let them go. I want to remember if I neglected to connect with someone in my life. Call them. Or write a long real letter, not a card. I want to forgive myself. And then everyone else. And laugh off the rest of problems. Then commit to one 'before & after' shot I will be proud to share on-line.

Before

After

I hope you have all 9 candles ready for tonight's lighting of the Menorah. I hope that the last eight days have reinstalled the sense for the miraculous that life really is. May you all grow from strength to strength. Happy Hanukkah! 

And I hope that right there inside of you, you'll find everything you need to believe; to FEEL the family gathering and the spirit of giving as the meaningful and sacred time. Merry Christmas!

No purchase necessary. 

New Year's Revolution

It's Holiday Season. This may be needed. What do dressing room mirrors, bathroom scales, tact-less relatives and drunken friends-of-friends all have in common?
Let the Friend Like Me tell you about one New Year's resolution actually worth making. What about keeping it? Worry not, it keeps itself... A revolution.

A few years ago, while I was expecting baby #last, my then toddler threw a mega tantrum. He wouldn't enter the home of one of our close relatives that we haven't seen in a while. So we carried him in. Once inside, he wouldn't take his jacket off. So we peeled him out of it. Then he wouldn't stand, sit or be quiet - instead, he rolled himself around the carpet, banging the floor with arms and legs, howling at the top of his lungs. If childcare services happened to be passing by, I am sure we would've got a tap on the shoulder.

I raised my firstborn son mostly by myself and as expected, he never threw a tantrum, probably knowing somewhere deep down not to mess with his mom/dad 2-in-1 combo. Flash forward: my husband and I - both tantrum-virgins in our 40's - were looking at each other wondering what had possessed our otherwise angelic child and how to get him back when my in-law asked: 

"Marina, who on your side of the family is this stubborn?"

My husband gasped. 

The Merriam-Webster dictionary amongst others, gives this definition of the word 'offend': 

to cause to feel hurt, angry, or upset by something said or done. 

Oh how completely I used to succumb to that feeling! For those that know the funny/fearless/fire-breathing dragon I am today, it will be hard to imagine I used to be a serial blusher as a child. Any sentence longer than four words would have ended in my face turning red. God forbid that a question followed - I’d turn crimson. 

Following is a short biography of me feeling offended: 

• In elementary school, some 'mean girls' called me Dumbo as I had protruding ears. Worry not - I got it fixed. Once I work up my blogging courage, I’ll be sure to visit the 10 yr old me the day they took off the bandages and gave me a hand-held mirror. I was the first ever cosmetic surgery in Belgrade's Children's Hospital. My BEFORE & AFTER photo still hangs in the office of the Chief of Surgery. 
• Then there was this girl in Grade 9 standing with her group of friends who were anxiously awaiting details of some wild weekend romp or perhaps the exaggerated version of it. As I walked by, she stopped mid-story with the comment: "hold on, gotta wait for the nun to pass". Nun!!! Of course it's funny today - I'm kind of grateful to have been nun-like at 16. But then, those words scorched. I heard them as: dull, uninteresting, unlovable. 
• Embarrassingly, this didn't end with maturity. A cool mom who was a close friend of our family went to the same aerobics studio as I. One time during an intense day of studying for exams, I dragged myself to a class hoping to alleviate accumulated anxiety. Totally beaten up by our insane, Bin-Laden-hunt-worthy instructor, I took my time in the change-room. Then I heard a thunderous: "Marina!!! Your breasts are HUGE!" coming out of the mouth of this woman who knew me since birth. Needless to say about fifty pairs of eyes immediately swivelled to my - thankfully - bra-covered rack. In Serbia during the late 80’s we weren't in on Victoria’s Secret. Apparently, this was good news. Where is a Kardashian when you need one??!! For the next few years that followed I actually adopted a hunched posture and oversized shirts. 

This all before I raked up the glamorous status of a new immigrant single mother and my three sets of in-laws! Plenty to be offended by. 

Epiphanies can't be bleep-ed

Epiphanies can occur at any given moment. Epiphanies can also arrive in somewhat profane language. But once they occur, there is no way back. My epiphany likely followed a marathon of obsessing who is going to think what; should I do/say/wear this or that. Yes, I actually don’t remember. What I do know for sure is that I was exhausted of trying to predict the future chess- like moves of characters who were supposed to have predominantly supportive roles in my life. 

"I don't GIVE a sh*t!" 

The relief was instantaneous. The worries I dragged around with me since forever washed off as effortlessly as if I simply showered them off. Why did it take me so long??? 

I should have known. If I only faced the word itself and read it correctly. Offend. OFF. END. 

Turn it off. Then it ends. So simple. "I don't GIVE a sh*t!" The pharmacist in me can't resist adding: repeat a few times, before and after each meal, even if right this second, you kind of still do give a sh*t. Then feel the relief washing all over you - coming here to stay. 

Back in that living room, where the toddler was still tantrum-ing on the carpet. By my third marriage, I'd became a pro at this: Surrender. Have fun. Flirt with what used to be a potential for a disaster. Mischievously, wink at my hubby. Then make a resolution: I stubbornly refuse to get offended. 

Bua-ha-ha-ha-ha!

What if HO HO HO stands for "HOrrendous HOliday HOarding"?

If you close your eyes, take a really deep breath, hold it for a few seconds, then have a long loud exhale through your mouth while still truly believing (cue in the music, please) "It's the most wonderful time of the year" -- please click on another page. Now. This week's post is not for you. Close this down. Thank you. Ciao! Just kidding... read on!

Disclaimer: No, I am not an #IH8XMAS weirdo. Nor have I been scarred for life in my early childhood -- making a wish list of sorts and then being ignored by Santa or his reps, getting both zilch & bubkes as a result, forever remembering that morning that forever ruined Christmas for me. All joking aside, too often in my coaching, I see this story repeat itself, bearing considerable grief straight into mid life. The same applies for "my parents used my Bar Mitzvah money to pay for my Bar Mitzvah". Disappointment is a universal beast.

How abundance felt

Diving straight to the place of major nostalgia for me, let me confess that I loved New Year's time when I was little. Born into Serbian Orthodox heritage during the communist reign meant fasting all day on Jan 6th, including the X-mas Eve and a food-over-loaded, yet gift-less X-mas day on January 7th. All the while making sure the shutters were closed and the curtains were down. None of this celebrating was allowed by Marshal Tito and his party. My mother still remembers some songs her grandparents sang for these occasions, and she will sing them beautifully, come January, adding hum's and la-la-la's in lieu of lyrics that have been long forgotten. We were a small yet loud and affectionate family of ten: Grandfather, grandmother, their two daughters with husbands and their four kids. I was the baby.

However, we did get the presents each Dec 31st - they were called "New Year's packages" - pre-paid at our mom's workplace. The employer's union meeting hall, with buzzing and randomly blinking neon lights, would fill up with good parents and excited kids. Despite our fanciest attire, we all looked greenish-blue. The fat dude in a red suit called Santa all around the world, had a different name here: Deda (Grandpa) Mraz (Frost). He was lean and tall like Serbians usually are, and he sported a white beard fashioned from cotton balls. He must have looked really creepy as I am hysterically crying in almost every single photograph my parents took, developed, printed and neatly placed in a family album. Although I have vivid memories of my early childhood, I don't remember a single gift I ever received.

What I do remember, however, is the smell of the live fir tree my father would bring on December 31st. My mom would get the ladder and from the farthest depths of the tallest shelf would materialize a few magical boxes filled with unique hand-crafted glass ornaments. Half of her career my mom was a lawyer at The Institute for Manufacturing Banknotes and Coins - the mint. Her work friends were designers and artists who 'played' with making one-of-a kind art. She started a collection, delighting my sister and me. She still has them. But what I loved even more than these unique shapes were the lights. My mom would string them first, place the shiny garlands deep inside the tree, then let us, kids, carefully slide each precious ornament into the place we chose. Every night she would flick the switch and the tiny colourful bulbs would warm up, inspiring the evergreen to cast its spell. The lights would stay on all night making our old and uneven walls glow with a magical hue. And although I was somewhat aware of how unglamorous it all looked in the daylight, that time of the year the nighttimes were sheer abundance. I felt wealthy.

Perhaps this is why my first experience of a North American Christmas had such a weird effect on me. My first step on the US soil was none less than New York, New York. The movie, architecture & art lover that I am, I didn't have time to notice the Rudolphs, wreaths and jingles. I was mesmerized by this city from my first breath. This hasn't changed. The second stop was Houston, TX, where we, my first ex husband (I'll call him F/X) and I, were to witness the traditional Christmas affair: the live Nutcracker performance followed by the maple-glazed ham and a ginormous stuffed turkey, and tearing through Neiman Marcus gift-wrapping paper. Da "works".

On the first day I met F/X's family, I also met a darling 3-year-old boy who was our host's grandson. With a Croatian father and a Chinese mother, this child looked both cute and interesting to me; I was unaccustomed to multiracial families. The only other race in Serbia were Gypsies. Immediately I owned the role of his aunty-in-love. We played everything: from peek-a-boo and tickle-toes to hide-and-seek and irresponsibly run-run-running around the house, filled with oversized golden statues and tacky porcelain figurines. When the moment arrived for all of the family to gather around the giant tree, I seriously expected a school bus loaded with orphaned children would be honking at the driveway any second, announcing their arrival. There were  s o   m a n y   t o y s  on the display for only One (1) three-year-old child. They could have done their own WestJet miracle. Seriously.

That year, little Johnny* got a train set. A kick-ass train set, battery operated with meters of rails, traffic signs and a working ramp! He got a remote control operated helicopter. And a car he could sit in, with gears and shock absorbers. And a formula-one race track. I almost forgot a puny little Fisher-Price school bus, to round the transportation department offering under the tree. Add a mega Lego set - one of those we'd just seen in the NYC's flagship store -- we had checked out the price, laughed and said out loud: "Who buys this??!" He also got a bench with the mini Black & Decker power tools, each tool actually making a faint electronic noise so the kid is not confused which one he is playing with. Further in the sound category, there was a keyboard with a record/replay option and a microphone. A mini drum set. A kid walkman. Kid camera. Kid phone. The only thing missing was a kid's HELP phone.

Uninterested in this near vulgar display of reverence many friends and business partners felt for the powerful CEO Grandpa, although many gifts were no doubt purchased by the family as well, little Johnny impatiently yanked at my knuckles right after the adults had finished ripping the holly-infused wrapping paper, ooo-ing, aaah-ing and moo-ing to excite a reaction from the child.

"Mau-ina**!!! Let's go run, run, run!!! C'mon Mau-ina!!!" was the only reaction.

Soon after, when we were once again deeply engrossed in the play that cost no more than my cheerful presence, his mother appeared. She pulled me aside and forbade me to continue to 'engage with her son in this manner, as it will build an expectation that she is not willing to fulfill'. English was still a foreign language to me (I would immigrate to Canada only four years later) so I tried to repeat that statement in slow-motion in my head doubting I fully understood - she does not run, run, run and do tickle-toes with little Johnny??! No way! Then she ordered: "And no more wearing perfume when I am here!" Totally getting how privileged I am, I was the first to find out little Johnny was gonna be a big brother. Double the order for the kids' help phone, please!

A Series of Fortunate Events

Not even the mighty YouTube can help me find a Woody Woodpecker cartoon episode that used to be one of my childhood favourites.

Walter Lantz Animation studio - Universal Pictures

In it, with each hasty step he takes, Woody gets into more and more trouble, being chased by a "bad guy" vulture, while the narrator calmly chimes in, after each scene: “None of this would have happened if only Woody reported this to the police”. 

The Belgrade kids I grew up with will remember the magical time of 7:15 PM when a single cartoon aired each day on the first of the two TV channels, right before the evening news. You read that right -- two. Welcome to the ’70’s in Serbia. 

TV Belgrade cartoon announcement - channel 1

 The narrator’s line in Serbian goes: “Svega ovoga ne bi bilo, da je Pera odmah otišao u policiju”. All throughout my childhood, this line was something we used while playing, getting into more trouble, trying to sound as calm as the cartoon narrator. Little did I know, that the same line would become one of the best metaphors of my life.

Here is how: I am here. Now. It is safe to say I am ridiculously happy. As in: some days it gets a bit ridiculous, but most days I am happy. Very happy. 

How did it happen? How does one get to claim happiness? 

One of the go-to wisdom souls I look up to when I have a matter to resolve is Martha Beck, a life coach. She might not yet be aware of it, but she sits on my invisible Board of Directors, often advising me on how to interpret certain life events (Martha, you rock!). In her book “Stirring by Starlight” she describes the technique called Telling Your Life Story Backward (click for work-book).

Technically, it’s what Woody Woodpecker cartoon kept suggesting @7:15 PM.

At the time of this writing, I'm 45 and living the life I have always wished for: crazy proud of my oldest son - an engineering student, totally smitten with my husband and daily entertained/exhausted by the two little “LEGO” & “Thomas the Tank Engine” obsessed boys. I have incredible friends. My close family - we're really close. My far-away family in Serbia - we're really close too! People I work with - the best. Even my in-laws rock! We share our time between bustling Toronto and Florida sunshine. #LOVEIT

But, how did I get here? If last week's post sounded too easy (it's because it really IS easy), here is the Martha Beck's/Woody Woodpecker's way in deciphering life's landmark moments. It is fun, empowering and very revealing. You should give it a try!

My TOP 10 seemingly unfortunate events and how they channeled this Happily Ever RIGHT NOW:

10. Western Medicine failed me, dictating that: “For the rest of your life you will live with debilitating muscle weakness and fainting spells.”

I had to un-learn what I learned in pharmacy school, seek alternate help and put my trust in a Chinese Medicine man. He healed my symptoms in a jiffy and cleared the way for two fabulously easy, late-in-life pregnancies, suggesting to me that ‘ticking biological clock’ might not exist after all. I am a mother of three!

9. West Nile Virus which left me sick and in bed for 6 months.

Instead of the typical dating scenario of 'who called who first' & exploring city’s shee-shee-foo-foo restaurants, I truly got to know my Mr.Right Now (and husband-to-be) as he continued to visit me at home. He would sit by my bedside and bring his dog for my son to play with. We fell in love in between my 40+ C spikes of fever. His wooing me with watermelon instead of flowers, became one of our favourite 'dating' stories! #CHEAPDATE

8. My mother battled breast cancer (and she is a survivor!)

My mom is my bestie - this was the scariest thing I have ever encountered. When her oncologist confirmed the diagnosis, I excused myself and fainted in the hallway of the Princess Margaret Hospital. This led to my “trial by fire” initiation to Life Coaching - many years, courses and clients later, I remain fulfilled and inspired by how much a little extraordinary work can do for me and everyone around me.

7. My close encounter with the beast called Depression

Many years of the adrenaline-laden life-and-death decision making finally came to claim their due. It's Saturday and I am in bed, unable to get up and wishing the mattress would open up and swallow me. I need the king size feather duvet wrapped tightly on top of me so that no one can hear me sob. Especially not my son. Feelings of guilt and shame are suffocating me. This teaches me how to ask for help and then to humbly receive all the help I could get. This also brought me my life’s BFF. Love you L.! 

6. I divorced for the second time

It simply didn’t work. The marriage. But, boy, did it work on the true life-long friendship side of things! Not only for me, but for my son too. Till this day he calls him dad. They have so much in common. This shattered the last stigma of my life’s unfavourable statistics (aka double divorcee with a child) and introduced the big picture, big time. This whole writing idea is his. Big hug M.! 

Just epic... Beat this Mini Coupe!

5. Immediately after we immigrated to Canada, the biggest snow in 100 years dumped on Toronto. Mel Lastman, then Mayor, called the army to shovel, as the busiest highway had to close down. 

Our 16th anniversary of being 'adopted' is in December.  
Thank You, Canada! 
Day one though, while still jet-lagged, I got a job, a map and a company car. Up to that point, I have never driven a car (other than a Yugo in driving school). My first year I would bank 60k in mileage… the first 30k through the XXL winter of 1999. #KICKASSDRIVER

4. NATO threats bombing Belgrade, Canadian Embassy moves out of Serbia, taking my file somewhere.

This story has a Fairy God-Mother -- my sister, a recent immigrant, a pharmacist, who walked into the HR office of the company she worked for, and ‘sold’ me so well, they decided to interview me and then offer me a job. It gets better: they actually hired a top-notch immigration lawyer, who did the impossible even before I earned for a bottle of water. He dug out our misplaced file from the Embassy in Vienna, refreshed my case and mailed our visa’s, leaving my toddler and me 48h to pack our lives into four suitcases and leave Serbia. You kreyZ M.!

Three months after we left, NATO bombed Belgrade

3. I lost 50% of my salary as a pharmacist, to fellow Bosnian-refugee colleagues, making it impossible to afford more than diapers, one chicken and a dozen eggs per month.

Where do I go with my baby? Stay in the city? Move to the countryside? Immigrate? Cutting roots at age 29 was scary. Leaving my sick parent was guilt-ridden. Gambling my relationship to the long-distance version of it was heart-wrenching. Still, staying in Belgrade became impossible.

2. At the receiving end of hurtful gossip 

My baby was a few months old and I was eager to catch the first rays of spring sunshine, while sporting the stroller my parents bought. As I proudly pushed my boy through our neighbourhood, two middle-aged women observed us sitting on a nearby bench. I didn’t know them. Passing them, I made a little nod as they were still looking at me intently. Thinking I was out of earshot, one said: “That’s the one I was telling you about - her husband left her when she was 9 months pregnant! Can you believe it???” #IGOTTOGETOUTOFHERE became a thought

1. Those women were right: My first husband did leave me when I was 9 months pregnant. 

This month, we will be marking the 19th anniversary with a Texas sized T-bone steak, BBQ'd to perfection and topped up with onions, a great Serbian culinary tradition. None of this wondrous life would have been possible without him ditching us. Thank you I.S.!!!

“None of this would have happened if only Woody reported this to the police”

Photographs, especially the ones prior to the digital era of the 'selfie' capture mostly happy occasions - travels, celebrations, accomplishments. A new car. Looking closely into them, it is not that easy to find out much about your once younger self, besides the company we kept, sense of fashion and perhaps, eating habits.

Instead of photographs, it's better to look at life as a mini-memoir, in order to capture the real transformation. A fine lace made out of hardships and heartbreaks. 
Before we all get caught up again in the New Year's resolution frenzy, let's zoom in on the 'rough times', in retrospect. Tell your own life story backward, but no awfulizing allowed! Honour each item as a badge of honour that it is. If used wisely, they can all lead to recognizing remarkable in life. So, wake up. Rise up. Speak up. Un-learn. Reframe. Grow out of the confines of the 'small & safe' life. Ditch the 'small and safe'! 
Then realize that life is nothing but a series of fortunate events.