"I Don't Want To Be Good"

The most epic meltdown as a child that I can remember was when I was about four. Funnily enough I don't remember much about it myself -  it was more the numerous recounts of the event as told by my parents, describing the one monumental tantrum they chose to preserve in our family's collective memory.

Blogger @4: Not so innocent

The story goes that I had gotten some money for my birthday; my aunt living far away in Canada always diligently sent her nieces and nephews in Serbia a generous monetary gift each year of our childhood, nestled in a beautiful Hallmark card. The three-figure number (a lot of money for Serbia) precisely outlined by little perforated dots that felt like Braille on the back, the intricate design on the thick stock of the Toronto Dominion bank cheque. 

So my parents asked me - likely as a joke - where would I want to invest my money?

     "JIK bank - a bank in your home!" - I answered right away and they all burst into laughter.

There was a radio commercial for Jugoslav Investment Credit bank that aired constantly. Having stayed home with a nanny while all the other family members were in school or at work caused me to hear the marketing message so many times a day that I even said it with the intonation of the voice actor.  This had brought on an flurry of giggles. 

JIK bank pin

However, my own parents didn't bank with the JIK bank and no one was seriously committed to honouring storing my Canadian dollars the way I had personally elected to as a young investor. When I realized there was no call being made on my behalf (JIK bank's pitch promised they would even send a representative to one's home to open an account!) I immediately opted for that meltdown that everyone remembers till today. The story was that I cried for hours, voice hoarse and eyes red and swollen. My mother made an executive decision to send me to bed without dinner - likely a difficult and heart-wrenching move for her given at age four I was skinny as a toothpick - a hopelessly poor eater. 

All these years later, it turns out that as an adult I am equally unprepared to deal with authority that offers me a freedom of choice within well-established rules, only to neglect honouring it when decision time comes. In minor cases I am talking about offers which 'expired' and can't be honoured even though the fine-print is clear and the date is right. That's when I become a relentless warrior of the customer service line until the issue is resolved to my utmost satisfaction. In major cases -- well, I am not going to be talking about major cases. You get the point. 

I'm not sure if this childhood incident ignited my moderate yet unfaltering type of righteous-rebelliousness to see each "because I say so" type of injustice through until its very end, but this just might be the case. Don't circumstances usually forge the behaviours? Adamantly forbid something and sure as hell it will be done behind your back: Not staying off the grass. Underage smoking. Experimenting with drugs. Not asking your doctor. Driving over the speed limit. Drinking while at work. Using business hours to browse the internet, write a book, sell shakes, jewelry and even real-estate? 

Pretty much every time a parent, a boss or a politician tries to go hard-ass with some safety or productivity or political rule, it backfires. And in case the parent, the boss or the politician showed a smidgen of incongruence with their own rule - the very core of that structure starts to rot, perhaps not visibly at first, but surely leading to an individual if not collective collapse down the road. 

Bottom line - those making up the rules or making accusations better make them and enforce them carefully - perhaps highlighting guidelines that honour integrity, core values and the big picture; ensuring they themselves first adhere to the very last letter of it. You can't take a 'green day' then expect your teenager to stay off weed. It just doesn't work that way!

My guilt-ridden mother tells me she entered my bedroom shortly after she sent me to bed on that day. My breathing was still heavy from all that drama and she wanted to kiss and make nice, thinking I wouldn't be able to fall asleep until we said 'sorry'.

    "Hey darling, I came to say goodnight. I'm sorry you were disappointed. We will talk about the bank tomorrow." She sat near me and tenderly stroked my hair. "Is there anything you want to say to mama?" 

    "Yes." My quiet voice answered and my mom smiled. I shakily drew a deep breath:     
    "Mama, actually, I don't want to be good!" Then allegedly relieved, I fell asleep. 

The way I try to parent my boys is by being fluid. Have the core rules we are proud to honour in our family each and every time no matter our relative rank by age: being kind, honest, hard-working and light-hearted. Light hearted. It is extremely important not to take ourselves too seriously, let alone make comparisons to others. That goes under 'kind': kind to ourselves. Compete today only with who we were yesterday and no one else. And then there are those rules which are welcome to be 'broken' especially when folks with born-into-it status or those with default authority are in question. By example, I often teach my kids "not to be good"-- coaching them to sense and question inauthentic behaviours and one-sided rules, challenging the unfair, exposing the fake and the ridiculous. Like an everyday version of a PG-rated bad-ass, steadfast in being the proverbial 'troublemaker'.
It's my pleasure to be one!

Proudly raising the next generation of troublemakers! 

Whistle While You Work

One thing that people living in the country where their native language is spoken can't possibly appreciate is the ease of understanding the song lyrics. To you it just comes with ease and zero effort. To me - it's a labour intensive experience and unless it's a karaoke night I am reluctant to sing out loud for over a decade now because of - Brian Johnson.

My biggest blooper with language and lyrics happened when my oldest son was 8 or 9 and got introduced to none-other than AC/DC by his "dad" - a wonderful man and a lifelong friend I rarely mention in my writing although he helped a great deal in raising my son. But I feel that the story of love and respect for the man who's on paper my "second ex-husband" deserves way more than just a blog post. No need to worry M, you can keep your anonymity a while longer, the memoir's not quite done yet!

Long story short, the kid got a boom box from his dad and a few CD's and the next thing I know the door to his room is starting to be more and more often shut. The music blaring behind it is angry; bass and drums are fierce seemingly shaking the very foundation of our East York home. I approach the door in order to intervene about the decibels when I hear my otherwise gentle boy's voice growl the most disturbing lyrics. Shocked, stunned and mortified, I run to the backyard where M is fixing their bikes so they can go for some equally savage ride and mistakenly I repeat what I heard, but first - of course - questioning his sanity as a co-parent to provide such disturbing musical content to my child.

AC/DC fan club 

   "Dirty deeds un-der sheets? DIRTY DEEDS UN-DER SHEETS!?"

What ensued was one of those moments that I only remember in slow-motion. M lifting his face towards me, dropping the greased bike chain on the driveway, whole face squinting into a grimace before his 6'5" frame rolled over to the grass patch where he laughed uncontrollably until the kid heard him, paused the music, got told how I understood "Dirty deeds done dirt cheap" , after which they both continued laughing and rolling on the ground - likely until supper time. Which I probably didn't even want to cook for them!

Understandably so, I stayed away from loud singing until this past winter, when my new set of kids (Oops 1 & Oops 2) fell very much in love with the Disney soundtrack. No, not Frozen, thank goodness but an old CD they inherited from their big brother, the AC/DC fan himself: Villain Songs! #boyswillbeboys

And since the best way to motivate the boys to get ready for school in a flash is to make it a competition (the kid that gets his snowsuit, boots, hat, gloves & backpack on first gets 2 songs on our drive to school while the runner up gets only one) I got to hear a lot of that villain music this past winter. Before  e v e r y  drop-off and after  e v e r y  pick-up!

When the lyrics finally managed to sink with my comprehension what stroke me as incredible were the lessons and social queues I totally missed when I used to hear these songs with Filip many years back! Disney Villains offer some seriously good teachings that can turn to be very useful for navigating both personal and professional relationships.

Here are some Disney song gems:

You can sleep safe and sound knowing I am around!

Have you ever been encouraged to trust, to trust so much so that once this convincing someone hears and "takes over" your worries you can actually 'sleep safe and sound' only to find out you've been conned? Well, if you saw the Disney cartoon version of the Jungle Book you have been taught a valuable lesson early on! Be careful who you trust and share your burden with - if you have to be convinced you are safe, it's likely a deception! Trust in me, Kaa is way more than just a pretty name!

Please be careful and say NO!

"I'm not asking much, just a token really, a trifle..."

Along the same lines is the lesson brought by Ursula the Witch. She nonchalantly tells the Little Mermaid it is actually her job to assist her.

"My dear, sweet child, that's what I do
It's what I live for
To help unfortunate merfolk like yourself
Poor souls with no one else to turn to."

The price will become visible only in the end, when it's too late - when the "favour" has already been completed. And when Ursula coldly says: "We haven't discussed the subject of payment" followed by "It won't cost much. Just your VOICE!" I actually had chills! Sometimes in life one is offered a deal at the expense of basic human rights, their voice included. Given my life's experience, I am dying to yell to Ariel each time "Don't do it!" as I listen to her singing naively thinking she made a wise choice by trusting a witch. This is when my sons go in unison, while strapped into their car seats in the back: 

   "Don't worry mama, she'll get her voice back!" 

Thank you boys. True. She WILL get her voice back. Of course she will. Silly me!

The lyrics state: "Whistle loud and long". Please DO!

Good news, it doesn't always take a villain to give sound advice. For all of us locked-up in a Monday to Friday routine sometimes referred to as a rat-race, the Snow White has an easy to follow advice: 

Whistle while you work!

What is more surprising, these exact words are echoed by grown-ass councillors that are trained to career-coach!

"Frozen", just not by fear!

It might sound simple but it is actually quite profound. Whistling can make the time pass quicker. In case the work is dull & done only for the sake of a paycheque, it will remind you there is much more to life than just work. It is also contagious - the more you whistle the more people will join in making for a jolly company that weathers the daily obstacles together. We are never alone in our problems. Taking things lightly is a great strategy!

Ask any little girl and they'll tell you, no they won't tell you, they will sing you one of the most important life lessons we all - me first - need to get better at: Let it go!

The 2013 animated blockbuster "Frozen" offers the best ear-worm ever created and I am sure to be humming it until I fully and totally get it. Life-coaching taught me to never to allow things to be rushed, but rather acknowledged and processed - usually with a group of trustworthy peeps - in order for everything to be understood and closed. It's only then one can fully and completely "Let it go!"

I'll end my Disney-inspired silver screen adventure with an unusual learning. Can an ultimate villain offer a useful advice that actually rings truer than true? Absolutely!

When Daniel wins our little pre-school winter-dressing contest, being a jazzy kind of kid that plays a

Couldn't have said it better myself!

piano, he always chooses: "Cruella de Vil". When Joshua wins - him being a hearty little rascal - it's "Are you in or out" from Aladdin and the Prince of Thieves. When it's my turn, perhaps because of my fondness for choir music - I always pick Lion King's - "Be Prepared". And amazingly enough it is the worst of them all that precisely pinpoints how I feel these days as I enjoy my life, my family and my work while mapping our amazingly fun summer:

"Just listen to teacher:

I know it sounds sordid but you'll be rewarded

When at last I am given my dues!

And injustice deliciously squared.

Be prepared!"

Injustices can be deliciously squared indeed. It just takes a tiny little bit of patience and preparation: know who to trust, whistle while the work is getting done, then simply claim one's voice back. Then it becomes super easy to let it all go!

Live If Lies Let You

Some ten years ago, on an impromptu party in a beautiful home in Forest Hill (Toronto’s posh neighbourhood), three ‘privileged’ teenagers decided to get drunk, raid the fully loaded bar and even steal some cash. They were caught as soon as my friends - parents of the boy who thought he could throw a party then get away with it - returned from a weekend abroad. The perpetrators were all in Grade 12. They were 18 years old. 

The debate ensued: what should be the correct course of action? Legally they were all adults. Calling police would earn them a permanent record. Telling teachers might ruin the reputation of otherwise decent boys, a reputation essential to the second last report card - the one that goes to desired universities. Telling their wealthy parents… Ouch!

My friend, one of the wisest and kindest people I know, decided to try a new approach. After the boys replenished everything they had drunk and stolen they sat remorsefully in front of her, fully owning up to their stupidity and awaiting the verdict: 

Each boy was assigned to do some volunteer work at three of her friends who needed help. This happened to be the fall of my slow recovery from the West Nile Virus so one of the young men, Andy, was assigned to me. Andy’s job was to help rake our backyard which was filled beyond recognition with leaves that two giant sycamore trees from the neighbouring schoolyard would mercilessly dump each October.

Andy arrived on time and knocked at the door. He tried to act cool although I felt a shadow of the shame a culprit would wear to a mandatory Saturday work session.  

“Hey dude! Thanks for coming. We need you!”  were the words that did the magic. Andy realized there would be no mentioning of the mishap. His shoulders relaxed and a faint smile crossed his face. 

For a while, the three of us worked together - Andy and I raking and my son Filip, who was ten at the time, packing the leaves in paper bags. When given a rake Filip had a tendency of regressing to a ninja warrior, fighting the piles of leaves, destroying the already packed bags and then claiming exhaustion. No rake for Filip! 

Once my limited energy had expired, I went inside to make hot cocoa while the boys worked. By the time I brought the second round of treats out, they were buddies. 

What stayed with me a decade later from that crisp fall day was not the ease of redemption. Or how strangers—a teen and a tween—could bond in an instant over a chore. It was Andy’s father. When he came to pick him up he shook my hand with both of his and said:

 "Thank you for helping Andrew co-create his experience surrounding this incident. It is people like your friend and yourself who allowed Andy to grow into his learning and restore his integrity. I am very grateful to you for creating a safe space for him.”

Until then, I had never heard such terminology used in parenting: co-create, grow into learning, safe space, integrity. 

“Excuse me for asking, but what do you do for a living?” I asked, expecting to hear he was a family therapist.

“I’m a Life Coach” he said, nodding slightly.  “I work with corporate VPs and executives. For sure it’s making me a way more effective and sane parent.”

Later that evening, I called the friend who had sent Andy to me to tell her of this profound parenting experience and also to share that after talking to the dad for an hour I had decided to become a life coach myself and attend the same school where he had trained.

“Oh, I am so happy for you!” she said “because, you see, the other two boys never showed up at their volunteer assignments. Their parents bailed them out.”

Often in life the ‘parent’ will not know how to parent. There will be rulebooks to read, papers to sign, curfews to obey. And still, when it comes to enforcing the rules and living the values that are the very fibre of the family more often than not the parent will decide to do nothing.The drunk teen will keep driving dad’s car. Steal smaller bills from the wallet. Harass his younger sister. I am never sure if the parent is so oblivious that she believes it’s just a phase or is it sheer ignorance? Could it be that someone told her to shut up!? 

Thank goodness - we all get to choose what we do in our own home, with the ones we are responsible for!  

The true gift of my decade of single parenting enhanced by life coach training and an unwavering set of core values, not much different from those my parents and grandparents held - is that I see things with laser-sharp clarity as they unfold in real time. And I am unwilling to lie to myself. And since my parenting is not a job but a calling, it is with 100% probability that my kids know: if I do this, mama will do that. It is exactly that predictability - no matter how un-cool or boring it sounds - that is the backbone of our family and the real deal behind the unconditional love. 

I love you so much that I will never lie for you. 

I respect you so much that I will help you learn to live with integrity. 

It always starts with me.  

Thankfully, it doesn't end with me. New generations of knowledge-empowered, empathetic and passionate truth-seekers is conquering what's left of the stale, corrupted and complacent world. In the following 'viral' five and half minutes, Donovan Livingston will inspire our children to become the "thorn in the side of injustice".
Perhaps it's time for "parents" to unlearn the art of lying.

Dial M for: Marriage, Motherhood, Memoir

On today's date 22 years ago I didn't know it was Mother's Day weekend.

Serbia doesn't do Mother's Day, or Father's Day for that matter.

1994

Twenty two years ago May 7th was "Djurdjevdan" - a big day in Serbian Christian-Orthodox Calendar represented by St.George on the White horse slaying a dragon. It's a patron saint day of many families in Belgrade, though not mine. On Saturday, May 7, 1994 my family was celebrating something completely different: their daughter's wedding. 

That daughter happened to be me. 

The decision to marry my boyfriend, once I had dated him for a few years, while diligently completing all the checkmarks my parents had insisted on (graduate from university, license as a pharmacist, find a good job, not get pregnant etc.) - well, the talented Bruno Mars perfectly sums it all up in the very first verse of  "Marry You" : "It's a beautiful night, We're looking for something dumb to do, hey baby, I think I wanna marry you!"

The initial wedding date was supposed to be in early April since my sister was emigrating to Canada in mid May and I wanted to give my parents a breather between these two monumental events in our family life. However, my pharmacy technician Mira, who was much older and wiser and also hypnotically persuasive - all that gypsy blood flowing through her veins - told me as we were manning a heavy afternoon shift in the pharmacy wholesale warehouse: "Never marry in April. April marriage--April joke." May 7th seemed like a perfect and safe day. 

Mother's Day 1996 was on May 12th. I wish I knew Mother's Day existed, not because by then I was a mom for the whole 110 days. I wish I knew because by then I learned how much I needed a mom, how much my mom meant to me and how at peace I was with everything that happened as if I wasn't doing my motherhood all by myself. If there is anything that touches the essence of my mom's motherhood it is the first few months of me being a mom - in my case, a single mom. 

My mom welcomed me home after a failed marriage. 

My mom went with me for ultrasounds and doctor's appointments.

My mom was at the hospital the night I gave birth to my son. 

My mom assembled (having our friends and neighbours pass down baby items) the most magical nursery for me to enjoy and heal in.

My mom woke up every night to keep me company while I breastfed. 

My mom cooked delicious home-made soups and baked pies.

My mom ironed mountains of cloth diapers each and every day. 

Bajce the Best!

My mom cleaned projectile vomits, soothed the crying baby and readily managed diaper explosions.

My mom patiently fed him his first solid foods. 

My mom assured me there is no rush to potty train. 

My mom...

My mom followed us to Canada at age 60.

My mom was my son's day-care. And a tutor. And a bestie. And a confidant.

My mom saved my sanity. And taught me everything I know about motherhood. 

And if I had to choose between that husband or this mom - I would've gone for this mom every single time!

2016

I'm aware of my incredible good luck to have this mom be my mom. 

I measure my great luck for being a mother of three boys myself, while still having my mom around - fun and wise and full of life. 

And to make sure my boys will know how to carry our good fortune and extraordinary parenting forward, I'm researching, interviewing and capturing it all in a memoir. 

Here is an excerpt of an early draft:

        It was January. There was no baby formula. No glider chair. No dryer. Only lukewarm radiators. 

I am sitting on a sturdy orange kitchen chair in what used to be the bedroom my sister and I shared as teenagers. My leg is propped on a ledge, my whole body coiled uncomfortably on one side trying to avoid—sitting. 

The newborn in my arms is crying. His mouth gaping open, like in cartoons. Red toothless gums framing a miniature paper-thin tongue. It’s a hungry, frustrated cry. 

1996

I’m crying. Mine is an exhausted, desperate cry. Manual for new moms was clear about breastfeeding. “Offer the breast whenever the baby cries. Mother’s milk is perfectly nutritious, served at the ideal temperature and always bacteriologically safe.” 

Mother’s breasts, the book failed to mention, were swollen and tender, chestnuts tightly packed into a balloon, hard from the milk that started pouring out all at once through the utterly unprepared ducts. The yellowish, greasy colostrum was everywhere, soaking and staining my bra and my PJs, spraying baby’s eyelashes, getting into his nostrils, sticking in his tiny soft golden hairs. It went everywhere but into his mouth. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Crying, chanting, I rocked myself front and back then stopped jolted by the sharp pain. The tiny mouth managed to latch and started sucking, sounding big gulps, almost choking at times, gnawing the nipple until it bled, yet never letting it go. I was nursing a wolf, not a boy. 

It was January. There was no maternity-leave pay for a retail pharmacy manager. Equal opportunity anything hadn't arrived in Serbia. No food in the supermarkets. No gas at the stations. Pampers for newborns sourced on the black market, too big for the skinny 6-pound body. One diaper, one Deutsch mark. 

“You WILL grow to hate me. You will look at me one day and ask ‘how could someone fail so profoundly at basically everything? At motherhood. At breastfeeding. At providing you with a warm room to sleep in. A clean diaper. A safe childhood. A normal family. A country with no war.’” 

The father-to-be handed me an envelope with neatly signed, stacked and stapled divorce papers ten days before the baby was born. “In case the child is born alive (for still birth please see below), the mother has the right to give the name and make sole decisions regarding medical, religious, educational and all other needs.” Then he disappeared. 

Twenty years later, I am sitting on a chair watching a 6’4”, broad-shouldered man with a hipster beard pack the last few items he’ll need in his sophomore year. Laptop—check. Guitar—check.

“Filip, how was it growing up with just me… never meeting your biological father?” 

“Oh, mama!” He turns around and gently taps the top of my head. Then he smiles. “It was magical!”

Happy Mother's Day!

Return To Innocence

Navy blue skirt. Crisp white shirt. A red triangular neck scarf. A star-shaped pin with a gold hammer & sickle symbol. All these comprised my uniform on the day in September 1976. when I became Tito’s pioneer with the rest of my Grade 1 class in Belgrade's Pioneer City. 

We wore that uniform every time we had a special assembly or whenever a foreign politician decided to pay my school or city a visit, be it philandering Valerie Giscard d’Estaing or notorious Nicolae Ceausescu. For the infamous visit of Muammar al-Qaddafi I was already a university student and could bail-out of those mandatory moments of waving a miniature flag, red carnation in hand.  

A wide blue rectangular Moskvitch was parallel-parked on the Smiljanićeva street, my dad periodically sliding underneath it on a home made dolly (my sister and I called it for some meaningless reason "lek-lor", remember Mina? It was one of our favourite outdoor toys!). I remember our father’s pharmacist hands often being black on weekends, smelling of motor-oil from changing it himself or replacing a part he managed to source. There was also mom’s red Fiat 126P, the size of a Costco shopping cart, and displaying the licence plate BG 159-19. For a good period of time - we had a near fluorescent lemon-yellow Citroen GS with black stripes racing along the bottom of each side of it. And in the last few years we could afford a car it was the sand coloured Lada Samara, BG 360-340. We loved this car so much we named it "the desert fox". But not after Rommel!

Not after Rommel because no one wanted a part of a German soldier at play-time. Everyone wanted only to be a partisan. Or even better a secret group of friends fighting Gestapo on the streets of Belgrade as seen in the favourite TV series of my childhood “Otpisani”. Because in school, on TV and at the cinema, it was all about the WW2 and how - despite all odds - with Tito’s leadership we beat the Nazi's and became the ‘modern’ Yugoslavia.

And then they were parents like mine who refused to belong to the communist party. They did well as pharmacist and a lawyer, but never really as well as their peers who opted for the membership. Career advancements, free corporate apartments and posts overseas were reserved only for those who attended meetings and proclaimed themselves as communists. Instead, my parents would shut the windows, draw the curtains, explain to us kids the utmost importance of secrecy and keeping topics from home at home, then proceed to gather and entertain their free-minded friends, generously criticizing the government, exchanging passionate commentaries and telling jokes that could earn each adult significant time at the Goli otok - the barren island - an inhumane and often terminal stop for political prisoners. 

In essence, this is the fabric of my childhood. And as incredible as it might sound to you and the by-now fully North-Americanized me: we had the best time of our lives living in Yugoslavia!

Comrades flash to warn each other of hidden speed radars

Perhaps that is why this past winter I fell in love with Cuba. I had been to Cuba many times before - the favourite (read: inexpensive) winter getaway location for a single mom and her son snatched on a last minute website often just in time to tell my boss and his teacher. This winter, we made it our mission to let go of the all-inclusive circus (more on that soon) and explore Havana for a couple of days. Our mission: Havana before Obama.

The result? The nostalgic and overwhelming feeling I had entered the time capsule. 

Here is why:

Revolution is still a current and hot topic

 The Cuban flag is a point of national pride on many balconies

The red star still a common political and fashion statement

School uniforms ensure all kids are equal

Morro castle proudly reminds of hard fought independence 

And cannons and cannonballs are at every corner. Yey!

The coffee is real and far from the venti skinny vanilla latte craze

Domestic cola and beer reign, blissfully unaware of Pepsis & Buds 

Guys still sweet-talk girls over backgammon

Neighbours unite in common problems

Men and women are equal. Old age is treated with utmost respect

Even though the city is quite uniquely avant-garde

Dryers are obsolete on La Isla

Big work is only being done now because of Obama's impending visit

But as long as all Cubans remember the unfaltering courage  

They are at liberty to smile & salsa, enjoying a rare freedom

There is something seductively naïve in the collective demeanour of Cubans. They are kind, they are proud and their streets are safe for everyone even in the wee hours of the night. They know the world has moved on. And the Internet exists. The globe is suddenly much smaller. But they also recognize that the deep western unhappiness, cancerous corporate greed and modern-day enslavement is nothing to strive for. They really haven't missed much. 

When the taxi windows and doors closed and we departed for Havana, our driver Miguel (not his real name) told us - just like my parents did back in the days of former Yugoslavia - how things really are. Then he got careful to end all such conversations as we passed the toll booth. Cubans are anxious to see what will happen with the physical end of the Castros. Anxious yet calm. And hopeful.           

By day they work, considering themselves successful if they get anywhere near the Canadian and European tourists, taking any job even though they might have a medical, engineering or teaching degree already completed. Unlike their real professions, this allows them to earn in convertible pesos, needed for everything other than the government determined rations of food. 

By night they dance. The new generations of world-class musicians stemming from the original Buena Vista Social Club wizards does not allow for sitting not even a minute out. It is in their every step, smile and swing.

Mi familia explorando Habana

And they are  h a p p y.

Five People You Meet On... Facebook

It's spring. Far from spring-like weather in Toronto but spring nonetheless. And what comes with spring aside from the bombardment of boot-camps, colonic cleanses and restrictive diets promising a beach-ready body in a jiffy? Spring cleaning!

Being the daughter of my particular mother (sorry mama!) growing up, I loathed spring cleaning, mainly because this energetic, capable and cheerful excellent lawyer parent was no joke when it came to anything. Especially cleaning. In a home where on any given day we would've been safe to eat off the floor, spring cleaning meant a bat-shit-crazy level of intensity. Mattresses were lifted, carpets rolled, curtain rods dismembered; cashmere sweaters washed by hand in a mild shampoo then dried flat and carefully folded so they could survive the summer and potential moth attacks high up in the lavender-infused closets. Every goddamn Murano glass figurine and delicate crystal piece was carefully removed from its place, washed, and the shelf dusted until it squeaked with surgical-grade cleanliness. Silverware, a special cloth and drops of some German-made liquid were sure to take hours of rubbing and shining of the cutlery we got to use only once a year. Unless I were to get married again. All to the never-ending droning of the eager vacuum-cleaner - an orange-coloured beast made in Slovenia with an always-empty dust bag - as per orders of my drill sergeant mom. Mama, sorry again, but I loathed spring cleaning!

These days I live like a princess. My only task this time of the year is to stuff the clothes I no longer want or fit into the bag and call the CDA Clothesline donation program. Hand down the books I won't re-read. Scoop all the cosmetic sample packs - Gift With Purchase junkie that I am - into a shoebox so I can drop it off in a women's shelter together with the 'babyish' toys my boys reluctantly decided to part ways with. And voilà! It's done!

Could this be it? Do I feel 'clean' and ready to spring forward into new adventures the way we did when my mom was in command? Umm, not quite...

I recently got reminded that there is more to de-cluttering than just the stuff that no longer serves my family. What about the energy that surrounds me? What about people who proved toxic or ill-meaning?

So I sat last night and sifted through my expansive Facebook friend list. Do I really know everybody? Between my early Belgrade years, the high school, the Jewish Choir and neighbours and university and then my early Canada days and brand-new friends and colleagues and my big kid's friends and their moms by now multiplied by another two kids's moms, plus fellow volunteers and travellers and coaches and writers... amazingly, there are very few people I actually haven't met in person! For the most part, the energy they emit is so pure and so good that I can bask in it for hours.

Here are the five people I stumbled upon last night while Facebook-cleansing (for anonymity reasons gender references might have been deliberately altered).

Cyber-Crush: There is this guy I've actually never met. But some time ago a friend of a friend must have shared some of his writing and I was hooked. Became a fan and a follower and a 'friend'. It's the kind of stuff I forgot could be put in words, especially in somewhat cumbersome Serbian. That Balkan men tend to be rough and jock-like has been my greatest misconception. This guy muses about the complicated in us women, adoring it for all the havoc we wreak upon his big sensitive heart. This guy understands the music and lyrics and the wicked way in which a song can make us weep or chill or rejoice and everything in between. This guy sees the political turmoil of my homeland of the crooked and corrupted while finding the threads of unspoiled and normal and optimistic. It is fair to say that he is a must-have in life even if only on the screen, removed by the ocean and a few vast corn-fields. The Verdict: label him with that 'favourite' star so I make sure I get my dose of awesome every time I check in.

Cluster-Fuck: Everything the Cyber-Crush is not. Stupid. Misogynist. Inappropriate. His signature dumb grin always next to a tall beer someone bought him, tongue sticking out in proof: "Booze = Fun". Sheepish bro-smile on sports event. Horrendously hollow. Universally unwise. Should not procreate. Don't ask how we ended up being Facebook friends. The Verdict: delete the bastard. Nothing good/smart or remarkable will ever come out of this. Block!

Fart-Mountain: This one came in a package with a whole bunch of great people and ended on my list by mere proximity. It didn't take long to distill the theme: with indignant irony he comments on a world that never does him right. Not enough money. Not enough attention. Not enough respect. Not enough opportunity. Food is too expensive. Selection not up to the expectation. And you are guessing right - not enough sex - so there is always this raunchy undertone that might come across as charming to the people just looking to speed up the mandatory minutes. Otherwise everyone just sees one giant wuss. The Verdict: Un-friend fart-mountain. There has never been a friend there anyway.

Anti-Aphrodite: This is a tricky one. Because of some vague biographical details you are led to believe you share a common spirit. You could be friends. You give. You open up. You trust. You wonder... why are the tiny eyes tirelessly darting left and right as if constantly scanning the terrain for terrorist traps? Why are the lips always tightly pursed and instead of an opinion you only get: “Mhmm"? Was that "Mhmm good" or "Mhmm bad"? You never find out. There are whispers in someone else's ears. Silent nods. Elbow pokes. And there's the rampant paranoia the gossip queen suffers from - is it true this person said/thinks/heard...? 

My forties brought with them an abundance of unbelievably-generous, wise, insightful, beautiful and resourceful women-friends. I have no need for a patsavoura in my life. But then I'm a Life Coach. And a feminist. The Verdict: I'll let her delete me. Or by cyber-osmosis she will learn a thing or two about grace. It's her choice. 

Everyone Else: As of this writing, yes, all 718 of you. Thank you for being in my life. The articles you share make me think. Your travel destinations make me plan. Your music choices make me way cooler than I am. The books you recommend make me spend. Your political views... with Donald still rambling around, let's for now leave the political views. Your baby's pictures make my ovaries tingle! Your recipes make me eager to strap on my apron. Your photography inspires me. Your choice of words make me envious. Your fitness levels make me push harder. Your funny pet videos make me melt. Your quotes make me reflect. Your milestones make me rejoice. 

Above all, seeing you often crowding together, right here on my computer screen - mere strangers from around the globe - makes me hopeful. Hopeful we are becoming an army of good. The crowd that understands there is nothing to compete for. Just to generously share everything there is that is good. And no matter what the haters tell you, it really can all start with a “Like”. 

I love you Facebook family!