Actually, Not Love

I don’t know these people. Never met them. But as “friends of friends” things go on social media, you stumble upon stunning photography, exotic travel locations, professionally plated meals, and flowers—copious amounts of flowers. When the inevitable, though not fully intended, exposure hits, it somehow makes its way into one of the bottom drawers of my, sadly, photographic memory. It’s meaningless to me, yet it takes up space. It’s an ice-storm night, and we landed through “moderate turbulence,” so uneventful that the stingy airline actually served us free booze. Happy to be alive alongside my family, in a mercifully short Nexus line, I feel the strife of a young couple at the machine next to me. He’s doing something wrong, repeatedly. She’s whiny but offers no solution. I tap my card, take a bleary photo of myself—I should probably start wearing makeup when flying—but the machine doesn’t seem to mind, promptly spitting out my receipt. With a flash of green, the little clear plastic gate opens and gets me closer to my bed, or so I think. It’s an ungodly hour already, and I don’t know yet that it will take over eighty minutes for the one suitcase we have to arrive. So time I have for people-watching. I love airports.

It’s between Christmas and New Year’s. With a faint smile, I guess who’s family, who’s friends, who’s lovers. Who’s retired, who’s dreading going back to work, who’s starving (me!), whose luggage—with a sexy sequin dress—will arrive only on January 2nd. I spot the Nexus couple high on the escalator. He’s holding two carry-ons. She’s a step below, but twisted 180 degrees, facing him, still whining, only louder. He’s quiet, looking down—not at her, but at his feet. She struts off the escalator, fast. He drags his step, seeming old, still looking at his feet. Defeated. She turns back toward him, and I hope to see something tender—a smile, perhaps a hug. After all, they also survived a turbulent landing. I’m a sucker for happy endings. Without a word, she comes close and yanks the receipt out of his hand, still carrying her luggage, and walks away. He never lifts his gaze. There wouldn’t have been a story, perhaps, if somewhere in the initial silence of our ride back home, or later, once our driver decided to share, with enthusiasm, why we must get the exact hybrid Lexus (he hasn’t purchased gas since June!), my ridiculously busy brain hadn’t opened that bottom drawer, pulled out a file I didn’t know was even stored, and revealed that I actually knew who the unhappy couple were: the recently engaged son of an Instagram friend’s friend and his bride-to-be. Perhaps I’m just overly sensitive. December 2025 marked thirty years since I was dumped by my then-husband, nine months pregnant, and still—despite all the fear of the unknown—I felt that January 1st, 1996, granted me a brand-new chance to make a really good life. I hope they each get a chance to make a really good life, but I will never know, as all parties have since been unfollowed.

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. 

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!