Too Many Days…

July 25, 2008

Giselle spent too many days pondering her future, her future in Europe, her present in Amsterdam. She and her boyfriend Antonio booked a month-long holiday through Europe, 8 days in they were in Amsterdam – and they had seperated.

Was it the alcohol? The drugs? The sluts that lined the alleyways of the red light district that had seduced her boyfriend and ended with him on stage at a live sex show?

She wasn’t sure. But Giselle knew it wouldn’t be too much longer until she found a new man, hopefully one that wouldn’t cheat on her on their holiday.

Giselle was pompous. A woman who was so self-assured it almost made you sick, but there was something about her that kept you listening to her annoying stories – mainly telling you that you had to buy something, be somewhere, or do a certain thing to even be alive in her books. She could have been beautiful, save for the overdone eye makeup she wore on a daily basis, her dark Italian hair piled high on her head, and her overbearing ways – that somehow made men smitten with her, and women either adored her or went crazy being in the same room with her.

No, she wasn’t too worried about the rest of her trip – she knew she would enjoy it immensly – she, of course, had all the paperwork, itineraries, and all the cash, of course. What started as a holiday with a boyfriend through Europe will end as a month-long shopping spree that her ex had funded.

The fun started in London, where it rained for all the four days spent there, continued to Paris, where it stopped raining on the second day, but was too humid for her hair to behave. They moved on to Amsterdam from there, where the weather was pleasant, people were in the streets until five in the morning, and where her now ex-boyfriend had gone wild enough to perform in a live sex show with another woman – and another man.

She shook her head just thinking of these thoughts. She was packing, it was supposed to be their last day in Amsterdam, then onto Germany. So she was packing up her luggage, and only her own, tossing all of his things into the garbage can that was next to her. Giselle had no clue where Antonio was, and as much as she wanted to not care, she kind of did. She knew the hotel only held their reservation until 3 pm today – and as it was 11:30 and his stuff was in the garbage, she knew he most likely wouldn’t make it out.

She was so organizational that even in a crisis like this, a boyfriend of 2 years who had almost proposed marriage, she didn’t cry, oh no! She organized. She worried about the schedule. She didn’t care what happened to him¬†– as long as it happened on time.

She called the taxi to take her to the train station, and she stood outside the hotel, with 3 bags, thinking Who’s going to carry all my luggage?


One Day in Paris

July 22, 2008

I spent one day in Paris last month. One miniscule day in which I took over 100 pictures of the sights of the city of my dreams. It was beautiful, romantic, and rainy Рwhich made it even more romantic as it was a warm, light rain. I went to a cafe and had a latte and a crepe. I went to the Eiffel Tower and kissed underneath it. I went to the Louvre and looked at amazing pieces of art.

I had lunch in front of the Notre Dame – at a really touristy restaurant where drinks came with sparkly straws and the waiter thought that we were Italian and speaking to us in a broken down Ital-French language.

It was simply amazing.

More from Europe coming soon…

Thank You…

July 7, 2008

A thank you to Final Fashion for a mention…

What Are Friends For?

June 29, 2008

Since the beginning of the year, I’ve had it in my head to bring together a bunch of girls for a dinner party. A semi-themed posh dinner party – no boys allowed. I had ideas in my head – a pink party or a white party with matching speciality drinks – dinner at a posh resto-lounge and dancing at a club in the vip section.

I mentioned it only to a couple of my girlfriends who said it sounded like a great idea, they were enthused and looking forward to it. So I made up invitations, I decided to do the pink party theme – everyone wearing pink and drinking pink martinis – and set it up for a weekend in May, so it wasn’t too cold and not too hot. I sent out the invites a month in advance, invites that were hot pink with black embossed printing – I knew a company who did them so they gave me a huge deal.

A week after my guest’s received the invites I still hadn’t heard anything from anybody. No RSVPs, no questions, no remarks. I’m a control freak by nature, and even though there were two more weeks to rsvp, I needed to know NOW.

So I started making some calls.

Tara made an excuse about her boyfriend and said she ‘would let me know’. Another girl claimed she was too pregnant to come. Fari was confused – was this a birthday party? was this an engagement party? did she have to bring gifts? why couldn’t her husband come?

It was really making my head spin.

So I sent out a cute little email, all in pink, about the idea of the party (as if the invitation didn’t spell it out clearly enough for everybody).


You are all invited to a Pink Party – dinner, drinks and dancing. You are requested to wear pink from head to toe! My loft 7 pm for cocktails, followed by food at One, and finishing the night in the VIP booth at Circa. I need to know by next Wednesday who’s coming to make final reservations.

This is a GIRL’s night out – no presents required, no men – just crazy fun like we all used to have – and if you’re pregnant come out to dinner – you still need to eat!!


Tuesday rolled around and I got a few phone calls. Girls were saying yes but whining about the dress code (I don’t wear pink, I don’t like pink, It makes me look fat, etc, etc), the restaurant (is it expensive? i’ve never been there before), and yes, even the club (why don’t we go where we always go?).

I really didn’t believe that it would be THIS difficult to get together a group of girls for no reason other to have fun and remember what life used to be before fiances, husbands, weddings, babies and houses – even if that wasn’t their specific order.

Was it possible that I was the only one who wanted to do this? We’ve all been talking about “doing something” for almost a year now! I was getting exhausted, what was wrong with them? What’s going through their heads? Should I just invite their boyfriends and make it a boring dinner party – NO! I need to save the girls!!

In the end, six out of twelve girls came out, and we had a smashing time. Drinking and dancing, getting hit on like there was no tomorrow. The next morning we all went out for breakfast with our boyfriends, but made them all sit grouped together while we carried on giggling about the night before.

Everyone came up to me and thanked me for taking the effort to do the party, and asking when the next one was going to be… which somehow made me think of a yellow party, but would that just be too much to ask?

The Suburban Socialite

June 21, 2008

Socialites are a glamorous being found mainly in metropolitan areas, such as New York, Los Angeles, London, Milan and Paris, Toronto being a smaller city has its’ handful of up-and-comers, party girls with too much of daddy’s money and are deemed socialites as well.

My one favourite friend, Taylor, is a Toronto socialite. Her father owns a marketing/media company as well as a number of posh resto-lounges throughout the city, all of which makes Taylor a rich girl. She doesn’t work, sleeps in until 11 everyday, and makes shopping and partying her only two bullets on her list of things to do.

I used to envy Taylor, her blonde hair perfectly coiffed, her tiny body sculpted to perfection by a combination of pilates, personal trainer, and a doctor who shall remain nameless, her amazing shoes that she only wears once or twice before she deems them ‘out’ and keeps them in her enormous closet that’s larger than my apartment. And people always tell me not to be jealous, but really, not only is she rich, looks like a model, but she’s also such a sweet person – seriously. She gives money and food to the homeless on the streets, she always says please and thank you, and she always seems sincere.

Eventually Taylor found a boyfriend that stuck to her for more than 2 months, this boyfriend also proposed to her with a beautiful, huge ring from Tiffany’s, and pretty soon we were all going to Taylor’s wedding. Her wedding was not only featured in one, but two bridal magazines, an amazing fete that brought together bigwigs, celebrities, socialites, and people like me, friends of the bride and groom. Everything was white, the flowers, the fabric hanging from everything, the cake, everything was lit with candles, there were water features, a champagne fountain, sushi desert – and everything was done tastefully and chic.

The honeymooned first in Fiji, then in the South of France, for a whole month. Then the newlyweds disappeared into their huge Tudor-style mansion in the suburbs for weeks – literally. I spoke to Taylor probably 3 months after her wedding for the first time, and she was in marital bliss, as all perfect people seem to be. I almost wanted to puke at that point. And then it happened. A little trickle of unhappiness.

And as always, a trickle leads into a river, a river into a waterfall.

Taylor said she missed the city, the nightlife, and the parties. She said she missed shopping everyday, and she said she was getting a little lonely. She even took up cross-stitching, but as soon as she was done her first one, she threw everything into the fireplace so she would never be succumbed to that kind of boredom again. It was HIS mom that bought her the cross-stitch set in the first place.

She even asked me what my latest shopping spree got me – Marc Jacobs bag and Lamb shoes – which she never ever does because she’s always five steps ahead of me shopping wise, at least, before she was. Now, locked up in her suburban mansion she’s the wife that used to have a life as a single. She confessed she sometimes goes for drives aimlessly in her Porsche convertible, not knowing where she’s going, and not really trying to get away, but just looking for something, anything, interesting in this little suburban town.

Last I heard, she had remodelled her mansion and was looking for a magazine to feature it. Poor little Taylor, the richest little sad suburban socialite I’ve ever seen.

I’m a few months shy of turning 25, I’m young, I’ve been in a long-term relationship for almost 5 years, I have a baby, and for some strange reason, lately everytime I’m asked if I’m engaged/married, I get a look and a ‘Aww, you poor thing.’ Why is it that if you’re 25 with a baby and a man, you are automatically supposed to be married?

25 is mid-twenties, the majority of my friends have recently finished a second degree in university, many of whom are in Europe backpacking and travelling. Some are single, some aren’t, many are still out clubbing it up every weekend, and the thought of marriage isn’t even in most of their minds. Yet, because I have a daughter and I’m with the father (I get asked everytime), it’s like people look at me and want to ask ‘What’s wrong with you?’

What’s wrong with me? I’m young. I’m not ready to be married – yet. Don’t get me wrong, I want to get married in the next couple of years sometime, but at the same time, I’m not desperate to be married tomorrow. Yet lately, I’ve been getting this panicky feeling.

A panic that’s been setting in for a few weeks now, and I don’t know what to do about it. Anytime I talk to my bf on the phone (who’s away for a week for work), somehow I bring marriage and weddings into the conversation, and I end up sounding like a desperate girl who needs to get married. And it’s frustrating to me as a girl who is SO not like that, it’s frustrating that I’m coming off this way.

Do I want to get married? Yes. Am I afraid my bf is going to leave me? No. Am I concerned that our relationship will dissapate? No. So what’s the big deal? What is this panic I’m feeling? Why am I letting people get to me like this?

I know I have a bit of control freak in me, and I probably just need the reassurance that I will one day get married.

But sometimes I feel I need to take a step back out of this bubble and tell myself that I’m not even 25, I’m going to get married one day when we’re both ready. I’m not ready. What is this whirlwind I’ve gotten caught up in?

Where’s the ‘easy’ button I can push to make this all blow over?

And what can I say to those stupid women who are all married/engaged and wondering where my ring is? One day I’ll think of something. Until then. xoxo

Monday Morning

June 17, 2008

Monday mornings in the city are quiet. Well, after the first morning rush of all the business suits going to work – it gets amazingly quiet. Before the stores are open, before lunch but after breakfast, the streets are nearly empty, the sidewalks quiet with the occasional face popping up here and there.

It’s almost alarming to be able to hear your stilettos on the pavement going down the street. You can cross the street when the crosswalk is still red, you can walk slower without fear of annoying the person behind you. It’s almost extraordinary, you can breathe and think and feel so different in a place that is usually so busy and hectic and almost stifling.

It turns into a romantic city, one that allows you to pause and reflect on your life, almost like a quaint little Parisian neighborhood that conjures up black and white images of flocks of doves, couples on benches, and little old men sitting by themselves at little cafe tables with their canes and a cigarette.

It made me stop in vintage shops, try on adorable day dresses and eat lunch by myself on a patio in the gorgeous sun.

I love Monday mornings.