The Luxe Laundress

Found this post gathering dust in the depths of my stash of blog entries. It's from before we made the move to The House....

Today as the jungle of moving boxes encroaches upon my sanity, I find myself escaping to a wonderful fantasy world: My future master suite and strangely enough, laundry room. You see, in a week and a half we are moving out of our crowded townhome and into a single family dwelling. We are doubling our square footage and as a result, the size of our master bedroom.

The new suite of dreams includes, but is not limited to: a large walk-in closet, a dressing area, a four piece ensuite including soaker tub, space for a reading nook and a yoga mat and pleasingly, a general feeling of spaciousness. But of all the things our master bedroom has, I am most excited about what it hasn't: laundry.

You see, for the past five years I have lived with laundry in my bedroom. Our townhome had what can only be described as a laundry closet. This is a space-saving torture device invented by some developer out there who is either a) a nudist who generates no laundry, b) wears exclusively dry-clean only garments, or c) and most likely the case, a wealthy middle aged male who does not live in a townhome and has never thrown a load in or much less seen the laundry room in his sprawling McMansion perched Frank Gehry-like on a cliff overlooking a stunning vista....but I digress.

Anyway, for the rest of us, a very basic stacking washer and dryer wedged into a narrow closet of an even more narrow hallway covered by a bifold door seemed like a great cost cutter. Since the washrooms and children's rooms are too tight for even a hamper, guess where the laundry ended up? That's right! This entire time my boudoir multitasked as the familial laundromat. The hamper, iron, ironing board and drying rack have all taken up residence in my sanctuary and I can't tell you how miserable this has been.

When company came a-calling, or at least company whom I knew would appreciate a home tour, I would have to shove all the laundry accoutrements into our master bathroom shower and close the door on the situation. This was disheartening, especially given the fact that my hubby did some really charming work in our bathroom with beadboard, crown moulding, cottagey hardware and vintage-chic mirrors and medicine cabinet. Sad.

But on the horizon is a master bedroom and ensuite that is free of ironing boards and the like. Truth be told, it's not as though I am ashamed of the laundry gear. It was just the glaringly obvious fact of its wrongful placement. "And here we have our master bedroom, oops! Careful not to trip on the drying rack, you wouldn't want to get tangled up in my unmentionables..."

While all the rooms will need remodeling at some point, I am very excited at the prospect of a real, true laundry room. I actually take some pleasure in laundry and fancy myself a bit of a domestic diva in this particular division of domesticity. (I apologize for that random attack of alliteration, it just happened.) Anyway, I like that while I have no control over the many crazy events that unfold in family life, I can control laundry. I can get a stain out of damn near anything and uniformly folded towels and bedlinens fill me with a Napoleonesque sense of power. It's a small thing but moms must savour these moments.

In the new house I shall eschew the condo-sized stacker in favour of something much more substantial. Something with the words "heavy duty" or "commercial grade" in the name. And then all around my glorious new workhorses will be beauty! Crisp white paint, beautiful slate floors, charming storage baskets and (gasp!), a built-in custom drying rack, even a closet in which to store the ironing board, iron, hampers and my sewing machine. Just imagine shelves with beautiful bottles and jars to contain the various lotions and potions used for stain removal, whitening, brightening and the scenting one's linens. Oh, and the always useful utility sink with a shelf above for vases, floral frogs and other flower arranging delights! I am nearly breathless with excitement.

As the great Mies van der Rohe once said, "God is in the details." And a luxe laundry room is nothing short of heaven.

My Life Under Renovation - Part Two

Today in a rare quiet moment I managed to write a few paragraphs. With one child in school and the other, miraculously playing contently, I brewed fresh tea and consulted my favourite little gem called Your Home As A Sanctuary by Josephine Collins



It is a modest hardcover design book given to me by my thoughtful hubby as a Christmas gift. This volume is filled with stylish, almost minimalist but never austere interiors. Simple spaces flooded with light and filled with favourite objects. These are not the homes of Hollywood royalty or any other kind of royalty for that matter. Just real places of real people who assembled their living spaces with care and attention. Not just to the paint, flooring and furniture, but to the space within the space. Which, if you think about it, is just as important as all the stuff we put in our homes, though sadly it is usually given much less thought.

Does your space reflect who you are? Would a first-time guest walk in for the first time and immediately get a deeper feeling for who you are just by looking around? Some of us will gasp in horror at this concept, especially those of us living with small kids on a constant rotation of strewn toys, messy finger prints and inevitable disasters. But those are superficial wounds easily mended with toy bins, elbow grease and that most fleeting element, time. I am talking about the essence of our homes.

As Josephine puts it so eloquently:

“You and the people you live with are the most important elements of your home… Your home sanctuary is a place for your spirit to rest as well as your taste to be expressed…. It is the one place where you are completely free to express yourself, your hopes and dreams. It’s also a showcase for who you are, and where your guests can feel completely at ease and see the best you in your own environment… It should have an atmosphere that encourages the pursuit of heartfelt ambitions and desires”.

That’s a mighty tall order for your average suburban dwelling, yet I think it can be done. Homes, like their inhabitants, evolve over time. Our homes are a living, organic thing that grows and changes just as we do.

As I prepare to move my family into a new space, I will be giving this concept a lot of thought. Family life can be hectic and the best laid plans for our interiors can easily be railroaded from an insightful evolution to dashing to the local big-box retailer because company is coming and they probably won’t enjoy sitting on cardboard boxes full of mom’s books, even if they are draped in pashminas from Paris.

Despite the unavoidable busy-ness of our household, I will try to be true to staying on course with plans of remaining thoughtful in my acquisitions for the new place. A little openess never hurt anybody. Besides, kids love running around in big empty rooms. Frankly, as long as my girlfriends and I have a spot to sit and sip lattes or wine I think life is good.

My Life Under Renovation- Part One

With Halloween just around the corner I am steeling myself for what may be the scariest All Hallow’s Eve of all. No, I am not planning a visit to a creepy cemetery, haunted house or worse, taking my kids trick-or-treating at The Mall. (If you’re new to my life, I have a mall aversion. You’ll have to deal with it.) Nope, this year will be much scarier than any of that, for starters we’re moving. That alone is usually enough to strike fear into the heart of mums with small children. But it gets worse. It’s into a bonafide fixer upper.

It seems somewhat fitting, albeit frightening, that we’ve put an offer in on a fixer upper since I feel like my whole life is in need of some re-vamping anyway. This renovation is basically a metaphor for my own inner transformation. Lots of break-throughs ahead. Or maybe break-downs? Only time will tell. I do hope to find a bit of myself along the way since it’s been a really long time since I asked myself what I really, really want. Motherhood is among the most distracting of commitments. It may look like a marble tile backsplash, but it’s actually the layers of my psyche you’re grouting, mister.

Anyway, the house itself is very tired, but it has “the bones” for greatness, as they say in the world of design and architecture. Currently though, it’s definitely in the running for Museum of Natural Ugliness having never been properly cleaned, let alone updated in any way since ‘89. This is okay with us. We wanted to get a place we could totally make our own without pangs of eco-guilt over tossing or ripping out perfectly good hunks of house. So it is ideal as this is so not the case with our diamond in the rough. The carpets are stained and worn, the lino is shot, appliances nasty and Energystar-less. The walls dingy and dull and the kitchen—oh the kitchen! It is pretty much repulsive, dysfunctional, 80s oak and has a dreadful buzzing fluorescent lightbox. Truth be told, all the lighting is hideous. And all the bathrooms actually trigger my sensitive gag reflex. However, the house is plenty big and best of all, the main floor could “very easily” be transformed into the open kitchen floorplan of our dreams. My husband and I love to cook together and our friends, naturally, love to hang with us, sip wine and eat whatever we make. I mean, our wine-tasting party was epic and who could forget the late night New Year’s Supper of 2007.

This house needs to go from drab to fab and since we are creative, somewhat skilled, yet completely naïve, I think we are just the couple to tackle this project! I am a design mag addict. Inspiration is everywhere! I love it and I love the idea of doing something completely unique even more. I will be the creative driving force and my husband, both handsome and handy, will be the executor of our shared vision. Yes, I said shared. I want my man as comfortable in the place as me. Especially given the volume of blood, sweat and tears he’s about to put in.

Oh wait! The tears are mine and this house has already made me cry. Twice. One time was just the overwhelming scope of work and the dirtiness of it. The second time was due to the discovery of rodent droppings in the garden shed. I can deal with a lot of things. Bugs, spiders, even an over-zealous pigeon once, but rodents? I just spazzed and cried. Every gal has her limit. The only rodents I can deal with are those of the animated variety (Disney’s Ratatouille and hot buttery popcorn). But my husband pounded his chest, adjusted his loin cloth and vowed to protect us from whatever vermin may come our way. And he also wrote an impassioned email to our home inspector imploring him to calm the fears of his hysterical wife, which he did- thanks Pierre. Finally, for good measure, he enlisted in the expertise of his good friend, landscaper and pest control extraordinaire, to talk me down from my proverbial ledge. Thanks Allan.

Along with any other of God’s creatures living in our neglected wild kingdom outside, we do have two kids to throw into the mix on the inside. Our daughter, Sofia, is six and can be an artistic whirlwind some days. She has so many ideas, but for her, a reasonably pretty, but modern room with space for painting and drawing would be the ideal. Matteo is two and a half and real man’s man. As long as there are tools, machinery and trucks nearby he could care less about esthetics. He will be so into this reno ie. underfoot, that I fear for his safety. So he too, will need a safe haven where he can retreat when the sledge hammer starts a-swingin’.

Once we have established safe comfort zones for the kids we can move on to every imaginable surface, fixture and space in the house. We should be done by the time it’s time for us to downsize though!

So many projects, so much time. When I think of the scope of work ahead it is dizzying, but I cling to my vision of the perfect home for our family to grow in. Room by room we will turn this place into a memorable space for our friends and family to spend time with us. I imagine our rodent-free backyard with charming globe lights strung across the eaves of our covered deck on warm summer nights and in winter, fourteen-foot Christmas trees (really!) towering up to the top of my vaulted living room ceiling. It won’t be perfection from the start, but as with any good adventure, the lessons lie within the journey, not the destination.

I hope, dear friends, you will join me in this journey as my husband and I (and a small army of friends and family) take this outdated suburban home from sucks to luxe! Happy renovating!

A Trip for Three (and a half) To Paris

Ah, Paris in the fall! Arguably the most beautiful and romantic of European cities. The perfect place to stroll along the Seine or down lovely treed boulevards with your lover... and three-year-old.... and baby-to-be.

That's right. My memories of Paris include strollers, maternity jeans that refused to stay up and a sippy cup leaking milk on my husband's laptop. Isn't it romantic? Indeed, I had a few high expectations and pre-conceived notions to hurdle over once we learned we were going to the City of Lights. And pre-conceived they were, since we planned the trip before... before I got pregnant, that is. Before we realized we would have to tote our three-year-old. Before our lives changed forever.

It wasn't as though we could change our minds either, we were going to attend my sister's wedding, after all. If we didn't go, we would miss the wedding which would be unacceptable. Also, we knew this fact: if we didn't go now, it would be a very, very, very long time before the opportunity would come around again with a new baby on the way. And so we packed our bags and stroller and car seat and toys and blankies and to Paris we flew.

I was worried about what to wear in Paris. It is, after all, one of the most stylish cities in all the world and I, for one, didn't want to look like a slobby tourist. I was at the point in my pregnancy commonly known as "the beer gut stage" meaning that my belly had pooched out enough to be noticed, but the rest of me could pass for normal. I was growing out of my cute little regular clothes almost daily forcing me to spend travel dollars on stupid maternity clothes.

{Sidenote: Let it also be known that with second pregnancies, one's body gives in and surrenders to the wee babe a lot faster. With Sofia, no one knew I was pregnant until month eight unless I told them. It's also probably attributed to the caloric difference between craving watermelon during a heat wave in August and baked goods and chocolate truffles over Christmas and Valentine's.}

I realize that maternity clothes have come along way since the days of printed smocks and denim jumpers, but I can be a bit of a fashionista. I would rather have visited any other city in the world pregnant than Paris. There's just something about Paris in the fall that makes you want to put on your sexiest jeans, most stylish coat, tall, shiny boots, a fab scarf and dark glasses and parade down Champs Elysees in style. At least to me that only seemed appropriate.

This was not my fate. Nope. I was blossoming daily and destined to spend my days in gay Paris wearing bell-shaped knit tops, jeans with an elasticized waist band and (gasp!) runners. We walked everywhere. No boots, no designer denim, no adorable waist-cinching blazers for me. I was headed into a deep, dark fashion depression and the hormones (irrational at best and hysterical, even psychotic at worst) coursing through my veins did little to help matters.

I placated myself by eating endless croissants, cheese and baguettes, but with no vin to wash it down it just wasn't the same. We saw the sights, toured the Louvre, climbed the Eiffel tower and had an amazingly great time with our three-year-old in tow. I should give my sweet little Sofia props for being the most charming, sweet, well-behaved toddler tourist in all of France! With her sunshiny curls and luminous green eyes the Parisians were eating out of her cherubic little hands. She gave an Oscar-worthy performance as far as I was concerned. She was practically a celebrity amongst le French kids and their nannies at the playground in the park beneath the Eiffel Tower!

About halfway through our Paris adventure my husband, who knows me better than I know myself at times, dragged me into a shoe store and commanded me to sit down. Italian men know when their women need new shoes. An hour later I left wearing the cutest tall black suede wedge-heeled boots. They were high, but not too high; sexy, but not overtly skanky. They were pregnancy-chic! I was yanked from my fashion depression, elated by the new shoe high commonly experienced by shoe addicts.

I spent the rest of my time in Paris buoyed in height and spirit by my new boots and the fact there was still the big night- my sister's wedding, at The Ritz, no less. This wedding would fall into "the most amazing places to get married" category on anyone's list. And, as bridesmaids, we were to don not the predictable matching dresses and other accoutrements, but anything we wanted. As long as it was the most fabulous thing we could muster we were free birds.

I chose a rather slinky- by pregnant standards, anyway- matte jersey, empire-waisted BCBG gown in chocolate brown with a built-in sequined bosom. It was gorgeous and showed off my baby bump in a particularly glamorous Angelina Jolie kind of way. Of course, nothing less than stilettos would do, at least for this one night. So bronzy- brown strappy sandals with a rather fetching ankle strap and gold accents on the heel were de rigeur!

All too soon our week in Paris came to an end. To this day, every time I see those boots or that gown I take a walk, or should I say waddle down my own personal memory lane of fashion. And of course back to Paris.... I can practically smell the intoxicating scents of crepes and handbags right now!

Change of a Dress

Recently, as luck and life would have it, I returned to my former career in a part time capacity. Initially I experienced apprehension and doubt. Actually, the truth is I more or less had a temper tantrum about having to add one more set of obligations to my existing laundry list of goals and responsibilities. And so I dreaded it... at first.

But then something interesting, no, magical happened as I began to get ready for work outside the home. My spirits began to lift as I applied my make-up with expert precision. "Like ridin' a bike," I drawled to myself as I gleefully indulged in my love of cosmetics. I artfully applied actual foundation and concealer then proceeded to pencil, shadow and bronze in some features. "Office chic!" I exclaimed to no one in particular. Armed with lipliner and a new gloss my revitalization was unfolding with the greatest of ease. Soon I was shaking out my freshly hot-rolled locks, spritzing on perfume (Jo Malone's Orange Blossom, very light for work) and, wait for it, even choosing accessories!

Finally, I slipped into my perfectly pressed little black suit. It didn't fit like a glove, more of a loose mitten. But I implore of you, isn't it better to try something on one hasn't worn for ages and find there is room to spare? Hell, yeah! So I cinched the whole thing in with an au currant wide patent belt, slid into my wedge-heeled, round-toed, shiny black pumps with buckle detail and sashayed downstairs to show off my svelte new self. I admit it, I felt fabulous, as though I could take on the world and didn't need an extra cup of coffee to do so. My husband planted a big kiss on me, "Look at you, skinny-minnie," he said. My five-year-old daughter agreed I looked "super fancy!"

I felt fantastic all day long. The time I actually spent at work was refreshing, but in no way earth-shaking. It was really just another day at work. I concluded my new-found confidence was directly related to my vamped-up personal appearance and the proverbial "breather" from my regular routine at home.  

Later I had a thought: If we never have a second chance to make a first impression, then what impression are we making on our children by letting them see us only in our bathrobes and sweatpants? That we're not worth the time it takes to look and feel not even our best, but at the very least presentable? That they are not worth us feeling worthy in their presence? We're not paying attention- to ourselves or their perception of us. At least I admit I wasn't. Not enough anyway. There's a fine line between comfy or practical and just plain slobby. 

I know myself well enough to know that if I don't feel good about how I look, then my mood suffers and in the end my kids pay for it. I know I won't be able to pull off hot-mama-tastic everyday of my life, but it's something I can work on. Why? Well, as the marketing people at L'oreal pointed out, "Because I'm worth it!" And so are my kids.    

In My Shoes

I love shoes. The perfect pair all merchandised up in a fancy boutique has been known to trigger some fairly strong reactions in me; from child-like joy, ie.) prancing around the shoe store in the perfect leopard print, peep-toe stiletto sling-backs with a slight platform; to utter despair at the sheer unattainable exclusivity of a certain pair of fringed and fabulous satin, scarlet-soled Louboutins. I wanted to cry, but didn't because I know one day they will be mine. 

I don't love shoes just for their obvious beauty. They are like sculptural, wearable art to me and which ones I choose really helps to paint a picture in my mind and captures the essence of the event to which I wore them. Also, shoes complete an outfit in a way nothing else can. Shoes can can take a simple black pencil skirt from zero to sexy in about 10 seconds flat. Maybe the most important thing to love about our shoes is the way they make us feel. Confident. And confidence is one style that never, ever goes out of fashion.

It seems my shoes of late have been doing little to build my own confidence. After a stint as a stay-at-home mother I have a whole new set of footwear- sneakers, Uggs, flip flops and gumboots. Practical, practical, practical in stark contrast to my beauties lovingly stored in stacked, labeled boxes. Even the shoes I once wore to work allowed for a little sassiness. I could look down in the middle of a drab work day and have a little hit of fabulousness. Not so with the "mom shoes."

Now I am at a cross roads in my life... yet again, ladies. Do I want to spend all my time raising kids and wearing runners and feeling in my deepest heart of hearts a wee bit unfulfilled? It pains me to admit that, it really does. Or do I want to take a step back from that world, put my heels back on and go for it? Do I want my children to reflect on their own childhoods and say: "My mum was always there for us?" or, "My mum showed me how to follow my dreams by following her own?"

It's a big decision. All I know is I am on a journey and I am getting to know myself. And you can never really know me unless you've been In My Shoes... whichever pair they may be.

Playing Dress-Up

I am at a point in my life where I need to re-evaluate... well... pretty much everything. Ten years of togetherness with my beloved, two babies and several career changes later, (the latest stint being that of a full-time mother) my wardrobe looks a little like Cinderella's.  If my closet were a metaphor for my life it would definitely scream "I'm a girl who puts everyone and everything ahead of myself." My goal is to put myself back on the list. I intend to step out more often feeling like myself.

It goes without saying that marriage and especially children can really cramp a gal's style. If you really, really love cashmere, are you going to wear it around your two-year-old boy? Probably not, unless you have a diverse collection of cashmere and one sweater splattered with mud or smeared with ketchup isn't a big deal to you. Sometimes, and I say this most begrudgingly, we must be practical. Still, I think I may be crossing the line into practicality so often nowadays that I've lost sight of that girl on the other side. The one who would never consider yoga pants an option unless, indeed, she was about to actually practice yoga. Hmmm... now what?

I remember playing dress-up as a little girl and knowing exactly who I wanted to be. I would twirl around in a fluffy skirt and my mother's heels, covered in jewellery and delight in the complete knowingness that I would one day be a ballerina, or fashion designer, or school teacher. It has been a really long time since I twirled around in delight and knew anything for certain.

It's time for me to play dress-up once again, use my imagination, see what inspires me and who I want to be. Right now I am not sure exactly who that is. Luckily, the world is my boutique and I have plenty of time to shop around.