An Ode to Lena Dunham and Girls

I have a confession to make. I’ve been obsessively googling “Lena Dunham interview” videos on YouTube for the past few days – sneaking them in the background at work, while I cook, while I tooth brush. Not to mention the frantic episode review searches every Monday, since no one in my circle is a devoted Girls Season 6 follower (that, or they don’t have cable).

Part of it is nostalgia for sure, since the series finale is tonight (how?). Part of it is because Lena Dunham and I are the same age, with similar neurosis and evidently, similar dreams. Perhaps it’s based on identifying with three of the main characters (35% Marnie, 40% Shosh and 25% Hannah), going through similar painful life lessons at roughly the same time.

The younger, poorer and more vulnerable Sex and the City knock offs circa 2012

The younger, poorer and more vulnerable Sex and the City knock offs circa 2012

The Courage To Create From The Heart

I first heard about Girls shortly after accepting a content and programming role at a telecom (TV Everywhere, “they call it”). Reps from HBO were very excited to share the premiere news, like all networks that pitched and pimped their fresh meat in order to get more marketing and merchandising love.

When I watched Season 1, I loved to hate it. And then I tried to watch Tiny Furniture and fell asleep. I thought Lena Dunham was overrated and a little weird but mostly I was just jealous that she had hustled and created her way to producing, writing, directing and acting in a fearless series that was based on her most shameful, raw, vulnerable moments and observations.

Lena Dunham’s commitment to portraying the truth, from awkward sexual experiences to UTI’s, Facebook stalking to brawls with best friends, masturbation to silicone penises is a sharp contrast to the veneers we share on social media and the benign pleasantries we exchange at work.

It requires facing the judgmental voices in our heads and the fear of being found out. Because once our most shameful traits and memories are out in the open, we for sure won’t be lovable. At least that’s what keeps me cocooned in writer’s block most of the time.

What will my current and future employers think? What will my Ex’s? What will my parents and grandparents think? What will my unborn children think if I published the moments that mattered most? I would never get married, get hired or live a normal life again.

But maybe the relationships we’ve outgrown are the ones that would fade out or temporarily hold. Maybe we’d attract a tribe like Judd Apatow and Jenni Konner who celebrate and support the real us. On that note, the oral history of Girls in The Hollywood Reporter is a fascinating, must read about the universe conspiring.

The Courage To Keep Going When Critics Say No

Lena has faced an inordinate amount of scrutiny and criticism since the debut of her show from valid journalists and critics to random trolls on twitter. They’ve criticized and applauded her appearance, torn down and built up her work, questioned her morals and values. There were even lawsuits from stories in her book. I had my own experiences with critics (outside of myself) and it didn’t end well.

In grade 12, my friends and I entered the “Sears Drama Festival” with an ensemble play about a group of friends and I was to play Martha, the one they could barely tolerate. The plot line cut a little too close to home, as I often felt like an outsider in our group of friends. Her character had the greatest emotional arc, with a breakdown at the end as her carefully crafted façade came tumbling down.

I remember crying backstage during our dress rehearsal because the Director wasn’t feeling it and I felt blocked internally and like I would fail. True to form, the festival judge praised a couple of my classmates but told the room that, “Martha just wasn’t believable.” I was devastated…and he was probably right. I really wanted to deliver a flawless and inspiring performance that would validate my childhood actress dreams and help win us a prize. I wanted outcomes. But I’ve come to learn that perfectionism kills presence and vulnerability, two key attributes of creating.

That same year I tried halfheartedly to get an agent but was told very kindly by one to take acting classes and come back (spoiler alert: I did not). A female agent told me the bags under my eyes were so deep that “not even stage makeup could cover them up”, among other harsh opinions. I cried during the car ride home with my dad, feeling like an idiot.

I decided that I didn’t have the thick skin required to endure endless rejection in that industry and so I focused on business school, a place where I could rely on my intellect and relentless work ethic to thrive and feel good about myself. It was 100% a fear-based + ego saving move. I didn’t realize then that the corporate world can be full of critics too.

So even if you manage to silence your inner critic enough to produce a work from your heart and soul, you have to continue to stand by your conviction that you belong in the arena, while being open to perspectives that can truly help you grow. In Lena’s case, learning about diversity inclusion and racial sensitivity.

Slightly less entitled more aware versions of Hannah, Marnie, Jessa & Shoshanna

Slightly less entitled more aware versions of Hannah, Marnie, Jessa & Shoshanna

The Courage To Live Your Values AND Use Your Voice

Finally, Lena is a woman of cause and conviction. She is a huge advocate for mental health, sharing her own struggles with OCD and anxiety, so we can feel less alone. She’s passionate about feminism and Planned Parenthood and sisterhood etc. Yes she’s in a position of power and influence where she’d be more “role-model” conscious and these activities benefit her personal brand and therefore wallet, but it all feels authentic to me.

When the Women’s Marches happened around the world, including Toronto, I realized I’ve never protested for anything. Been more of a blah, sit on the sidelines, “what’s the point?” kind of girl.

But I want to give a sh*t and put my money where my mouth is now. I want to be the 12-year old girl who auditioned for a drama program with very little experience, put her heart into it and got to jump up and down on her modest porch, smiling from ear-to-ear after receiving her thin acceptance letter in the mail. It felt like magic. And I think that’s the last time I took any major action from the heart, not the head.

So thank you Lena Dunham, I’ll be watching for an untidy and realistic ending to the confusing cluster f*ck that is our 20’s., reflecting back on how far (or not) I’ve come.

PS this very emotional interview with Jemima Kirke ( the character “Jessa”) is worth a watch.

PPS Who inspires you lately? Tell me in the comments. Remember what you see in them, you have in yourself. xo

The Village in Greece

I was dreading going to Dorio, a tiny village in Messinia Greece where my grandparents live and my mom was born. I’ve been roughly 10 times in 30 years and every single time I swear it’s haunted and I become an anxiety-driven monster.

Dorio sits in a valley (of the shadow of death) surrounded by mountains on all sides, with a storied history involving the intermingling of Romanians, Albanians and of course, Greeks! Two roads lead in and a tired banner welcomes visitors. Every house is within walking distance from the main street, which has two of everything.

Half the houses are abandoned and dilapidated with tattered shutters either because the former inhabitants have passed on or because anyone with promise gets the hell out of town. The other half are in good shape, a mix of old stone work and plaster, either in original white or vibrant yellow.

Typical houses in Dorio, Messinia - old and dilapidated or new and yellow.

Exhibit A. Exhibit B.

My grandparents’ house is modest with two bedrooms, one bathroom, one kitchen and a family room with several sleeping options in the form of couches and a bed (with a 100 year old, back breaking mattress). The furniture is a mix of old country hand me downs and whatever they took back from Canada.It has a large garden that my 84-year-old grandfather is almost too old to tend to and a couple porches. The shiny white floors gets dirty every 30 seconds and flies are always getting in through the half open doors. Zap!

Papou and Yiayia left Greece for Canada when they were 40 and 50 years old respectively, a bit old to “live the dream” with their three teenaged kids. They did typical cheap labour jobs like dishwashing, office cleaning and factory working and they were eventually able to buy a main floor condo in a sketchy part of Scarborough. They were both pretty much retired and super old in my earliest memories. Papou’s daily highlight was walking to Coffee Time or taking the bus and going somewhere. Yia yia was a homebody and watched me for that crucial period after mom’s extended mat leave ended but before daycare. I was a devil child who wouldn’t eat and yia yia was a pushover, so I really liked spending time with her. I would con her into giving me lollipops and junk food rather than real food and beg to be taken to the park every day. But I’d also tear her couches apart to create forts or slides and emptied her drawer of handkerchiefs to keep amused with my baby cousin Joanna. Yia yia never got mad and was always full of love tinged with extreme worry and warm, cushiony hugs.

For a long while, they took care of Papou’s mom who only had one eye due to an unfortunate run-in with a donkey (true story). She was very strict bordering on unkind when my mom was a rebellious teenager, which I could sense as a toddler so we were archenemies. As a pre-teen, however, I was just plain terrified and grossed out by her and she eventually died at the age of 91.

I never imagined Yia Yia growing that old but here she is at the ripe age of 94 and counting. Well sort of, her and Papou moved back to Greece on a semi-permanent basis 15 years ago but decided to live there full-time two years ago to die on their own terms, in their own home. We made the trek to Dorio this summer because we don’t know how much time she has left. Yiayia is the last hold out of her siblings and she’s watched many of her friends and neighbors pass on. Her appetite is full force and her mind is sharp but these are both blessings and curses.

Yia Yia has difficulty walking even with two canes at Kalo Nero Beach.

Double cane action on a forced beach outing.

She’s gained 10 lbs every year and her weak legs struggle to support her weight. She walks around like a hunchback with two canes and complains constantly of arthritis pain in her shoulder, arm and hands. She’s pretty hard of hearing now and takes a special tea to go the bathroom. She doesn’t always make it in time if she wakes up in the middle of the night but otherwise her vitals are good.

Mentally she is super aware of her pain and preoccupied to the point where she hardly enjoyed our visit this summer. She feels completely useless that she can’t help around the house and everyone yells at her whenever she tries to get up because she’s fallen so many times. Yia yia is convinced every birthday she reaches will be her last and I don’t think she wants to hit 95 on Feb 13. She told us she prays for her mom to take her to heaven and she dreams of her every night. I think all of us get our mental illnesses from her.

Papou buying pizza for yia yia in Dorio.

Papou, taking care of biz

And then there’s Papou, 10 years her junior and a doting, if not short-fused caregiver. He does whatever she asks, makes sure she takes all her pills on time, covers her with a blanket because she’s always cold, brings her to the bathroom in the middle of the night and everything in between. She resents his relative freedom and so he stays by her side 24/7, partially out of guilt. Personally, I think she is the wind beneath his wings and the reason he lives though he’s in rough shape himself. Papou walks with a limp, has really low iron and a mouth full of rotting teeth. He’s stubborn like her and refuses to brush them or get dentures.

They celebrated 62 years of marriage on August 29 despite Yia Yia being a whopping 31 years old on her special day. Their love was a practical arrangement with zero courtship – they saw each other on the street one day and decided to marry. Having faced the “old maid” paradigm herself, Yia Yia asks when I’ll marry every five minutes.

Yet the decision to commit a life to someone keeps me up at night. I’m terrified of making a mistake and getting a divorce or staying in an unhappy marriage. I’m always looking for signs and that gut feeling that HE is the one. And suddenly I realize with a sinking feeling that Yia Yia most certainly won’t be at my wedding unless I get married in the village STAT. And she probably won’t even meet or speak to or be aware of the ONE while she’s still with us. I wish I’d been ready sooner.

Papou & Yia Yia celebrate 62 years of marriage

62 years of marriage & multiple generations (pyjama party)! 

I can’t tell you how heartbreaking it is to watch someone who took care of you revert back to an infant-like state, requiring the same assistance she used to give. We had a couple heart to hearts on the couch before I left, regaling stories from her past and wishing me well for the future. She was tender and warm and focused on hugging and kissing my hands, cheeks, forehead and I started to cry. It felt like a permanent goodbye, unlike other years and I’ve been a mess ever since on this “Dream Greek vacation.” #yolo #instaenvy

I want to make a salient point around mortality, aging, love, commitment and genealogy but a tidy bow ending feels elusive. Yia yia made me realize how draining and sad it is to be around someone who is negative, gripped with fear and self-consumed (I take after her sometimes). But also how the biggest pains in the asses can grip the heart most.

I hope I never have to set foot in the village again and yet that would mean…losing a shining star.

Let’s see how things go.

Yia Yia selfie Kalo Nero Beach

Borrowed shades, cool as a cuke in this beach sunset selfie (crazy eyes on right).

On Turning 29 and the Paradox of Time

To Youth

To Youth…

...And everything in between (three generations to be exact)

And aging…and everything in between…










I used to be in a hurry to grow up. I thought I would be happier “over there”.

PG-13 movies and playing in the “big kid” schoolyard were important milestones. I beamed during our ceremonial grad “walk out” of elementary school, with teachers and kindergartners lining the halls in cheers. I had outgrown the chains of my bullied, outcast identity. I wanted to reinvent, to feel free.

And by the way, when would my boobs grow already?! I lusted over first dances and fantasized about sloppy first kisses. I got my G1 right away so I could drive my friends around, instead of relying on our lame-o parents. But borrowing the car became a drag; I couldn’t wait to buy my own.

By grade 12 I was caught between a fear of the unknown and a desire to keep running forward. I desperately needed the years ahead to be better than the years behind, but I was trading drama school for business school, so the jury was out.

I wasted a lot of my youth trying to impress the world, but mostly myself. Chasing the next A, the next internship, completely consumed by my personal mission (to be successful). Those four years of university years could not pass fast enough. If only I had nights and weekends to myself! I began to race away from…

Throughout my early 20’s, I was simultaneously 55 and 15 years old. Time moved in fast slow motion. I lived and worked in the suburbs, starved my creative passions for cubicle glory that never came and participated in relationships where the conversations ran dry and sex was a chore to get over with. All I was missing was a hockey mom badge and the kids to go with it.

The trouble was, there was a screaming kid inside me, leaking out optimism-laced angst. By my mid 20’s, real life started to sink in and I floundered through the muck. I entertained going back to school and changing careers. I fantasized about travelling for six months. I shuddered at the thought of marriage. I started to make choices that made me feel half alive instead of half dead.

The dawn of 29 feels bittersweet.

The other day I plucked out a white hair from my thick, dark eyebrows. Yikes. On the upside, I no longer personally identify with what I do for a living. Most of the time, I require a motivational pep talk to visit a nightclub. I don’t even know where to go this Saturday to celebrate, that’s how out of touch I am with the cool kids. I no longer have a car to feel feelings about. People tell me “I’m still young” when they find out I am single. Things are starting to feel better or at least I’m having fewer emotional breakdowns per quarter.

But for the first time ever, I feel the urge to pause time in its tracks. Or at least slow it down. Heck, let’s stay 28 forever! Or…

What if we decide to savour the next 365 days instead? And consciously slow ourselves down whenever we let the pace grow manic. What if we set intentions while remaining open to possibilities we never could have dreamed up? Approached the world with child-like wonder…Tweaked and iterated overvaulting…

What if we let go of where we thought we’d be by now and choose to trust that we’ll get where we’re going. All in good time.


Lessons from a (born again) virgin who can’t drive*

Every winter I celebrate Collision’s Day by getting into a new one. It’s a dance I can’t quite escape, leaving me f*cked (over) in all the wrong ways.

The manifestation of this perpetual pattern is not unlike my penchant for attracting 30-year-old Italian-men(children)-who-still-live-at-home-and-do-not-have-a-university-degree. But I’ll save that story for another day.

If insanity is doing the same thing (even if inadvertently) over and over again and expecting different results, how the heck can we break the cycle of our patterns (romantic and otherwise)?

Cher Horowitz and Josh talking about driving

As a kid I was obsessed with Cher. Time to cut ties?

Phase 1: Flirting with Desire immobile objects

I got my license when I was 16 with the intention of driving around Woodbridge (a suburb of Toronto) trying to attract male attention from Italian boys who still lived at home (oh how times have changed). My high school comrades and I would sing to loud dance music and hang out in various parking lots. I got jiggy with a few curbs and parked cars in my day. Not quite the parking lot action I was seeking, but we all have to start somewhere. This phase ended when I hit my uncle’s parked car, while backing out of my parent’s driveway. Yikes.

Kristen Wiig and Rose Byrne in driving scene in Bridemaids.

Phase 2: Gimme More (Action)

One fine Boxing Day, I rear-ended a car at a red light, reaching for a sandwich in the back seat (home girl had to re-fuel). So technically I still hit an immobile object, but we were on the open road so I’ll call that progress.

A couple years later, I drove downtown to my best friend’s birthday, an activity I normally did with my EX. It was February and I was sweating thinking about finding a spot close enough to avoid sexual assault and frost bite. I saw a PARK HERE sign and promptly turned in from the middle lane of a one-way street. Luckily, the guy I hit worked at a body shop, so we settled under the table for the bargain price of $1,500. Finally, a moving object!

Britney and I have one thing in common: learning things the hard way.

Britney and I have one thing in common: learning things the hard way. #HotmessesUnite

Phase 3: (Dangerously) Drunk in Love

A couple years later (2013), I was driving across the city to pick up EX #2 for my cousin’s birthday. I was five minutes from his house, battling stop and go traffic on the highway, when I was rear-ended. This time I cried and shook from shock. The police came and my car was in the shop for days while I drove a rental. My “bad driver status” seemed less comical but I remained unafraid.

Cut to 2014, when I totalled my car. It was a culmination of snowy road conditions, road rage from commuting two hours a day (three years straight) and frantically searching for peace (attending bi-monthly energy and weekly CBT sessions while balancing a full-time job). I was T-boned turning left and experienced two firsts: riding in an ambulance and stitches. But it wasn’t all bad.

My driving has since been restricted to weekends, borrowing the car from my parents in order to run errands. Some might call this coming full circle. The scar on my forehead reminds me to slow down and proceed with more caution.

Beyonce Knowles Drunk In Love

I’d rather be Crazy In Love. #justsaying

Phase 4: Just one more little, tiny booty call

But the open road beckoned like a bad boy I couldn’t resist. This past weekend I decided to drive halfway across the city, in yet another snowstorm, to attend a friend’s yoga class (I loathe plan bailers and would not let the snow win).

I was ten minutes from my destination (after 40 slushy minutes on the road) when I stopped at a yellow light instead of turning left. While waiting for the next green, a driver skidded and hit my rear passenger door (after hitting the guy beside me). I WAS NOT EVEN MOVING. THE CAR BEHIND ME WAS STOPPED. AND I STILL GOT HIT. Hey, at least I wasn’t doing the hitting this time.

Lady Gaga knows what I'm talking about.

Lady Gaga knows what I’m talking about.

Clearly Driving + Me = A Bad Romance. But what does it all mean?

Besides needing to be rich enough to hire a driver (Christian Grey styles) or marrying a mechanic who moonlights as an Ex-Copper employee…

It has to be some sort of wake up call or warning. I don’t want the lesson to be: give up on driving or dating (because of past hurts). I don’t want to live in fear or approach new situations with negative baggage from the past.

I do think we need to exercise better judgement (and when I say we, I really mean “me”). If a scenario looks like it could be a train wreck, perhaps we shouldn’t tempt faith or place risky bets. We can compare the pros and cons and choose an easier route. I know that whenever I push too hard to make something happen, it just doesn’t. Yet when I sink into the rhythm of life’s natural flow, the results are much sweeter.

So let’s approach life with eyes wide open, fully focused on the task at hand, while trying to view situations sans filter. And remember, we are ready for whatever happens next. The scars and bumps along the way only add to our character. Whatever is meant to be will be, no matter how careful we are.

The course of our lives can change in an instant. How cool is that?

*Heavy use of sarcasm at plan. Also please don’t drink and drive.


How to Overcome a Shitty Start to the New Year (2015 Edition)

I spent Christmas Eve through December 29th more or less glued to one of three toilets in my parent’s home, with my first ever bout of the stomach flu. Thankfully, it wasn’t the vomiting kind – allowing me to avoid my life’s greatest fear. Oh but how I worried it would happen as the grand finale to end all symptoms. In the end, Immodium saved the day after a valiant return (we broke up two years ago). Yay TMI.

Not only that but my mom accused me of being depressed and manifesting the entire illness due to stress and anxiety. I knew in my heart she was wrong but for a minute I had visions of stretchers and strait jackets, a la Girl Interrupted. Double fist pump.

I fought with the person I’m dating (multiple times). I fought with her. My parents fought. The days leading up to and following “THE NEW YEAR” were, well, really shitty (in more ways than one). And let’s just say Instagram wasn’t helping matters.

I didn’t feel safe and secure in my parent’s home, but I didn’t want to leave. Because I wanted to be taken care of (and car access…fine cable too). Suddenly, all the inner work and calm of the past twelve months flew down the drain. I spent December manifesting how I want to feel in 2015 (I recommend the Holiday Council Course, but here is a FREE intention setting resource by Nicole Antoinette). My reality was the opposite of: RADIANT, CONNECTED, DELIBERATE and BOLD. How ironic.

I sulked for a while and then got down to work. Here are small, habit-forming changes I’m committed to making this year. I hope they spark some ideas & action for you too!

Core desired feelings of radiant, deliberate, connected and bold

This is what rooted for growth looks like (Pinterest you so fine)

Commit to these eight new habits in 2015 to feel radiant, deliberate and bold

1. Plaster your vision (board) everywhere

2015’s theme is “Rooted for Growth. ” I spent most of last year floating through life, not committing to anything all wishy-washy. This year I want to renew my vows to myself, my career, romance, real estate you name it.

You can use Pic Monkey to create a digital collage of images and then make it your laptop screensaver (your iPhone too). You can post it in your cubicle (ultra glam) or stick it to your fridge (hi magnets) so your bleary-eyed ass gets a stare down every morning (hiss: “are you game?”)

Last year I created a poster size collage and never looked at it. So far, this new method is much better at keeping me inspired by and in touch with my vision.

2. Meditate Twice a DaY (to keep the doc away)

If I had a penny every time someone recommended meditation generically or specifically after speaking with me I’d be rich. It’s like FINE. You wore me down. I’ll DO IT!

By July of 2014 I was using this theta wave song once or twice a week for 15-20 minutes. This year, it will be like brushing my teeth (non negotiable). Five minutes in the morning and at least five at night. Here is a video on how to meditate monk styles. Click here for a bunch of guided meditations I have never tried. Click here for a 30-day meditation challenge beginning Feb 1. Or try this App.

3. Do a 5 minute Daily Journal Reflection

I listened to a podcast with UJ Ramdas who is the founder of the “five minute journal.” Just answer three questions in the morning and two at night to keep you in a positive frame of mind. I just started yesterday but am excited. It is very manageable time wise.

4. Create a Gratitude/Positivity Jar
Someone in Holiday Council shared how she wrote down positive moments on paper, folded them into a once empty jar and then re-read them when she was sad, as well as at the end of the year for review and reflection purposes. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a hot date with Dollarama.

5. Get your Fitness on at least Twice a Week

Last year I was lucky to get active once a week and that just isn’t enough. I took a break from yoga for a couple of months and missed it. I might also pick dance back up and dabble in kickboxing during this polar vortex season.

But from spring until fall, I’m going to jog two to three times a week for a half hour. I always admired runners but never felt motivated to be one of them. After California I felt the call and started to use the “Couch to 5K” App but then it got too cold and dark to continue (bah humbug). I’m also running a 5k this year for the first time ever – preferably a fun one like “Colour me Rad”.

6. Stop Waiting for someone to come along before you hit up your bucket list

I would rather invest in real estate with the power and safety of dual incomes and life savings. I would rather go back to school or make a significant career change when I have the emotional support and financial safety of a partner to temporarily weather the storm. I’m even saving a visit to Toronto’s new(ish) aquarium because it would make a great date night. Not to mention travel. Even if I replace boyfriend with friend, I am still making myself dependent on someone else’s whims and/or life circumstances before doing what I want to do.

Okay so this one is more of a mantra or mindset but I’m going to commit to the experiences I’m craving and inform my friends and anyone I’m dating at the time of the details. If they want to join, great! If not, I’m doing it anyway and let the chips fall where they may.

7. Dress for Success

I decided to invest in boxing week sales and upgrade my professional wardrobe because a button up dress shirt will not define me. And when I make it (wherever that is), I will no longer wear one. But until then, I’m going to fake feeling like an adult until I make it (courtesy of Banana Republic, land of the spontaneous daily sale).

8. Don’t Rely on Chance: Get an Accountability Plan

I’m going to mark down with stickers on a physical calendar the days I meditated and journalled (Gretchin Rubin styles) and then expand it to other goals. I’m going to check in monthly on my 2015 plan instead of holding my breath, closing my eyes and hoping for the best. I might recruit a buddy to be an accountability coach. IT’S ON!

So tell me, did your New Year start off rocky or was it fabulous? What habits do you want to integrate this year?