Blog Archive
Featured
I recently experienced something that left me utterly gobsmacked and believe me, I've seen a lot in my years of globetrotting. I was checking out of a lovely hotel in Mykonos, Greece—sun, sea, and... sticker shock.
As I handed my credit card over to the front desk, the clerk slipped it into the card reader and handed it back to me. And there it was—like a surprise party you didn't want—an American-style tipping prompt. What percentage of my bill would I like to tip?
I was genuinely flummoxed, staring back at the two tanned, guilt-wielding staff members. "Sorry," I stammered. "Tip for what, exactly?"
"Well, you know, if you were happy with our service," one replied, referencing the dinner reservation they made for me at Scorpios. Hang on, isn’t that the concierge's job?
In utter disbelief, I clarified, "You want a tip on the entire hotel bill? Including the already-inflated high-season room rate, taxes, and the tips I’ve already left?" They did.
Of course, I didn't pay it. The sheer absurdity of it! But it got me wondering—would they ask a local Athenian for a tip? Not a chance, according to my Greek friends.
For all you youngsters, Traveler's Checks were, at the time, the safest way to travel with “cash.” Let's say you wanted to travel with $500. Instead of cash, you’d head to Thomas Cook, order your Traveler's Checks, sign them in front of the cashier, and again when buying something. Every store or restaurant accepted them. In fact, I don’t recall a single retailer turning one down on that trip to Corfu. They were safer than cash because they required a matching signature and a piece of ID to be cashed. But decades later, not only have Traveler's Checks gone the way of TV antennas and Diners Club, but you also no longer require cash of any physical kind to travel. I came on this trip without a single euro (although a little local currency is not a bad idea; I just wasn’t that organized) and instead used Apple Pay backed up by a couple of credit cards, just in case they needed me to insert a card or if I somehow failed to charge my phone.
This got me thinking about…
There are few people on this earth, especially if you are over 40, who can say they've never had their heart broken. It’s almost a rite of passage. Heartbreak has tremendous power. It can hurt, enlighten, destroy, strengthen, shatter, sadden, transform, illuminate, empower and…change lives. It has inspired countless songs that can rip your heart right out of your chest (shout out to Leonard Cohen). It has left poets broken and beautiful, and it has been pretty much the plot in every rom-com I’ve ever obsessively wept over (shout out to Nicholas Sparks and The Notebook.)
I mean, if you are living life, how can you avoid it?
It is like the movie Groundhog Day, only you are trapped at the same monotonous cocktail party with the same boring small talk—over and over and over again. It makes me want to get a dog, start eating carbs and call it a day.
Now, for all you happily coupled folks, those who have been living with the same guy who has been leaving the toilet seat up for years or the used teabag in the sink, you can skip this blog post. We can catch up on the next one when I may (or may not) have something a little more relevant to say.
However —you might want to stick around because this post might do one of two things. Either it will make you happy you are not single, or two, get you thinking….hmmm???—doesn't this game look a little more interesting than getting sprayed with Nigel's (or Doris') flying toenail clippings?
The day I got schooled by a message from a Millennial/Gen Z hybrid was a day like any other—except that day I was publicly reprimanded on TikTok, made worse that, and I could not understand most of it.
The message was simple: "Hey Boomer. Do you know that it is legit rude to actually just pick up the phone and call someone?"
Wait What??! I thought. Were they seriously telling me it was rude to call someone on the phone???
They were.
My reply, born from sheer bewilderment, was, "You know, that is what the phone is made for, right…to call people?" But then I got hit with: "Seriously, "dude, your Boomer Boner is low-key salty. It has no cap. It gives vibes of"a thirsty Karen."
Oh, the "humanity…and confusion.
Beaten down by the patriarchy is not a new concept. As a woman who worked decades in a career dominated by men, the environment was thick with sexist comments, ripe with sexual innuendo, career blocking and what I like to call disgusting man behavior. And like myself, many had to endure the punishment that came directly from refusing the sexual advances of men in power.
My salacious boss had physically cornered me in a hotel elevator on an overnight shoot. That resulted in a permanent career demotion when I politely refused to let him penetrate me. Sadly, my story, this story, is a tale as old as time. #metoo!
So, is it any wonder women have had enough?
Want to Take Mr Darcy Home? How About a Free Audio Book Giveaway?
I am thrilled to announce that the long-awaited audio version of my award-winning book, In Search of Mr Darcy: Lessons Learnt In The Pursuit Of Happily Ever After, is now available in North America. Woot, Woot!
To celebrate, I am having a very special Mr Darcy audiobook giveaway contest. Now, before you ask, yes, I am narrating. So, depending on where you like to listen, you could take Mr Darcy (and me) to bed with you.
Okay, let's be honest —I'm not exactly what you'd call a germaphobe. I've been known to play fast and loose with the infamous "ten-second rule," and, yes, I've even been caught giving a pacifier a quick "clean" with my mouth before handing it back to my baby. in fact, I believe getting dirty can be good for you and your immune system, to a point. So, when I tell you that what I've discovered about the germs lurking in our homes has me reconsidering my life choices, you know we're about to dive deep into some seriously grimy territory.
In this study I read by the National Sanitation Foundation (NSF) I was shocked to learn that my home was one step away from a science experiment, and not the good kind. And it is not just my place we are talking about folks. Coliform bacteria—think of them as the rockstars of the bacteria world, with Salmonella and E. coli being their greatest hits—are partying it up in a staggering 81% of households. Yikes.
I wasn’t talking about this at all— But after the kill order, I am all in.
Introduction: March 10th, 2024, marked a turning point in the otherwise mundane landscape of UK Mother’s Day. Little did the public know, a seemingly innocent photo would set off a chain of events, unraveling into what is now known as Kate-Gate. Let's delve into the intricacies of this royal controversy.
Let's talk about what I like to call the "Happiness Curve." A self-eating spiral of discontent as we pursue our God-given human right to be happy.
For most of us, happiness can look a lot like this;
If he only likes me back, I will be happy.
If I just get that promotion, I will be happy.
If I just get that house, I will be happy.
If I have a child, I will be happy.
If I could just lose ten pounds, I will be happy.
If my child stops leaving the lights on, I will be happy
If my child just got off my payroll, I will be happy.
The list goes on…and on…and on. It's the Happiness Curve, or should I say spiral? The overly optimistic youthful dream about how much satisfaction we will get out of our future successes.
'Tis the season to be jolly, and what better way to soak in the festive spirit than by exploring London's iconic department stores decked out in holiday splendor?
London often makes the Top Ten Lists of Most Christmassy Cities, and for that, I say Ho Ho Ho. Although I think next year I’ve got to check out Vienna, New York, Montreal, or Munich as they never fail to trump London according to the lists I’ve read.
But what I love about London at Christmas is that not one well-trained waiter or department store elf is afraid to wish you a Happy Christmas (they rarely say Merry), rather than the North American generic, "let’s-not-offend-anyone" Happy Holidays.
I have shown you London at Christmas on the outside, and I do that because it dazzles, and every year there is something new.
“I moved to London for the weather,” said no one ever—except me. As a proud Canadian, I’ve braved the infamous duo of Toronto seasons: Winter and Construction. And if I never ever again have to dig my frozen car out of several feet of snow, or toss away another pair of salt-stained boots, color me happy.
So, when I say London’s winter is a breath of fresh air, I’m not just spouting hot air!
Forget about the North Pole; London in December is where the magic happens. It’s the time when the city transforms into a glittering spectacle, outshining Rudolph’s red nose. And if winter in London were a movie, it would get two thumbs up from Clark Griswold and family.
I'm about to confess something to you, and I'm pretty sure I'm not alone in feeling this way.
I hate this time of year. Hate it!
It's like the world turns into a dark, cold, dreary scene from a Christopher Nolan movie. Beyond the gloomy weather and the scant hours of daylight, we're bombarded with that marketing juggernaut we ironically call “the most wonderful time of the year,” Christmas. That used to respectfully wait until we blew out the candle in our Halloween pumpkin, but now it relentlessly tramples over the remnants of Back to School. Shame, I want to scream like that scene from Game of Thrones. Shame! Then, as if that's not enough, comes the overwhelming pressure and expectation of a shiny, hopeful New Year. A fresh start, they say, that begins, for a lot of people with a massive NYE headache. Excuse me if I don’t have a serious case of JOMO, the joy of missing out. Ugh, it's just insertyourfavoriteexpletivehere brutal. But before you start searching for a therapist for me, let me clarify something.
Welcome, my friends, to an unexpected corner of my world. Today, I'm excited to spill the tea on my top picks—products, items, and services that have been recently integrated into my life. While some might consider this post a risk of oversharing (TMI alert!), I believe that sharing is caring, especially when it comes to the utterly fabulous items that have become my absolute essentials.
I think it’s important to mention that I am not being paid, bribed or courted by any of these brands, but if you are out there Prada, I’d be happy to make you the first exception.
So, without further ado, AND in no particular order…WAIT…that’s a complete lie, I am leading with the best…
For anyone who knows me, even just a little, you know I love food. I love cooking, baking, sautéing, whisking, and you know what…I am pretty damn good at it. Food is how I show love. For me to design, plan and prepare a meal for people is me saying to them, "I love you more than wine," which is saying something.
For many of us, summer is more entertaining than most other times of the year. The BBQ is scraped down, recipes dusted off, pies crimped, and we go to work impressively feeding those we love (and a few we don't.)
But of all the soufflés that have risen or Pavlova's devoured, there is one thing, one…that has been asked for the most and seriously impresses even the most experienced bakers…and that is my Montreal Bagels.
Ah, the sixties, the age, not the swinging decade. That dreaded biological marker that loomed before me like an ominous spectre. The mere mention of it sends a shiver down my spine, for it carries with it the weight of time and the burden of age. But, in the midst of this daunting reality, I must admit that there are certain unexpected advantages to growing older. The beauty of a sunset now holds a profound significance, a seniors discount at the movies brings a small glimmer of joy, and, if the passage of time has any value, I should possess a certain wisdom acquired through the trials and tribulations of life.
Yet, alongside these silver linings, there exists a shadow cast by the ageing process. My once vibrant metabolism has betrayed me, opting for reverse rather than forward, and I awaken to inexplicable aches and pains merely from sleeping weird. My existence can come to a screeching halt when my reading glasses, quite conveniently perched atop my head, mysteriously vanish into thin air. And… there is a hint of mortality that occasionally wafts in like smoke from a distant fire, triggered by a phone call in the middle of the night which can only mean bad news.
Permit me, my beautiful readers, to introduce my special guest, Leah McLaren. She is more than a guest. She is a three-time published author, award-winning journalist and a G&T-loving friend. And don't we all need one of those?
On Leah's invitation during the deep and dark time of Covid, I boarded a completely empty train and got my ass to a little rustic Welsh farmhouse that Leah had rented. I was attempting to write my very first book, and Leah was pounding out her latest, a poignant mother-daughter memoir, Where I End, and You Begin. "Don't talk to anyone", she warned me. "I mean it, Christina, no one." She was terrified that the Welsh villagers would take one listen to my Canadian accent and, with torches high and pitchforks at the ready, storm the farmhouse and evoke a tiny-town-terror of Covid justice.
When one generally thinks of a breakup, one often imagines a double-barrel, snot-bubbling ugly cry in a dark room, duvet pulled over head, empty ice cream containers littering the floor and lying awake in the middle of the night, imaging all the painful ways he might die. Wait, is that just me? After you have stopped crying and put down the Häagen Dazs, it might be time to reclaim your life (and power).
Most of us can relate to the crushing end of a relationship we swore would last forever. The loss of something big, the mourning of something bigger, what might have been, instead of what was. That's been the trickiest bit for me, in a way. What I thought it was going to be versus what it actually was. I think they call that dating for potential.
I am a cheater. A curious, cheating creature. I did not write the blog on dating you are about to read, Jane Austen did. Well, IA did, in the style of Jane Austen.
For those who know me, you know I am a lover of tech. I’ve been talking to Alexa for years, Google Maps is telling me how to get there, Calm lulling me to sleep, Suri answering my questions, and Find My Phone will let me know when my phone is stuck between two sofa cushions.
So when I was told about ChatGPT, I had to give it a try. And you know what, I was equal parts blown away and terrified. For those who aren’t up on the latest technology, let me explain. ChatGPT is an artificial intelligence chatbot that allows you to have human-like conversations. Think of it as if Google and Suri had a love child.
It can answer questions, write and fix code, translate, and generate content like emails, essays,…and blogs.
My first experiment with the IA master was to have it write me a complaint letter to my water company, which I believe is overcharging me. In approximately ten seconds, I had a brilliant letter with not a single word I’d have to change. No creative punctuation or spelling, which I have a propensity for.
I’m not sure if I can conjure the words to express what an unexpected, crazy journey the last few years have taken me on. My life, and in all the ways I defined it, mother, daughter, lover, boss, employer, friend, sister and Hunter’s human, were all changed, reimagined or permanently altered for good. In short, without these labels that I had dressed myself in, I had no idea who I was. None.
It’s funny when you are presented with change. At first, you resist it, much like getting that suspicious mole checked or online dating. You push hard against it and do whatever you can to make it stop or, at the very least, slow it down. Change can be terrifying. But as we know, change is the only constant in our lives. So the question is not “will this change” but rather, “what are you going to do with the changes?”
Me, I wrote a book.
It's interesting in life how many times we reinvent. Our bodies are cellular different every seven years, so science tells us. So, in essence, a brand new you. We've often had several careers, and don't get me started on the vast array of "loves of my life" I have fallen in and out of love with. I have had many, many lives, and every one of them was extraordinary, varied and ripe with lessons.
In my early twenties, I had a career in the glitzy cosmetic retail industry, and then I spent over a quarter century deep in the world of advertising and production. Hell, I even produced a feature film that opened TIFF. I moved countries and pretty much shed most of the labels that defined who I was to the world and, truthfully, to me as well. This isn't some sort of right-to-brag CV but rather an introduction to my thinking that anything is possible when no one tells you no.
Unless you are living completely off the grid, with no access to the internet or Google Alerts, you have been recently flooded with a plethora of red-hot stories, gifted to us by Harry and Meghan, the Duke and Duchess of Sussex. The Oprah interview, the Netflix docu-series/reality show and most recently, Harry’s tell-all book, The Spare. The media, with a frenzy equal to newly hatched turtles rushing to the ocean, have been diving into those waters to digest, dissect, discuss, judge, condemn and regurgitate every last word. Like so many of us, I have officially reached my peak, my saturation level of Sussex consumption. So I swore I wasn’t going to write about it. The war of The Sussexes.
But something happened to me last week, twice, in fact, that has led me to keep this dialogue going.
Not one, but two friendly, white tablecloth dinners, out with intelligent friends, metamorphized into a full-out, drag ‘um down bar fight debate about the most polarising subject in the UK since Brexit, Harry and Meghan. I am not interested in highlighting the obvious conflicts of one of the world’s most famous dysfunctional families or once again discussing the “rivalry, jealousy and competing agendas” between Harry and his wife, the Sussexes, and Prince William and Kate, the Cambridges. The proverbial “they said/the Monarch said.” You can buy the book. Nor do I want to talk about Oprah, the Netflix series, or Harry’s “frost-bitten todger” (cringe).
Aaaah, the mature woman. That fabulous creature that, if wooed with the right balance of precision and passion, might be the best sex you have ever had. You heard me—the best.
With a real risk of oversharing, sex over 50 is the culmination of decades of learning. I cannot speak for my married sisters, those women who’ve been having sex with the same partner who has been leaving the toilet seat up and the tea bag in the sink for years. But I can speak for the single ladies who have graciously and generously shared their fabulous, unfiltered sex stories with me.
Let’s get started. Encase there is a guy out there over the age of fourteen that doesn’t know this, women share everything. Yes, all of it. We talk in delicious, delightful details…about… well…all of it. If you are wondering, did she tell her girlfriend about…insert worst fear here*, the answer is, of course, she did. And they probably told their friends. I believe that is why women live longer, by talking it out. Sure you guys talk too. But it’s different, more surface, singular, simple and summarized. An uncomplicated “ya, I shagged her…um, dude, I think it’s your round.”
For those who don't know, the Mean Season is what I call that brutal time of year between American Thanksgiving and Valentine's Day. For most of the English-speaking world, we are enduring the cold, bitter elements of winter. The days are impossibly short but feel twice as long as you go to work in the dark and come home in the dark. And, for the blessed life of you, you can’t remember the last time you saw the sun. But the harsh, relentless weather is the least of it, it is merely the backdrop. With all its festive holiday parties, family gatherings and the general outpouring of love and mirth, the Mean Season is the most challenging time of the year to be single or alone.
Ever since Demi Moore was wrapped up tightly for eight years with Ashton Kutcher, sixteen years her junior, I have been fascinated by the older woman/younger man scenario. Of course, we as a society see that age flip with older men/younger women all the time, which barely warrants a raised eyebrow, and I, for one, am so bored of it (yawn). But back in the early 2000s, with Demi and Ashton, their coupling was as rare as a rainbow-coloured unicorn. Now, sure, Demi is not your average 9 to 5, Walmart shopping, monthly book club, carpooling gal (ok, that might not be average either). Back in the day, she was what the media would describe as Hollywood Royalty, a crowned Princess of the celebrity Brat Pack. Perhaps Ashton was just a pendulum swing from Demi's ex Bruce Willis eight years her senior, but if so, I say nicely done, Demi.
Two decades later, this off-beat relationship dynamic has become way more popular despite the social stigma amplified by popular media and the concept of "cougar and toyboy."
We, as a generation, have never looked better. We eat healthier and use something other than Noxema and Ten-O-Six (brown-tinged rubbing alcohol) to clean our skin. We are acutely aware of the dangers of sun exposure, pushing many of us to richly slather our faces with a daily, solid SPF 50.
And, of course, science has allowed us to mask our age with tightening, lasering and injecting, and I, for one, say giddy-up.
But as I hang with my daughters, their friends, and others who fall into that "just a tad younger than me' category, there is something other than my neck and my well-moisturised, taunt complexion that gives my age away… and this is what I am writing about today. The little things that immediately tell everyone you are over 50 that even the best plastic surgeons can't help you with.
Ah, Istanbul. A city where you're just as likely to get run over by a motorcycle on the sidewalk as you are crossing the street. It was my first trip to Turkey, and I wasn't quite sure what to expect. I had visions of Agatha Christie's Murder on the Orient Express mixed in with a smattering of Midnight Express. And fortunately for me, it was nothing like the latter. The city's soundtrack is a melody of street vendors barking their wares, a constant "lady, lady, lady", mingled in with the blasting of car horns, all punctuated with the haunting, melodic Call to Prayer five times a day. Istanbul is an exciting mix between ancient and modern. Opulent luxury pushed hard against the hustling assault of markets selling spices, handbags, kababs and rugs.
For instance, why do they love James Corden for Gavin and Stacey but pretty much can't stand him for anything else? Or, their national obsession for room temperature water, football (soccer), organ meats and baked beans. Or, how they’ve claimed curry as traditional British cuisine. Or, or… how their gentle overt politeness, decorum and centuries-old etiquette instantly vanishes as they go all American postal when someone jumps one of their orderly queues. And do not get me going on those horse hair wigs they are mandated to wear in court, even the vegans. But as I spend time hiding amongst them, I have adopted some of their language. No, I am not speaking in a British accent, I am not Madonna or Lindsey Lohan, but I have to give credit where credit is due. Some of the British words I didn't know existed (or barely) I now can't live without. They make up the healthy fabric of my daily conversation, and you know what???? They are bloody brilliant.
What a year!
I cannot think of a single year in my life when living in London has been so historical. We have had a Prime Minister ousted, brought down by scandal. It was only a few months ago when decorated soldiers marched, gilded horses trotted, and trumpeters blew their horns as I, plus hundreds of thousands of others, surrounded Buckingham Palace to pay tribute to the Queen's 70-year reign. A milestone not reached by any other British monarch.
Solo travel is one of the most enriching experiences and the most incredible gift you can give yourself. Whether you're embarking on your first solo journey or a seasoned solo traveler, it’s always helpful to have a few tips to ensure your trip is smooth, safe, and enjoyable. So, let me share my top solo travel tips, favorite destinations, and essential advice for solo female travelers.
1. Pick Solo-Friendly Destinations
Choosing the right destination is crucial for a successful solo trip. Some places are naturally better suited for solo travelers due to their welcoming atmosphere, ease of navigation, and safety. So, do your research and plan something you have always wanted to do but within your comfort zone. These are a few of my top places.