That's the year my parents came to Canada with my brother, sister, grandfather and uncle after surviving the Holocaust. Their first home was in downtown Toronto, off Harbord on a street called Crawford.
Last night around 5:45 p.m. Steve came upstairs to ask what I would like to do for dinner. It was a beautiful Summers eve and I couldn't imagine sitting around the house and G-d forbid cooking. Before you call child services for not feeding the "custodial family", FO was working late at the golf course while YO and MO were going to a birthday celebration.
Each year Toronto hosts Summerlicious. An event that showcases some of the best restaurants in the city while introducing a Prix Fixe menu which includes an appetizer, main course and dessert for a very reduced price per person. You need to make reservations weeks in advance for this occasion - specifically if you want a table on a Saturday night before my bedtime.
It's now 5:52 p.m. and Steve suggested he look into booking a restaurant for 7:30 p.m.- tonight.
Are you kidding me? A Saturday night during Summerlicious and he thinks he is going to secure a coveted 7:30 p.m. reservation? Let me remind you once again - the time was 5:52 p.m. I smugly laughed while blow drying my sopping wet hair and informed him that he would be calling at least twenty restaurants before he realized that his quest to accomplish the impossible was virtually a dream.
Good luck with that Steve.... Good luck.
He dialed. It's ringing, ringing, ringing...and finally...
" Hello I'm wondering if there is a possibility of getting a reservation for tonight " says the optimistic dreamer.
There is a lull and background conversation ensues.
This is the part that I pictured all the staff laughing at my husband who thinks that he can call for a last minute deal for Summerlicious.
"Yes, we can accommodate a party of two at 6:30 p.m." They responded.
I'm still blowing. It's 5:59 p.m. now.
Steve starts negotiating.
"Um, we live up north and we have a ways to drive..any chance (in hell) we can push that to 7 p.m.?" He asks once again dreamily.
Up north? The hostess was probably thinking we were in Barrie or Newmarket. Who needs an hour to drive downtown from Thornhill?
More background conversation is taking place. I still think they are laughing while I continue blowing.
Just as a side note here's my routine. With the exception of those of you (who I envy) with short straight non-frizzable locks I'm sure you can relate.
- proceed to the washroom area
- shave my legs when I can remember to (fancy style with good old red Gillette foam)
- enter the shower stall sporting globs of leftover shaving cream here and there
- wet my hair
- shampoo once
- place a half a bottle of my new conditioner into my hair
- shmoosh it around
- try to pile it atop of my head only to let it fall when I bend over to put the bottle back down on the ground
- groom the pits
- wash the tits
- clean the location where there's possible shits
- rinse out conditioner
- exit from the shower stall
- towel dry off
- Aveeno head to toe
- proceed to makeup table
- lay out the heavy duty tools
Foundation ,concealer, blush, eye shadow quad, mascara, lip-liner, lipstick, gloss, loose powder and more brushes than Michelangelo used to paint the Sistine chapel with.
(Did you actually think I was a natural beauty)? Well maybe 30 years ago I could get away without mascara but now I just don't feel it necessary to SCARA anyone.
10 minutes. That's what it takes for me to put my "socially acceptable" face on.
Once this procedure is completed I untwist my Turbie and TRY to run a wide tooth comb through my hair. I then place three times the amount of recommended styling cream into my strands and comb through again. I'm now ready to dry each section of hair with one of the various brushes I have for styling.
Can anyone say "high maintenance"?
Oh, and by the way - I wasn't even at the curling iron stage yet when Steve exclaimed with much glee that he only had to call ONE restaurant to get a table. ONE. Hardy har har.
Only issue with this score was this.....I was still at the very damp hair stage, with 80% chance of frizz due to the high humidity levels. That's not considered dangerous for most but for me it can make or break my mood as a dining companion.
My darling husband has not taken a shower yet and we need to leave within the next 12 minutes in order to get down to the restaurant in time. Sound familiar? Steve now enters the shower at 6:01 p.m. - he exits the shower at 6:04 p.m. and is dressed by 6:04 p.m. and thirty seconds. I'm now sweating like a pig who is about to become someone's breakfast. I have a foot in one shoe, a strapless dress hovering around my waist and my hair is half damp and starting to expand beyond the horizon. Needless to say - I felt both flushed and rushed. I took my curling iron through my hair while observing the smoke and flames ignite my anti-frizz cream that was coating my hair for protection.
I gingerly walk over the dry mud with my goldish color shoes and hurl myself head first into the car....or should I say "frizz" first. We are cleared for take-off and it is now 6:17 p.m.
Steve creates the flight path in his mind (but is talking out loud) while I am busily checking my Facebook updates. I have come up with the perfect plan to avoid backseat driving while my husband veers in and out of traffic narrowly missing street poles, on-coming traffic and families with children and/or pets. I verily believe that keeping my mind occupied by texting, searching and reading emails ensures a zen-like calmness to my well-being and alleviates the usual high pitched screams that normally come out of my mouth while watching my life pass before my eyes. What's wrong with that? Well....for one....Steve feels lonely when I don't pay attention to him. What is it about men? Do they always feel that they need to be on stage performing? He mentions that I am addicted to that "thing" and I should put it away so he has companionship in the car on our drive. To appease him I place my device into its black leather holster and start talking.
"So what's new"? I ask. The conversation is now heading towards the route and the marked locations in Steve's head by timing. "We should be at Sheppard in about 13 minutes", said Captain Steve.
I was really itching to take my blackberry out but restrained myself. Converse with your husband. Converse.
I assumed the brace position while plugging my nose with my thumbs for fear of brain matter escaping through my nostrils.
We arrived on University Avenue at approximately 6:45 p.m. Steve informed me that we were "just around the corner" from Harbord Street. He just needed to go south to go north and loop around Queen's Park to get over to the street where my meal was waiting for me to order. Going south to go north was not so easy. There was a "function" at Queen's Park. As we slowly worked our way up University it was evident that the going south to go north was not such a good idea when there were hundreds of people trying to get to Afrofest.
Miracously, Captain Steve landed in front of the restaurant at 6:55 p.m. He dropped me off and I ran inside to get our table. After a very sumputious dinner of middle eastern/ morrocanish food, I sent my mother a "goodnight I love you email". I mentioned that we were on Harbord Street to which she replied....if you happen to be near 602 Crawford see if our first house is still there.
Ah...the fond memories....for the first nine years of my life. I loved that house until......my parents built a new home and I never wanted to go back. So many more memories in the home that now remains my mother's abode. I will save that for another time.... but for now I felt blessed to revisit a bit of family history .....without getting arrested for trespassing.