When you’re young you either have best friends or you don’t. There’s no in-between. These friends are quickly interchangeable – forget to pick me in PE for your dodge-ball team and you’re not my friend anymore. Offer me your Fruit Roll-Up and you can be my new best friend.

Even in high school, when you fancy yourself “grown up,” you cut friends out of your life just as swiftly. It’s only when you venture out into the big bad scary world that you realize the true value of friendship, and reflect on your past-pal-pettiness with slight embarrassment and regret.

I had a lot of people come in and out of my life throughout my school years, and there were just as many I didn’t let in at all. I grew up in the pre-technology times, and since the advent of Facebook in the last few years, I’ve reconnected with more than 100 of my former middle and high school classmates. I wonder if the same will be true of today’s generation – since they’re already connected on Facebook, will they later add kids from their school years after never giving them the time of day?

But I digress… friends in adulthood take on a new dynamic. For me, my “core group” of friends are like family. They offer support and fun and unconditional love. In many ways I feel almost flattered that these amazing people would voluntarily give me such love – they’re not family or bound to me by blood, but rather they chose to love me. What’s better than that?

Then there are your “girls,” the dear girlfriends you’ve made at jobs, school, or through others, and they’re the outgoing gang of ladies you love to get together with for dinners and birthdays and nights out on the town. There’s the wild one, the funny one, the organizer, the one who loves to dance, the one who’s always late, and the generous one, and they each bring a special dynamic to the group and they each bring something you love about them.

And finally you have your besties, those select girlfriends who are your sisters, the ones you share history with and can always pick up right where you left off, no matter what the circumstances or how much time has passed. They’re your rocks, the first people you call to tell you’re engaged or you’re pregnant, and the ones you share your bestest bests and worstest worsts.

The friend equation as a child is a simple “first come first served” ideology, but when you’re a grown-up, it becomes this group dynamic that is layered and varied, with different people from all walks and phases of life, each with a specific role to play. And given they each fulfill a particular niche my in life (and my heart), they are all special, and I am grateful for each and every friend I am lucky and blessed enough to have.

1- All tupperware should be clear. I have a bunch of solid-coloured containers where I’ll tuck away strawberries or leftovers only to slowly be relegated to the bag of the fridge, lost for weeks, until one day I find it, cautiously open it, scream in horror, and throw the entire thing out.

2- Why are people always coming to my website searching for “golden retriever puppies”? It’s been the most searched term for three months now. I don’t write about golden retriever puppies. Sorry dog people.

3- Whenever I watch a hockey game and they refer to a two-on-one goal as “a two-on-one one,” I think of the song “Da Doo Ron Ron…”

4- You can tell a lot about people by watching what they buy at the grocery store. A guy with a frozen meal, a king can of beer and dental floss is, well, probably single, and so is the woman with the two oranges, diet soda, individual $6-salad, Star magazine, and Ben & Jerry’s brownie explosion.

5- Our neighbour across the hall bikes all year-round and only wears full bike-rider get-ups (read: spandex). I’ve seen him go out in a blizzard (and fall on his ass because his tiny wheels have absolutely no traction on ICE). He’s not the only one – apart from bike messengers who have to ride for work, there are lots of people I see plowing through the snow and pedaling amongst the snowmen. Who are these mysterious (read: crazy) winter riders and why don’t they learn how to ski or skate instead?

Winter is annoyingly long at this point and one of the few exciting things of this looooong season is cooking. Mike and I usually prepare a humungo pot of spaghetti sauce several times throughout the winter months so we can freeze them in two-portion bags and pull them out as we need em. I also love to share food with friends and family too, so it’s nice to be able to give a bag or two away.

So here’s the recipe for our meat sauce, which originally came from my grandmother and was passed down to my mom and then me. It’s been slightly tweaked, and you can adjust the ingredients to your liking as well.

- 6 Italian sausages (mild or hot, depending on what you prefer)

- 1 lb. lean ground meat

- 1 tbsp. oil

- 2 chopped onions

- 2-3 chopped cloves of garlic

- 1 box sliced mushrooms

- 2 chopped green peppers

- 6 cans diced tomatoes

- 3 cans tomato sauce

- 1 large can tomato juice

- 2-3 cans tomato paste

- 2 tbsp. oregano

- 1 tbsp. parsley

- 1 tbsp. garlic powder

- 4 bay leaves

- pinch of sugar

Cook six Italian sausages, slice and set aside.

Brown ground meat and oil in the bottom of a large pot. Once cooked, add onions and garlic. Cook for 2-3 minutes until softened. Add mushrooms, green papers, cans of diced tomatoes, tomato sauce, tomato juice, and tomato paste. Add spices (you can also add some crushed red pepper flakes for extra heat and I always throw in a few teaspoons of Parmesan cheese). Let simmer 3-4 hours, stirring frequently.

I was born in Toronto, lived in South Florida for 11 years, and then moved to Montreal, Quebec for university (and have been here ever since). In total I have taken seven years of French. I can read and even write it, but I have absolutely no oral skills – I don’t understand when people speak French and I have a really difficult time speaking the language myself. I’ll admit – it embarrasses me. I hate walking into a store and having someone ask me something and not understanding one iota of it. I need to take more conversational French classes – I’m the first to admit it.

Yesterday I went into a local bakery and, while I started with a “Bonjour Madame,” I had to ask if their cold cuts had nitrates, a complicated question to figure out in French so I asked in English. The woman understood and answered in French. Fine. I gave my next order en francais but not before stuttering and pronouncing the words like a true “Anglais,” and then we went to pay. As she gave me my change she said “Merci- bonne journee,” and that was it. Now, after spending about five minutes with this woman who OBVIOUSLY understood English and who saw me very OBVIOUSLY struggling to speak in her mother tongue, I was a tad peeved that I’d just given my money to a business that is in a BILINGUAL province and yet she couldn’t even finish the transaction with a “thank you and have a nice day,” something EVERY Francophone knows how to say.

I put this story as my FB status yesterday and it generated A LOT of comments and debate. So let me address a few arguments… Yes, the saleswoman might have been uncomfortable speaking English, but I was equally uncomfortable trying to figure out how to say “100 grams of the pasta salad” in French but I did it. I made the effort despite red cheeks. She made none. And yes, I agree that we all need to know both languages to live in Quebec, and I’m at fault because no, I’m not bilingual, but again- I MADE THE EFFORT. I dug down deep to find the few French words I knew and TRIED. She didn’t. Someone on Facebook pointed out that if she had switched to English, she would have been doing a disservice to me as someone who is trying to learn the language, but the saleswoman didn’t know that… and if that’s the argument, then wasn’t I doing her a SERVICE by speaking in English and helping HER learn?!

I love living in Montreal (you all know this)- I love the food and the history and the sites and I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else in the world. But this language-issue is the thorn in my side. Even if I was perfectly bilingual I would still hold on to my argument that a business in this province should have employees who can speak BOTH languages. I’m sick of feeling like I always have to be the “bigger person.”

And to think: all of this wouldn’t have happened if I’d gotten a simple “Thank you and have a nice day.” Merde!

If someone were to ask me whether I consider myself to be religious, I’d say no. I’m not very good about going to church regularly (although my dad raised me Catholic and I went to church every Sunday, from the time I was 4 till I graduated high school, unless I could really convince him I was too sick to go). I use the Lord’s name in vain on occasion. And I haven’t gone to confession since I received confirmation (when I was 15- yikes!).

Sure, I say my prayers every night, and I have loads of faith, but I’m not overly religious.

However I do make my way to church every few weeks, and I have to say: as much as I don’t like dragging myself out of bed on a Sunday morning to put on decent clothes and venture out into the cold, once I get to church, I really like it. I’m glad my dad made religion a part of my life – there’s something very comforting about being surrounded by people who hold the same values and ideals as you (for the most part). I like the quietness of mass, the traditions, and the music. I think it’s great that I can walk into a Catholic mass anywhere in the world, and while I may not understand the spoken part of the service, I can expect the same “motions.”

True, going to church was probably one of the most boring, mundane activities I could have imagined when I was little, and nothing is more annoying than those pangs of Catholic guilt I get when I’m sitting on my couch at 11am on a Sunday watching a movie instead of going to mass. But having religion is a big part of my life as an adult – it gives me hope and solace, and I will definitely raise my children Catholic. If they grow up and have different beliefs, and want to pursue a different religion, I’ll be okay with that. When they’re old enough to choose a religion that can – I won’t shove Catholicism down their throats. But I’ll start by teaching them religion as I know it so that they at least have a good foundation. And as long as they have some sort of faith into their adult years, I’ll feel content as a parent.

So thanks dad, for giving me something bigger than myself.

It was a very looong week. So forgive me for having only four RANDOM THOUGHTS… for today and not five.

Lets chat about my food thoughts… we’ll call it “food for thought” (I know, so obvious… I told you – I’m tired!)

1- When you open a bag of chips, open them upside-down. A friend taught me that when I was younger. I always open my salt and vinegar chips upside-down – that way all the salty, vinegary ones are on top!

2- Growing up in Florida we had milk in plastic jugs. But milk just tastes better since moving back and drinking it out of bags.

3- Nothing is more irritating than having cracked Oreos – you go to lick a side and it crumbles in your hand. The same goes with broken Lik-a-Maid candy sticks – you can’t dip with a stub.

4- I love fried cheese. If I make an omelet I purposely sprinkle extra cheese on the outside so it melts into a little crispy, salty patty. I also over-sprinkle cheese when I make nachos, parmigiana, and grilled cheese sandwiches. And maybe on very rare occasions I just fry up some cheese. Maybe…

I remember when Mike and I started apartment-hunting for the first time – we saw this one God-awful basement apartment that looked like a depressing prison cell, and then we saw this place. It was bright, on the third floor, and it had this enormous tree outside our window that sorta blocked us from the sidewalk/street and provided some privacy, even when we were out on the balcony. We were one of the first of our friends to have their own place (years ago) and now we’re still here, packed to the gills, the last of our friends to do apartment-living.

This shoebox has been good to us. We’ve had a lot of fun here, shared a lot of laughs, and had countless people crash on our futon (the only piece of IKEA furniture I’ve known to last 10 years and take tons of abuse unscathed). We’ve celebrated birthdays, holidays, Christmases, baby showers, anniversaries and New Years’. We’ve rearranged furniture and rooms. We’ve reorganized closets countless times. Mike has rearranged locker spaces countless times. And while I love this place, I am over apartment-living.

I’m sick of sharing washers and dryers with strangers. I’ve had enough of feeling like the Brady Bunch intro and having people living on all sides of us. I’m tired of lugging groceries and laundry up three flights of stairs. I hate my balcony and want a yard. I want a garage and basement for reno projects (like refinishing a dresser) and Martha projects (like crafts and gift wrapping). I need a real kitchen where my countertops aren’t the size of a postage stamp.

I love you apartment, but it’s time to move on to your larger, more independent counterpart… the house. I can’t wait…

I love Christmas trees and Easter baskets and turkey centrepieces on Thanksgiving, but Valentine’s Day is not a holiday people. If it were, we wouldn’t get mail or a newspaper… and I got both this morning.

I suppose we needed something in-between the bigger religious holidays so we keep spending money, and whomever made up this silly holiday was obviously a struggling female florist or chocolatier (no man would create another holiday to remember and impress with). The only time Valentine’s Day is “fun” is when you’re a kid… I used to love writing out all of my little Valentine cards to each person in my class, and we usually got to do a project and make those individual “mailboxes” for our desks (I would search for the perfect shoebox weeks before). Everyone always got the same number of Valentines and no one went without. And if a boy did write something particularly mushy in your card, you were still at the point where anyone of the opposite sex had cooties and having a Valentine would induce “ewws” and immediate cootie shots.

It’s pretty much downhill after that. If you don’t have a boyfriend in middle or high school you spend the day loathing the popular girls who are walking through the halls trying to balance their heart-shaped mylar balloons, bouquets of flowers and stuffed dogs with heart-shaped tongues. Thereafter every Valentine’s Day you’re alone you find yourself stuffing your face with conversation hearts and watching “When Harry Met Sally,” and if you do have a boyfriend you create lofty, unrealistic fantasies about what the day will hold now that you have a Valentine (and he ends up bringing you a bag of pink Hershey kisses).

Don’t get me wrong – I’m not jaded because my husband doesn’t make a big deal out of V-Day. I don’t either. I think it’s a money-grab. Last year he bought me this huge bouquet of flowers and I coulda killed him – I knew he’d probably paid an arm and a leg (and part of his torso) to buy flowers on this commercial holiday and it seemed like such a waste.

I don’t think it’s romantic to get tokens of appreciation and love ONE DAY a year. It’s too forced. I’d rather get flowers on a Wednesday for no particular reason at all. That would mean more to me. If you wait until February 14th to tell someone that you love them, then you’re just plain ol’ lazy.

So, if you’re single today, don’t have self-pity – Valentine’s Day is MAJORLY overrated and lame. And if you do have a partner, buy them flowers or chocolates or a thoughtful card on February 15th, and March 3rd, and April 26th, and May 12th…

It’s gonna be a great month work-wise – I have 13 features scheduled including two national magazine articles. I did 11 interviews this week – I had emails pouring in 9 to 5, my cell and home phones took turns ringing off the hook, and I had to add pages to my agenda to fit in all of my daily to-dos. So, in ode to my crazy work-week, here are some RANDOM THOUGHTS… that are all work-related.

1- A high-resolution image is 300dpi 4×6 MINIMUM. So when I ask if you have high-res shots and you say yes, stop sending me postage-stamp-sized photos.

2- Don’t feel like you have to email me back just to say “thanks.” I get enough emails… I’ll just give you the benefit of the doubt that you’re polite and grateful. K’thanks.

3- Just so you know, I work from home… so when you call at 11:30 at night thinking you’re going to get my “office voicemail” and instead you get a confused and worried in-person “hello?” it’s because you woke me up and I figured the only possible call I’d get at 11:30pm is that someone has died.

4- I have water-cooler discussions with strangers on Twitter… pathetically sad or futuristic-cool?

5- I hate that you can’t take back emails… nothing irks me more than hitting “send” on an email and then realizing I misspelled something in the subject line. They should give you a 10-second rule…

When I was in elementary school we took a field trip to the local paper the Sun Sentinel. We had a tour of the newsroom and then got to see where they printed the paper. I had always fancied myself a marine biologist and thought I’d grow up to train whales and dolphins, but surrounded by the buzz of the phones and fax machines and pulsating presses made my heart race. Perhaps this was the moment the journalism seed was planted.

My cousin-in-law’s son (if that makes any sense) is 11 years old and absolutely loves fashion. He does his own fashion design sketches, he loves to dress well, and he knows all the trends, designers and models. He’s outgoing and bright and funny and oh so smart. I was invited to an event celebrating Italian fashion at Ogilvys downtown over a year ago and got permission to bring him. He was dressed to the nines and came armed with his sketchbook. Attendees, including magazine editors, news reporters and fashion designers, couldn’t get enough of him, and stopped to talk to him, tell him he was lookin’ good, and a designer (Naana Tennachie Yankey of Coccolily) was even nice enough to talk with him about how she became a designer as well as look through his sketchbook (and “ooh” and “ahh” – it was great!).

We then attended two Coccolily shows at Montreal Fashion Week and the !Nu.I show last night.

To be brutally honest, I’m not a huge fan of going to a single show at MFW. If I was there for the day it would be one thing, but all the pre-show hooplah, parking, and line-ups isn’t too thrilling for a seven-minute fashion show. But the look on his face, the pure joy he gets from being the only pre-teen walking through the media lounge and to our third-row seats next to the runway, is worth every ounce of “grrrr.” I hope he pursues his dreams, whatever they may be, because that kid has got a spark like no other. He has his whole life ahead of him and the world really is his oyster, and I hope he finds his path and can cultivate his passions. He’s got unlimited potential, and when he becomes rich and famous, I hope he remembers the little people who took him to Fashion Week (wink!).