Category: Lifestyle

There are supposedly over 40,000 mommy bloggers online these days. Most mommy bloggers write very informative, positive, life-affirming articles about relationships, pregnancies and the joys and challenges of raising children. All pretty safe and standard stuff.

Then there is Rebecca Eckler. I consider her a writer without peer in the mommy blogosphere.
Eckler writes with wit and sass. She is ribald, profane, and outrageous and always very funny. Eckler is a well-known columnist in Canada. She has written for the National Post and the Globe and Mail. She is also the author of nine books.

Eckler’s most recent book is The Mommy Mob, a witty expose of the cruel judgmental world of the mommy blogosphere. For several years, Eckler wrote a twice weekly column for an online mommy blog, Mommyish.com. Eckler’s book summarizes her most controversial columns and the sometimes insane vituperative reactions from her female readers.

The book is captivating. Once you get into The Mommy Mob, you can’t get out. The Mommy Mob also reminds me of The Sopranos, but with 4 inch stilettos. Bada Bling, B..tch.

In this book, Eckler portrays herself as the victim of vicious attacks from outraged mommies for her unconventional relationships, parenting views and actions.

The blogging mommies’ online criticism of Eckler is intense and nasty. What I like about Eckler is that she stubbornly marches to her own drummer. Eckler lives by her own code of conduct and behavior. And those who disagree with her, well, that’s their problem. Not Eckler’s.

But why is Rebecca Eckler hated by so many mommy bloggers? Why do so many seemingly sane women get their Laura Ashley knickers in a knot when it comes to Eckler?

For starters, Eckler loves sex. And she is not afraid to talk and write about the most intimate details of her sexual liaisons.

In her first book, Knocked Up, Eckler gives an hysterical account of how she and her then first fiancé, after a drunken engagement party, had wild unprotected sex. Resulting in the accidental conception that night of her first born, Rowan, aka, according to Eckler, “the best accident I ever had.”

Fast forward several years later. In The Mommy Mob, we learn that Eckler had split from her first fiancé. Her daughter Rowan, the love of Eckler’s life is 10 years old. Eckler has literally hooked up with another dude, fiancé Numero Duo.

Eckler advised us that she had sex with her second fiancé on their first date.

Clearly, the sex is amazing, and the relationship is firing on all cylinders. BecauseEckler advises that she convinces her second fiancé to reverse the vasectomy he obtained during his first marriage.

Obviously, the surgical procedure works, because Eckler is once again pregnant , within nanoseconds, with her second child.

Then Eckler goes all in and convinces the second fiancé to have sex with her daily throughout her whole pregnancy. Which apparently, they accomplish, even on those days, when Eckler confesses, she is not really in the mood. But her guy is, and Eckler, manfully womans up and as she wittily noted, “takes one for the team.”

I don’t know about you, women, but as a guy, this Eckler chick is a great literary character in her own right, rivalling Molly Bloom from Ulysses and Defoe’s Moll Flanders.

And frankly, I have not read the depiction of great pregnancy sex since Updike’s classic Couples.

However, according to Eckler, in The Mommy Mob, the mommy bloggers do not share my admiration for Eckler’s sexual “tell all”.

Eckler reports gleefully that these anonymous female bloggers publicly “slut shame” her and call her all kinds of horrible names like, “whore and the “c” word that rhymes with “runt”.

But when Eckler shares her parenting views on raising her Rowan and newborn son Holt, the mommy blogosphere fully goes ballistic.

Irate mommies chastise Eckler for relying on nannies, encouraging Rowan to ditch school, for outsourcing Rowan’s bike lessons, for avoiding changing Holt’s smelly diapers for months, for over programming Rowan and spoiling her with expensive gifts. And the biggest crime, permitting Rowan to treat Eckler’s vibrator and tampons as toys.

What these mommies don’t get is that at the core of Eckler’s unconventional parenting, is her extreme love for and devotion to her children. And that makes all the difference.

I have met the famous Rowan and she is cute, smart, talented, self-assured and adores her mom. Prada case, closed.

I believe that the insane reaction to Eckler’s musings reflect a society whose conventions are under attack. These traditionalists, Eckler’s antagonists, come across as jealous, insecure, weak, scared and threatened. Kudos to Rebecca Eckler for exposing the soft underbelly of conventional Toronto society.

The Ontario Government is carrying about $267+ billion in debt. It is looking at another annual deficit of around $11+ billion dollars.

The Toronto city government has annual, ongoing salary commitments and obligations to police, fire, emergency personnel and city staff. Together with massive capital commitments for transit, Gardiner and public housing, and much much more.

These governments are strapped for revenues. And there aint much extra “cheddar” for small arts organizations.

Somehow the provincial and city governments can find the “flow” for such high profile cultural institutions as The ROM, the Toronto Opera, the Toronto Symphony and TIFF. TO’s culture glam bodies.

But for the hundreds of small TO arts organizations that nourish, sustain and provide the necessary blood for TO’s high and low culture, the government cupboard is generally bare.

But fret not, cultural fashionistas.

There are a few outstanding non-profit arts organizations here in Toronto that thrive and prosper, without a shilling from our government’s coffers.

One such arts organization is JPEC (Jazz Performance and Education Centre).

JPEC is worthy of our attention, because in these times of government cutbacks, the JPECs of Toronto will survive and succeed, while those other Toronto organizations, too dependent upon government largesse, will shrivel and die as taxpayer money dries up.

So what is so special about JPEC? And what can we learn from this David among the cultural Goliaths of Toronto?

Firstly, operators of such small organizations must be passionate, committed, smart, focused, organized and visionary.

As Exhibit “A”, I give you the founders and driving forces of JPEC, the husband and wife team of Ray and Rochelle Koskie. Ray is a retired labor lawyer and pension specialist. Rochelle is a multi-discipline artist and was involved in local Toronto theatre for years in many capacities.

Together they share a lifelong love of music, especially jazz.

Secondly, the arts organization should establish a clear set of objectives which guide and drive the organization and all its employees and members.

For Exhibit “B”, the Koskies, in 2008, set up JPEC as a non-profit charitable organization, “to inspire and grow audiences for jazz music in Canada.”

Specifically, the Koskies established these three inter-related primary objectives:

1. To educate audiences and students of all ages about the rich heritage of jazz, its great works and musicians, and the relationship between jazz and other disciplines;

One method is through performance, by presenting accessible performances by local and international jazz artists at very affordable prices and by reaching out to communities in need with subsidized tickets.

JPEC’s last 6 performance jazz concert series, entitled, “The Flavorful Colours of Jazz at the Paintbox Bistro” featured the legendary American jazz great, Randy Weston
and the unique Cuban jazz of the Luis Mario Ochoa Quintet.

Another method is through featured performers engaging in conversation with the audience-explaining their work and exchanging ideas. JPEC is dedicated to making the music and the music makers accessible and understood as well as appreciated;

2. To provide a Toronto venue so outstanding local, national and international jazz artists can perform their artistry.

As Rochelle Koskie, noted, “We graduate 400 jazz musicians every year in Ontario. Where do they go? Where is the hub?”

Clearly, Ms. Koskie hoped that JPEC would provide a home where jazz artists and jazz fans could meet and experience marvelous jazz first-hand by great jazz artists and converse about jazz.

In order to provide exposure for talented young jazz musicians, JPEC features student university trios for hour long performances prior to each main jazz performance. Personally, I was blown away by the talented Josh Smiley U of T Student Trio, when I attended one of JPEC’s Saturday night concerts.

3. To give back to the community. It is also important for JPEC to bring music and jazz to Toronto public schools in communities where resources for music are limited. JPEC has accomplished this by sponsoring musicians presenting special daytime workshops for school groups and other groups within the community.

Exhibit “C” — Chris O’Neil’s Drum Café, which provided drums to 700 students at the Rockford School. And taught interactive drumming to create co-operation and stimulate learning in the children.

According to the Koskies, mentoring the next generation of talented young Canadian musicians is a major goal of JPEC. They point to studies that link music study to academic achievement and even to success later in life. “Playing music demands dedication, discipline and teamwork,” says Rochelle Koskie. “And it also helps children to solve problems in creative and imaginative ways.”

Thirdly, the ongoing financial support of individuals and public and private corporate sponsors is critical.

The Koskies learned early in this fund-raising process that the best and most enduring financial supporters were those who not only had the financial means, but also shared a love of music and jazz.

Through hard work and determination, JPEC has developed a very strong advisory/financial support group which has sustained JPEC since its inception.

Exhibit “D” — such diverse sponsors and supporters as Daniels Corporation and Mitchell Cohen, Cadillac, Koskie Minsky LLP, Carpenters District Council, LIUNA, Benefit Plan Administrators, TD Bank, RBC and the Canadian Association of Black Lawyers.

Fourthly, strategic networking and partnering are essential.

In the last year JPEC networked with Mitch Cohen and Daniels Corporation, the visionary re-developers of Regent Park and Chris Klugman, proprietor of Paintbox Bistro.

And finally, JPEC found a home in the Paintbox Bistro, a cool bistro and employer of local residents, which is in turn housed in the Daniels Spectrum- a beautiful building for the Regent Park community containing art/music schools, libraries, performance venues and meeting rooms.

JPEC is hard evidence that a small Toronto arts organization can survive and prosper without government handouts.

JPEC is an excellent example of how a non-profit partnered with the private sector can act effectively in the public interest and do good work for the greater Toronto community.

You may recall that in a previous Huff Post story, I reported that my good friend Phil, a 50-something Richmond Hill accountant, just prior to Christmas, had come to the rescue of his favourite client, “D”, a gorgeous, but quirky Toronto publicist. A dynamo with energy, class and sass.

Phil, an average pudgy Jewish guy had saved Christmas for D by surprising her and winning her heart with a Christmas tree for her place. The first Christmas tree any man had ever bought her.

But now, for Phil, New Year’s Eve, had come and gone. Uneventfully.

The new year of 2014 was looming.

In the past, Phil, always believed that the new year was a time to be reborn. To reinvent himself.

One year Phil took salsa lessons. Another year, hot yoga.

Another year he spent a ton of time on JDate. Phil told me that he initially met some very nice women of the Jewish tradition. One such woman actually liked Phil. And wanted to take their relationship to the next level. By trying to change Phil. By making him look younger, hipper, thinner, richer.

And ironically, less Jewish.

This year Phil decided he would pull a “George Costanza” of Seinfeld fame and do the opposite of all his natural instincts.

Recall in that classic Seinfeld episode, perennial loser George, famous for his nodding acquaintance with the truth, contrary to his natural inclinations, told a beautiful woman, the ugly truth about himself. That he was unemployed and living with his parents. And lo and behold. George scored a date, a job with the Yankees and his own apartment.

Phil told me that he was impressed with a Huff Post article by local self-help guru,Victoria Lorient-Faibish, who advised in “When Family-Culture Gets In The Way of Me-Time” that we should develop an attitude of selfishness or “selfyness”.

That is, seeing yourself as your top priority. Or as Faibish advises, “taking personal responsibility for your own self-care. ”

In other words, don’t say yes, unless you look after yourself first.

Phil’s natural inclination was always to help others and give joy and pleasure to others, before himself.

So he decided he would be totally selfish and self-centred for 2014.

He would embrace Ayn Rand, and her “Fountainhead”, the bible of absolute self-interest.
The laissez-faire capitalism of Adam Smith. And the selfishness of TO union garbage workers during a stinky summer garbage strike.

Phil’s new year’s resolution lasted about 3 hours.

In the new year, Phil received another desperate call from the lovely and very persuasive D.

The ice storm had cleared. The roads were passable. And D wanted to see her parents in Windsor, for a belated Christmas. But her car was in the shop.

Would Phil drive D to Windsor to see her parents?

Faibish’s philosophy of “selfyness” unfortunately could not compete with “D”‘s captivating hazel eyes. And her milky soft skin.

Phil’s resolve crumbled like Smitherman’s hopes against Ford in last election.

So once again, Sir Philip of Richmond Hill, powered up his trusty steed, a 2008 grey Hyundai Accent, and transported the very fair maiden to her parents in the outskirts of Windsor, one cold and freezing Friday night.

And a very touching reunion.

D’s mother, an older version of D. Smart, beautiful, feisty. D’s father. More cerebral, exuding warmth and quiet intelligence. The luscious apple did not fall far from the tree.

Before his very eyes, he saw the tough, competitive, “eat what you kill” D, transformed into a young girl again, with her loving family around the Christmas tree.

Gifts were exchanged. Tears were shed. Parents and child embraced. Previous mother/daughter battles- forgotten memories. Bonds re-established. As Phil was leaving, D approached him. Her eyes still misty. She embraced Phil. Very warmly.

Intimately? Phil was not sure.

“Let’s hang out when I return to Toronto,” D whispered.

Phil smiled. He thought, this moment will be as good as it gets. And he was fine with that.

The New York Times, in a recent article entitled, “Sex on Campus, She Can Play that Game, Too”, breathlessly announced the obvious:

“That traditional dating in college has mostly gone the way of the landline, replaced by ‘hooking up’ — an ambiguous term that can signify anything from making out to oral sex to intercourse — without the emotional entanglement of a relationship.”

However, the thrust of the Times article is that contrary to “conventional wisdom that the hookup culture was driven by men, and that women were reluctant participants, more interested in romance than in casual sexual encounters — there is an increasing realization that young women are propelling it, too.”

I am reluctant to call into question the New York Times, and especially its recent discovery that women on American campuses are driving sexual encounters. After all, it is the American paper of record. However, I must take issue with The Times’ recent campus sexual revelations.

I suspect that young women have been calling the shots on sex on campus, ever since American women first invaded those hallowed halls of American academia. Probably dating back to the founding of one of America’s first universities and Puritan playground, Harvard College in 1636.

Of those times I can only speculate. But Harvard, in the early 1970s, I have no doubts.

My friends and I were fortunate to be undergrads at Harvard in the early 1970s.

My tragicomic experiences and their experiences clearly and without equivocation, prove hooking up was the rage during that time.

And that we poor naïve innocent schmucks were mere pawns and sexual playthings for our more sexually-driven and aggressive Radcliffe classmates.

(Back then, we called it “hitting the sack” or uncharacteristically for us urban dudes, “rolling in the hay”.)

You see my experience was not unique. Admittedly, I had some skills. Had some game. I was not bad between the sheets. My skills were good, though not remarkable. Like most of my fellow Crimson men.

So I have no trouble generalizing my experience. And that of my Harvard friends.

But first we need a little context. A little background.

Over 95 per cent of Harvard men and Radcliffe women in the early 1970s lived on campus, in co-ed residences, known as Harvard Houses or Radcliffe Houses, during their sophomore, junior and senior years. Normally, in the same residence for those three years. Each residence had about 300-400 co-ed students, roughly 4:1 ratio of men to women.

Over the years, some of these residences developed very well-defined characters.

My roommates Mark and Jeff and I, lived in Lowell House.

Which was one of the more popular residences.

It also was known as one of the most conservative, conventional, traditional and preppiest residence at Harvard.

In my day, Lowell House was run by Master Zeph Stewart, a wonderful and traditional Classics Professor. Master Stewart was a Hotchkiss and Yale man. And brother of former US Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart.

Lowell House reflected Zeph. It was Waspish, charming, tasteful and very diplomatic.

Most Thursdays, the students would dress in their academic robes, sip sherry and have High Tea.

And engage in sophisticated chit chat with the Master, his wife, Lowell House professors and various notable guests, (judges, lawyers, academics, diplomats) who dropped in to share with us their world-weary experience.

Accordingly, the student residents, especially the Radcliffe women of Lowell House, were also very intelligent, conventional, conservative, and quite Northeastern Waspish preppie, in a Boston Brahmin noblesse oblige way.

Even if they were neither Waspish, nor descended from the original English settlers of Plymouth, Massachusetts.

Lowell House parties, or “mixers” were subdued genteel affairs.

In this milieu, you would think that the conventional Radcliffe women of Lowell House would enjoy traditional dating, ie. a romantic dinner at a Cambridge bistro, followed by Bogey’s “Casablanca” at the Brattle Street Theatre. Or lobsters at Locke- Obers, a famous Boston’s seafood place, followed by dancing and cocktails at the top of the John Hancock Tower.

Unfortunately, you would be wrong, Grasshopper.

Let me illustrate.

In those days, Lowell House women were not interested in long term or short term romantic relationships.

Not even “one on one” dating.

They were very smart, independent, highly driven and career-oriented.

They were pre-med, pre-law, even pre-B School.

But with me — not sex, pre-marital.

Until one night, at about 11:45 p.m., a fellow sophomore, Ellen knocked on my suite door.

Ellen was a very quiet, studious and serious pre-med student.

Your typical Bio-Chem lab wonk.

And seemingly very virginal, moral and pure.

Shakespeare’s virtuous Isabella of “Measure for Measure” comes to mind.

We had chatted amiably on Darwin earlier that evening in the Lowell House library.

However, at that moment, from Ellen, I sensed our relationship had rapidly evolved.

Before I could properly fire up my Bunsen burner, Ellen had motioned me to my bed, shook off her chemise.

And deftly undressed me.

Normally it takes me about six months of movie dates, to get to this point in a relationship.

Caught unawares, my performance was hardly sterling. The journey, not long lasting.

I recall the midnight chimes. In those days, in my early 20s, recovery time — 30 minutes.

With juice — 20 minutes, tops.

I recall trying to negotiate with Ellen. An encore.

I assured her. The next time I would have a better lay of the land.

My stroke would be more sure. My drives, longer.

I am always better on the back nine.

But to no avail. Ellen picked herself up. Zipped up her jeans. She straightened her chemise and informed me that it was fun, but she had to return to her bio-chem lab report.

She just needed a little release. A little break.

And no, a follow up dinner or movie was not necessary.

For the first time in my life, I felt objectified, exoticized and sexualized.
Perhaps for a brief moment like Eternity Martis who wrote in Huffington Post, “Why I Don’t Sleep with White Guys”.

I had been treated like a piece of meat.

Is this how women sometimes feel?

But this was no aberration for me in Lowell House.

Over the next three years I would experience similar sexual, but emotionless couplings.

One night Fazia, an Egyption woman and I were prepping for a quiz in our Middle East government course, in Fazia’s room.

The next moment Fazia, a strict Muslim Egyptian woman, from the finest Arab family this side of the Nile, is stepping out of her loose skirt and is revealing the most wondrous bod. Clearly, one of the Seven Wonders of the World.

She had never known before, a young man with my Hebraic background, let alone slept with the enemy.
She was very curious.
Before I knew it, she had tunneled under my defences, breached my Wailing Wall and took me all the way to Tel Aviv and back.

I felt so invaded, but in a good way.

On another occasion, in senior year, a Radcliffe sophomore and I were doing a joint English literature project, in her room.

All of sudden she wanted me to role play.

And play the gamekeeper in “Lady’s Chatterley’s Lover.”

She sprawled face down on her bed.

Fortunately, I kept up my end of the bargain.

And silently thanked Harvard for insisting that I expand my core curriculum outside of Government to include English Literature.
.
Or I would have not appreciated the literary reference.

And I would have been left behind.

Lastly, my roommate Mark had similar “hooking up” flings with Radcliffe women.

One such woman, Kit, refused to go on traditional dates. Instead she preferred extreme casual outdoor sex.

We are not describing discreet coupling under a blanket on a Cape Cod beach or even by the Charles River.

Kit preferred lovemaking on cold sidewalks, in the bushes and mostly near crowded thoroughfares.

Behind the news stand in busy Harvard Square, was one of her favorites.

As I stated, my Harvard experience was not unique. Nor were Lowell House women unique.
Many Radcliffe women in the 70s were sexually adventurous, independent and knew what they wanted.

I would not have had it any other way.

Spouses and lovers may come and go. But the friendship of a married couple, who is always there to pick up the pieces and occasionally provide sanctuary, is essential to keeping a single guy — sane, secure and emotionally stable.

This year marks my 20th anniversary with not my wife. Or my current girlfriend. But my favorite married couple, Mel and Taffy.

Mel and Taffy have seen me through some wild times. Some tough times. Some weird times. And some crazy-ass, rolling on the floor, mad times.

Throughout the years I have introduced them to several attractive, but very diverse and somewhat quirky women friends. From sophisticated Jimmy Choo-clad social climbers. To Boho tree-hugging, almond-milk sipping cyclists. From cut-throat lawyers to idealistic NGO types. And to right-wing Tory Burch Tories, named Megan and Muffie.

Throughout, Mel and Taffy has always welcomed me in their home, usually after another soul-destroying romantic breakup, with consideration and humor. And most importantly, without judgment.

They never greeted me at their door, derisively, as in “What did you see in that lunatic? What were you thinking? When she locked you out of your own house, on your first date. Didn’t you see that as a bad sign?”

I recall after another tough break up, I showed up at their house late at night, with just the clothes on my back. And a pair of cowboy boots. And my favorite copy of “The Complete Works of Shakespeare.”

A few hours later, my then woman friend called Mel/Taffy’s home and screamed at Mel that I had stolen a valuable family asset. To which Mel calmly replied, “The book is worth about 10 bucks. It’s not exactly a first edition, signed by the author. ”

Classic Mel.

On another occasion, Mel and Taffy knew I was going through a rough patch, with another woman friend. They thought a week-end getaway in Miami, with them, may rekindle the fires, that were about to flicker out.

So we all flew down to stay at Taffy’s mother’s one-bedroom condo overlooking the famous Rascal House.
Mel and Taffy graciously slept on the old lumpy hide-a-bed couch, circa 1965, in the living room, with the noisy A/C.

What true and wonderful friends! It should have been a perfect weekend.

Unfortunately, my then-girlfriend had one of her regular psychotic episodes, and berated me in public. Over nothing.

She banished me from Mel and Taffy’s pool.

I fled to the lobby, where I spent the rest of the weekend, happily reading in peace and quiet.

Mel dubbed the lobby of that old seniors’ condo building,” my happy place.”

Which became a running joke with Mel and Taffy.

On many subsequent holidays with Mel and Taffy, I would often flee from my then volatile partner, to my special happy place.

This became a rather tragicomic, shared memory, with two very dear friends.

Unfortunately, this incident was often repeated, with different dates, of course, on other holidays with Mel and Taffy.

It still amazes me to this day, why Mel and Taffy kept joining me on these holidays with my random girlfriends.

Perhaps Mel and Taffy were hoping that each time, I would finally find true love and romance. Perhaps this time, Charlie Brown, will actually kick the football.

Or may be it was the fascination and prospect of another train wreck.

So horrible to witness. But so difficult to avoid.

For my part, I naively thought the karma of their near perfect marriage would rub off on me and my date.

My last vacation with Mel and Taffy was on a Caribbean cruise.

Cramped quarters. Rocky seas. Seasickness. Backed up toilets. Diarrhea.
The perfect holiday.

Mel, Taffy and I fondly recall that cruise as a combination “Death Ship 2”, “The Voyage of the Damned” and “The Ship of Fools.”

The experience is mostly a blur. Though I do recall arguing with my female companion. Hitting my head in the cabin. Then blood spurting out of my forehead.

And Mel taking a video of me in my straw hat and blood-spattered Hawaiian shirt.

Which video Mel very thoughtfully showed to a subsequent date of mine. At their house a few months later.
Accompanied by uproarious narration at my expense. Good times.

The loyalty and friendship of Mel and Taffy, have been a constant in my life.

I am a very lucky guy, to have such wonderful married friends. To share with me these truly horrible experiences. To laugh with me at my blackest moments.
And to prevent me from jumping off the Tallahatchie Bridge.

There is no one secret sauce for success on Wall Street. Let us say that there are several secret sauces.

In the last 12 months, three young women of friends of mine have been accepted for jobs at prestigious Wall Street firms. Two in investment banking. One in a law firm.

Three unique women, from seemingly different backgrounds. Yet all three share the same extraordinary qualities.

This is what they are not. They are not from wealthy backgrounds. Their fathers or mothers were not themselves, Wall Street lawyers or investment bankers. They were not legacy children. They were not even from New York. Perhaps that is a good thing.

Here are some of the qualities they share.

They are smart, intelligent, very hard-working. And their first priority was high academic achievement.

Okay, those traits can be easily attributed to thousands of young American women.

Coincidentally, each of these women were raised by single mothers who were career-oriented professionals.

I am not suggesting for a moment, that in order for your special daughter to succeed on Wall Street, you, as a mother, must be a career-oriented professional. Or you should separate from your husband, before your brilliant daughter hits middle school.

On the other hand, I am a silver linings type of guy.

If your “good for nothing” husband has been stepping out with his secretary. Or you are tired of supporting your slacker husband while he lounges at home, trying to complete “The Great American Novel”.

It may be time to dump his sorry ass. And instead focus on your brilliant daughter.

In other words, the end of an insupportable relationship, may create a silver linings opportunity to further assist your daughter. Which may be much more rewarding for your daughter and for you, in the long run.

The more salient point is that each mother significantly focused her efforts on providing enormous personal and emotional support to her daughter. Each mother also created a stimulating environment from which these naturally ambitious women could grow and thrive.

In addition to stressing academics, these mothers stressed participation and success in competitive sports.

One young woman became a competitive figure skater and tennis player. Another young woman was also a competitive tennis player. The third young woman was very non-athletic. But like the other two women, she possessed natural drive and motivation. Essential qualities. And she became a kick ass 10K runner.

Being a competitive athlete is not a precondition for success on Wall Street for a young woman. But it helps.

Competitive sports require incredible hard work, dedication, personal sacrifice. But also such sports generally produce a hard-driving competitive spirit, the will to win and the thrill of winning and defeating your opponents.

Qualities critical to the “dog eat dog” Wall Street, male-dominated, environment.

On a personal note, I highly recommend that your daughter, participate in competitive sports with young men at an early age. The sooner young women understand the male psyche, the better.

Let me illustrate.

I knew a young woman who played on my son’s hockey team since the age of nine. She was one of a handful of girls in an all boys’ hockey league. To her credit she did not want to dress in a separate girls’ locker room. She wanted to be treated equally with the rest of the boys on her team. She wanted to dress for each game in the boys’ locker room.

I recall one time, when she and my son were nine, some other boys on the team were trying to embarrass this girl, by showing off their little members in the locker room. This tough little girl was unflappable. And not impressed either.

She called them dicks. And laughed at their small dicks. The boys never bothered her again.

The moral of the story, is that Wall Street boardrooms, or any boardrooms of bankers, lawyers, accountants and businessmen, are just little boys’ locker rooms, with money.

If your young daughter can feel comfortable in a boys’ locker room, she will then feel comfortable in any Wall Street or Main Street boardroom.

Returning to the three young subject women, their three mothers also ensured that these young women were given a variety of opportunities to meet a wide variety of young men and women in many different situations. Through summer camps (tennis camp, band camp, space camp and math camp). Through family and school trips. Through interesting summer jobs in banks, law firms and hospitals. Through travel and research in Europe and Asia. These mothers constantly challenged their daughters, to get out of their comfort zones. To dive in to new experiences. And learn quickly to swim, or sink.

Basically these women were encouraged to engage in activities that forced these young women to experience different social/business situations and be forced to adapt and to constantly make new friends and acquaintances. And to be comfortable talking to and relating to young men and the strange male-dominated business/banking world.

Notwithstanding the Sheryl Sandbergs of the world, to date and for the foreseeable future, Wall Street is still a male-dominated, testosterone-driven jungle, on crack, ( literally and figuratively) motivated by success, money, power, and more money.

So in addition, to being smart, intelligent, hard- working, a very high academic achiever, with a competitive drive for success, the superior candidate for Wall Street, must also be engaging, charming, self-assured and very comfortable around a phalanx of high-powered male masters of the universe. Tough, but warm. Interested, but not needy or desperate.

One of the above young women, having already secured a job offer at a good Wall Street investment bank, sought my advice prior to her final interview with one of the top Wall Street investment firms.

I told her that smart and very qualified women like her, were the future of Wall Street. She had the potential to be one of Wall Street’s future leaders. This top firm needed her more, than she needed them. Go into the room of these high-powered bankers, as if you own them. As if you own the room. Be effective. But be cool.

I am not sure whether this young woman took my advice. But she nailed her interview and this prestigious investment bank hired her. I predict Wall Street will be a better place because of these three young women, and women like them.

For the last several months, I have been undercover as a Toronto House Husband. Women, you would be shocked to learn how many men, in the Annex, Allenby area, North Toronto, Forest Hill Village and other parts around the city, are stay-at-home dads, or as some call it, house husbands. And for the most part, they are royally pissed off. Some are depressed with their lives. Others started foaming at the mouth. This is the first in the series of reports in which I will report to you what is really going on behind the warped leaded glass windows in Arts and Craftsy Allenby. Or the so-called “faux Georgian mini mansions” in Lawrence Park and North Toronto. And ladies, it ain’t pretty!

Since September 2012, I have met with, shot back some beers with, play-dated with, and played poker with about 200 house husbands. I estimate that there are thousands of such individuals in the GTA. I confess that this survey lacks a certain scientific credibility; it’s informal, anecdotal. So sue me.

Ladies, you will be relieved to know that 70% of the men surveyed love their kids, and 20% can’t stand their kids. They can’t wait for them to be potty trained so they could be shipped off to boarding school. Okay, that figure is a little troubling because 10% were so drunk or stoned they didn’t know if they had kids. That is a little more sobering.

As for their wives, the numbers are considerably worse. Only 40% still love their wives, 30% still like their wives, 20% were indifferent, and 10% had psychotic episodes at the mere mention of their spouses’ names. I don’t think that is a good sign, but I could be wrong on that one.

Of the 40% who said they still loved their wives, the majority admitted that the sex was pretty regular, at least two-to-three times each week, once a month it being with their wives. The 30% who still like their wives could not remember the last time they had sex with their wives. But they did speak very favorably about the neighborhood massage parlour around the corner. After hearing that, I was too depressed to talk about see with the majority balance of the hubbies. Note the pattern here.

I am no psychologist, though in university I had a brilliant feminist psychology professor for two semesters in my junior year and part of my senior year. I may have even audited a course of hers. The 70s are a bit of a blur for me. Whatever. You don’t need a PhD in the Fourth or Five Wave of Post-Feminism to conclude that there is something rotten in the state of marriage here in the Big Smoke.

In my next report, I go further undercover. Literally, under the covers—and talk with Soo Kim Lee (an alias), the grande madame of second story massage parlours up and down Yonge Street and Eglinton. She analyses for me the tortured psyches of her Toronto house husband clients. And I get a freebie for promoting her services. Win, win.

– See more at: http://www.yummymummyclub.ca/family/daddy/20130322/the-silent-rage-of-toronto-house-husbands#sthash.a27378wh.dpuf