How Santa Almost Screwed Me
Published October 29, 2010 | Now that I (hopefully) have your attention, may I please direct you to The Little Hen House, one of my fave bloggers. Today I’m guest blogging on her site and it’s a little tale about how Father Christmas almost stuck it to me. Enjoy!
(And thank you, Morgan, for letting me play in your sand box!)
My Big Fat Serbian Wedding
Published October 28, 2010 | Last week I revealed my fear that a cousin’s upcoming wedding would be tarnished by my kids’ vulgarity (they’re bilingual!). I know the suspense is killing you, so let me put you out of your misery: the wedding happened and the swearing did not (despite the efforts of one cousin who reads my blog). Here’s how the day went down…
First things first: my kids looked great. The seven-year-old not only had a haircut, but also requested to wear a dress shirt and tie (this is the same kid who’s never worn a turtleneck because, “It’s too close to my neck!”). In her red taffeta dress, white tights and sparkly black ballet flats, the three-year-old girl looked like something out of The Nutcracker. It didn’t matter that they went home six hours later looking like they’d been marinating in the floor of a cab – for a brief moment, they were adorable. The Serb was also looking fine in his suit and I, too, was workin’ it like the rent was due tomorrow.
It should be pointed out that the Serb and I eloped (that’s another post) and I’m not well-versed in the protocol of Serbian Orthodox weddings. I knew there would be crowns worn by the bride and groom, and suspected that the priest would swing around an incense burner, but that was it.
What I wasn’t prepared for was standing throughout the ceremony. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem, but mama was wearing heels and the beautiful granite floors of the church were murder on my feet. I saw some women surreptitiously removing their shoes, but my strappy sandals and fidgety daughter foiled any attempts at relief.
The whole ceremony was performed in Serbian and the only words I know have no place in a church, so I was pretty lost for most of the service. Thankfully, the priest sang and spoke in a deep, rich baritone, which drowned out my daughter’s running commentary (Her: “Why she wearing tights on her arms?” Me: “They’re gloves.” Her: “Why dat guy on da ceiling so mean?” Me: “That’s God. He’s just serious.”).
The happiest surprise of the day was the food. Not the quality, which is always outstanding, or the lack of anything resembling a vegetable, which I’d already encountered in Serbia, but the sheer quantity. There was a buffet reception at the home of the bride’s parents before and after the church ceremony, followed by dinner at a Serbian restaurant. Stretchy pants alert!
At the reception we danced the kolo, a folkdance that’s part grapevine and part bunny hop, ate with abandon and drank with gusto. For the WASPy chick from the sticks, being immersed in a culture so rich and family so loving was a pretty great way to spend a Saturday.
And did I mention the food?
Gawd, Mom - enough with the pictures already. (Note the car clenched in her hand)
Such a beautiful church. Such hard granite floors. (Note: the chairs are just a tease)
Leave a commentYou Might Be a Parent If…
Published October 25, 2010 | While driving, you start pointing out interesting sights – “Look, it’s a cow/digger/ train!” – with the kind of zeal formerly reserved for sample sales. (Note: You might the parent of a bad sleeper if you do this even when driving by yourself.)
You utter such classics as, “I’ll give you something to cry about!” or, “One…two… “ or, “Don’t make me come over there!” – not to your children, but to your husband.
Sex is something to be scheduled, like a dental appointment.
Your main fantasy still involves being blindfolded in a hotel room, but now includes some earplugs, Sleepeze and no one else there.
You find presents hidden around the house in April that you bought the previous June and forgot to give for Christmas.
You host dinner parties that begin at 4:00 p.m. and guests are gone by 10 p.m.
Your tupperware outnumbers your shoes.
The delight with which you react to someone else’s poo can best be described as overly enthusiastic.
Dining out involves plastic menus, booster seats and tri-packs of cello-wrapped crayons – and the meal is over in less than twenty minutes.
Instead of begrudging the wailing baby who’s sitting behind you on a plane/train/bus, you feel of sense of empathy for the parents, along with a healthy dose of, “Better them than me.”
Eight o’clock is a perfectly acceptable (even enviable) bedtime.
You realize that couldn’t do long division on paper even if a gun was pointed at your head – or is this one just me….?
I am a parent, because last week, I did all of the above.
It's like looking in a mirror...
Kids Say The Darndest F*&%ing Things
Published October 21, 2010 | Last week I was at the library when I heard someone utter the c-word (hint for my grandma: it rhymes with “runt”). Although hearing that word was a bit shocking, the real surprise was who said it: a girl who couldn’t have been more than seven-years-old, which is my son’s age, saying it to her mother.
She clearly had no clue what the word meant and was simply trying it out for size, but she sure knew how and when to use it. Her mother almost had an aneurysm on the spot and hustled them both out of there before her daughter got a lifetime ban.
I have to admit; I sometimes get a kick out of kids with potty mouths – probably because I have a couple of my own.
A couple of years ago, my husband and son were changing after a swim when a gaggle of teenage boys entered the change room. They were cussing like truckers and by our son’s wide-eyed reaction my husband expected the worst. Sure enough, as soon as they left, our son whispered to my husband, “Daddy. Did you hear those teenagers? They said ‘stupid’.”
Thankfully, my son is still pretty naïve: last month he asked me what “dick” meant (for the record, I told him I wasn’t sure – I’ve been answering sex questions for months now and I needed a break). Sometimes he’ll say, “What the hell, mommy!” or something equally innocuous, but it’s usually followed by a giggle. I’m confident that the days of him telling me to f-myself are a few years away.
My daughter, not so much. As with everything in the life of a second child, our adherence to self-censoring swear words has been much more lax than with the first one.
For some reason (that has nothing to do with her mother), whenever she walks down the stairs to our backyard my daughter swears: “Sh*t” (step), “Sh*t” (step), “Sh*t” (step). She also uses that word occasionally if she drops something (“Oh sh*t”). She doesn’t care if anyone hears her say the word because it’s simply part of her lexicon, like ass butler is part of mine.
This weekend we’re attending the wedding of my husband’s cousin. It will be an intimate affair and my kids will be the only ones there. Since that afternoon in the library, I have a fear that my daughter will drop her fork during the reception and say, “Oh sh*t”, followed by my son admonishing her with, “What the hell!”
But it could be even worse than that: guess which Serbian word is one of the few that they both know? I’ll give you a hint – it rhymes with “punt”.
At this rate, we'll be able to send them to Harvard...
16 CommentsCrap In My Bag
Published October 18, 2010 | Inside my purse there exists another dimension, one defying the logic of physics, space and time – similar to the one that devours socks in the dryer. No matter how sparse its contents are in the morning, by mid-afternoon my bag suddenly looks like something from that hoarders show on A&E.
Today was a pretty typical example: leave the house in a manic rush to get the kids to school; come home and deal with the wreckage left behind; realize there’s nothing for dinner; spend ten minutes at the supermarket check-out burrowing through my purse looking for my wallet.
I ended up dumping the contents of my bag on the conveyer belt in desperation until I finally spotted my wallet amidst all of the mom-crap. The pre-pubescent cashier stared at me, her gaze a disconcerting fusion of fascination and disgust. I shovelled everything back into my bag, mildly mortified, apologizing profusely to those in line behind me.
Then I saw another frazzled-looking mother give me a knowing look. She, too, was sporting a purse that could conceal a howitzer. I know I’m not alone.
That is why, in the spirit of sisterly solidarity, I’m now going to share with you the contents of my craptastically-stuffed purse:
Click on the image to see my secret shame...I should've put a ruler there to give a sense of scale...let's just say it's on the large side...
- Kleenex (I am, after all, a mother)
- My wallet (which, as you can see from the busted zipper, is a blog entry unto itself)
- Four MAC lipsticks (none of which I wear)
- Body Shop lip balm (which I always wear)
- A plethora of receipts (aka my income tax filing system)
- An expired coupon for a free DQ Blizzard (because a girl can dream)
- My manuscript (of which I’m doing a final edit before sending out my query letters)
- A mini globe (because…sorry, I’ve got nothing…)
- A fly-fishing implement from my son’s birthday that I need to take into a store and find out how to use (fyi, his birthday was in May)
- A toy car (see first point)
- An envelope full of cookie fundraising ideas for the hippie school (I’m a class rep)
- A Cars viewfinder card (viewfinder was lost in 2008, but my daughter wants to marry Lightning McQueen)
- Pearls (in case I get invited to a state dinner)
- Nail polish (see above)
- A mason jar (What? Like you don’t have one?)
- An extra mason jar lid (D’uh)
- Tea light candle (Ummm…blackout?)
- Chalk (see first point)
- Strawberry shortcake figurine (see first point)
- Case for sunglasses (empty because I lost sunglasses in Serbia)
- Eye drops (expired last April)
- Check book (because apparently I live in 1985)
- iPhone (to obsessively check comments on my blog…HINT!)
- Grocery list written on a Kleenex (because I keep forgetting I have an iPhone)
- Lid for baby teapot (which broke last month)
- Letter magnets from the fridge (not sure of the significance of S and V)
- Antibacterial wipes (see first point)
- Coupon from Mr. Lube (sadly, not a euphemism)
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go organize myself (with a little help from my friend, Mr. Smirnoff).
28 CommentsAn Ode To Ho Boy
Published October 14, 2010 | Imagine if you will, being in a ballroom dance class at University. You’re in a large gymnasium with the women divided from the men, facing each other in two parallel lines. You’ve had general conversations with your fellow dancers, but everyone is still relatively new to you. The instructor asks the men to choose a partner for the upcoming Rumba and as most of them shyly make their way across the floor, you hear a voice bellow in your direction: “HO! GET OVER HERE!” You stop, mortified. Then the silence is broken by the goofiest laugh you’ve ever heard. This is how I met one of my best friends. Let’s call him H.B. (short for Ho Boy).
My ballroom dance career – another dabble-gone wrong – ended shortly thereafter, but H.B. has been a huge part of my life ever since: we spent much of the 90s as each other’s “plus one” at various functions until he introduced me to The Serb. I repaid him by trying (and failing miserably) to set him up with every single woman in town. No one believed we were completely platonic, but it’s true. When Harry Met Sally, we were not; for us it was always more Donny & Marie, minus the singing.
My favorite thing about H.B. is his sense of humor – his practical jokes are works of art. A girlfriend of less than six months once opened the following Christmas presents from him: funky-smelling, hand-knit slippers of unknown origin; a set of booster cables; and the fuzziest, nastiest, most bedazzled sweater ever to grace the racks of Value Village. During the unwrapping, he offered comments such as, “I really hope you like it,” and “I saw this and thought it was perfect for you…try it on.”
Don’t feel too badly for the girlfriend because she’s now his wife (and right-hand-woman in his shenanigans). When she was pregnant, the Serb and I met them for dinner at a relatively swanky restaurant. Before the drinks arrived, she started shifting uncomfortably and complaining about her spicy lunch. Then she farted. Loudly, repeatedly and horribly.
My genteel European husband was mortified and tried to ignore the offending sounds. I stifled giggles by drawing blood from biting the inside of my cheek. Finally, H.B. revealed the remote control fart machine that Mrs. H.B. had hidden in her lap prior to our arrival.
Even the elderly don’t escape H.B.’s pranks: his wife’s grandparents were visiting and found an oversized mousetrap, meant for rats and baited with raw steak, in the corner of the guest bedroom.
So consider this if you ever meet a dude with a goofy laugh and mischief-making gleam in his eye: there’s likely a whoopee cushion in your immediate future.
Obviously, we are nowhere near this sassy (although my hair is similar)
It was like this, only with feathers and acrylic.
Notice the boom box feature...
10 CommentsGobble Gobble Puke
Published October 11, 2010 | What am I thankful for this (Canadian) Thanksgiving? Obviously the usual things come to mind (e.g. family, friend, health). But if you’d asked me ten years ago, I would’ve said that not killing my husband with my Thanksgiving meal was the thing for which we were both very thankful.
Poultry preparation has never been my strong suit, and not just when it comes to my husband: the first meal I ever cooked for a boyfriend – in high school – was a simple baked chicken breast. For whatever reason (did I even turn the oven on?) it was a bloody, pulpy mess. I should’ve learned my lesson then, but he was blinded by the beauty of my late-80s perm and ate it anyway, so I didn’t realize how foul my fowl skills really were.
In my family, turkey dinner on Thanksgiving and Christmas was a given, as was having my mom cook it to perfection every time. When my parents moved away for a few years, I would either mooch holiday meals from friends or skip them entirely (cue the violins).
Meeting my husband, the meat-and-potatoes-loving Serb, inspired me to cook real meals (ones that didn’t involve popcorn). We moved far from home and I decided it was time to let loose what I hoped was my long-dormant brilliance in the turkey preparation department.
I determined that starting small was the way to go and bought a pre-stuffed, rolled-up turkey breast at a foodie boutique. A dozen years after almost killing my high school boyfriend, the results were the same: little bloody bits that had my husband (who was not so blinded by love, apparently) refusing to even try it. As a result, he now scrutinizes any chicken I cook with the concentration of a CSI investigator.
Over the years I’ve tried wrapping the bird in bacon (tasted great but the threat of cardiac arrest was less appealing), wrapping it in olive-oil-soaked cheesecloth (next!) and cooking it breast-side down (that was inadvertent…and gross…). Yesterday our wonderful neighbour spent the day preparing a delicious turkey meal that she then brought over to our house – it was like having Thanksgiving catered – and even gave us the leftovers. We’ve already booked her for Christmas and if she isn’t available next year, we’ve already decided to merge our two cultures to form a new tradition: Thanksgiving Sushi.
FYI, this particular bird was cooked by my sister...apparently the crappy-cooker apple doesn't fall far from the other crappy-cooker apple...
21 CommentsConfessions of a Chronic Dabbler
Published October 7, 2010 | When it comes to life, I am what some would call a dabbler. That is, I enjoy trying new things but then quickly tire of them and move on to my next obsession. Some of my passions are one-shot wonders, like a full-day massage course that I took at the local college (in my 20s…with my mother…don’t ask…). Others have been commitments of a longer term (i.e. I drop a load of cash to do them and feel guilty if I bail). Here are but a few of my more imprudent pastimes:
Hip Hop Dancing:
I signed up for this with a friend in the 90s thinking that In Living Color would be begging us to be their next Fly Girls. My moves – which had seemed so effortless and awe-inspiring in a dance club on the weekend – were decidedly less so once I moved into a harshly lit, well-mirrored studio (not to mention I was sober). We actually had a recital – with costumes – on the last night and I invited my then-boyfriend. Needless to say, we broke up a few weeks later.
Militia Wannabe:
When I moved to Toronto, I met a group of women and every month we’d do something out of the ordinary. Going to a gun range was our first diva date: we fired live ammunition at paper targets that were shaped like bad guys for a few hours, then went for manicures and Bellinis. Although I played Charlie’s Angels as a kid (running around in a tank top knotted under my non-boobs, shooting everything in sight with my hairbrush), I hated holding a real gun. Instead of being exciting or glamorous, for me it was just…yuck.
Sarah Palin, I am not (in oh so many ways).
Stripping:
This was another diva date disaster (at least from the instructor’s point of view). It was also right after I’d impulsively cut my hair really short so my feminine mojo was a bit depleted. We gathered in my friend’s basement (it was actually for her wedding shower) and our teacher, a former stripper, arrived toting feather boas and a male blow up doll she called Bob. She then lined us up and put us through the paces. Poor Bob had to endure hours of our clumsy grinding and awkward lap dances. Despite my past experience with strip bars, I didn’t remember a single move – much to my husband’s chagrin – but I laughed so hard I pulled a muscle (I blame Bob).
What could have been.
Belly Dancing:
Did you know that belly dancing is actually a birthing dance? The undulating of the pelvis mimics the baby’s journey down the pipe during labor. I was massively with child and thought it would be a brilliant idea to compliment my all-natural, doula-assisted birth plan with some belly dancing. The classes were fantastic because we were all in the same, bloated boat and it was freeing to waddle around with scarves (okay, sheets) tied around what in theory were our midsections. Our teacher was a beautiful, very pregnant professional belly dancer and I heard she literally danced through her entire labor. I ended up telling my doula to screw off and got an epidural.
Like this, only with incense.
Acting:
This one was the most fun and useful for me. I took an introductory acting class at my local college and in Toronto I did all of the improv levels at Second City. I tried some community theatre and briefly went the whole headshots-agent-soul-crushing-auditions route, but getting pregnant for the second time put the brakes on any acting aspirations. I read that Janet Evanovich took improv classes and they greatly helped her to write realistic dialogue and honed her sense of timing. This is where I think my dabbling has paid off, and will hopefully help transform the hobby nearest and dearest to my heart from recreation to vocation…
Now that I'm off the scene, Kate can relax.
Creative Writing:
A few years ago I decided to write a book. I’d heard about a Saturday workshop being taught by Brian Henry, a former editor, and I went to check it out. That day I started to believe I could be a writer. Not corporate communications, which I’ve done for years, but making up a story that others might want to read. With the help of his classes (and my restless writers), I’ve learned how to show not tell, revise until I wanna barf and (knock wood) find an agent. Although I got to keep my clothes on, it was recital-free and firearms were banned, I was more nervous taking his class than any other; probably because it meant the most to me, even then.
Ahhhhh, that's better...
15 CommentsDiary of a Date
Published October 5, 2010 | Whenever my parents visit, two things are inevitable: we will eat succulent roast beef and Yorkshire pudding for which I would sell a kid(ney); and I will go out on a date with my husband. Usually we go to a movie and collapse at home before SNL’s opening monologue; but this time I made him promise that we would go on a real date. One that required a reservation. And a coat check. And lipstick. Here’s a recap of how it all went down:
2:00 p.m.:
I call to make a reservation for that evening at a club offering dinner and live music. Despite my last-minute request, we are in luck: someone just cancelled. The date gods are smiling.
5:00 p.m.:
Salivating, I watch my kids and mom devour some mac and cheese. I won’t be eating for another four hours but don’t want to ruin my appetite. I sneak a lemon bar or three to tide me over (aside: my mom baked for her entire visit and my fridge is full of pie, cake, bars and another pie –I’ve gained a pound just writing about it). The date gods are judging.
7:00 p.m.:
My husband and I re-consider our planned night out. We’re now two hours past our usual dinner hour and two hours before our usual bedtime. We lie down for a little pre-date nap. The date gods are rolling their eyes in disgust.
7:45 p.m.:
I am in a dress and have shaved my legs past the knee. We leave for the city early to grab a drink before dinner. The date gods are placated.
7:50 – 8:35 p.m.:
Stuck in traffic and parking is a bitch. The date gods are tsking.
8:40 p.m.:
We arrive at the club late for our reservation and are seated right beside the stage (we’re so close I could pluck the guitar player’s strings – not a euphemism – if I wanted to) and below a speaker. I ask if we might sit at a vacant table with a better view and am informed that there is a standing reservation for that table. The date gods are intrigued.
9:00 p.m.:
Hilarity ensues as my husband and I attempt to read the menu in the extra low lighting. I almost set my hair on fire trying to use the candle and my husband barely avoids setting the menu on fire. We are feeling very, very old. The date gods are not surprised.
This is - no joke - a picture of my husband's head. He was sitting less than a foot from me (totally Ben Affleck, right???)
9:10 p.m.:
After going through the preliminary talk about the kids, my husband and I enjoy some grown-up conversation along with our cocktails (mine tastes like something my daughter would want to pour in milk). The band saunters in and begins to set up their instruments. There is a huge bass and a sax. The date gods swoon.
Another classic, this time of the band. Also a foot from me and with a spotlight.
9:10 p.m.:
Finally the mystery couple with the great table show up: they’re in their late fifties – he’s sporting pants like Ed Grimley and she’s wearing loose lounge pants, a long cardigan and what appear to be slippers. The date gods are disappointed.
9:12 p.m.:
What the—? Mystery Lady has pulled some strappy sandals out of her bag and is swapping the slippers for them. They’re flats, but very sparkly. She wanders to the bathroom and I joke to my husband that she’s going to do a quick-change, a la Clark Kent. The date gods are giggling uncontrollably.
9:15 p.m.:
Lemon squares and frothy martinis have converged to give me a sugar-induced tummy ache. The date gods are dubious.
9:20 p.m.:
Holy-sweet-mother-of-a-showgirl: Mystery Lady sashays past us in a gold chainmail dress with a black tankini underneath. She has transformed into Cameron Diaz’s crazy neighbor with the electrocuted dog in There’s Something About Mary. She perches on her seat and starts twitching…or is that dancing? The date gods are dazzled.
Imagine this vision...
...wearing this.
9:30 p.m.:
The band begins to play an intoxicating mix of jazz and swing. Everyone around us starts bopping to the beat, especially Mystery Lady, who takes over the dance floor in a golden, spastic flash. The date gods are dumbfounded.
9:30 – 10:00 p.m.:
Sitting directly beneath the speaker, my eardrums are vibrating with every blast of the sax. I lean on my hand and furtively plug one ear. I look over to my husband, who is looking at the scene before him with an inscrutable look on his face. A rotund woman gets too energetic and ends up falling onto the stage, almost taking out the piano player. The date gods are unsympathetic towards all of us.
10:10 p.m.:
My stomach is killing me and I yell at my husband to see if he’s ready to go. He gets the bill and we leave as the masses converge on our table. The date gods are not surprised in the least.
10:11 p.m.:
My husband proclaims that he’s had the most fun ever and that he can’t wait to go back. Feck. I feel like a dope for thinking he also wanted to leave but promise that we’ll be back. It then takes us 20 minutes to leave the parkade in a crush of post-something-or-other traffic. The date gods are yawning.
11:00 p.m.:
I’ve had a peppermint tea and my stomach has settled. He’s had some cake (still not a euphemism). I’m in bed, foundation garments and contact lenses removed, snuggled under a duvet with my husband, watching 30 Rock on the laptop. Despite the early hour, we’ve had a fantastic night. The date gods are pleased.
Liz Lemon can cure all of your ills.
8 Comments
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