When Neighbours Attack
Published November 29, 2010 | It began innocently enough: the single, older lady (let’s call her M) from a few doors down offered to help me pick out paint chips for an upcoming home improvement project. Although slightly kooky, M’s taste is impeccable, whereas I have no patience – or talent – for anything reno-related, so I gratefully accepted her offer.
M hooked us up with a semi-retired handyman whom she’d accosted met when he’d worked on another house up the street. She arranged everything with Mr. Handyman and even had him hire her when his regular partner fell ill.
The weekend prior I moved everything to the basement, leaving our main level looking like Whoville after the Grinch stole Christmas. Mr. Handyman and M worked all day Monday and Tuesday without any issues. It was Wednesday morning when everything went down the toilet.
I was frantically trying to leave for school with the kids before Mr. Handyman arrived when I noticed a message on my phone. It was M from night before imploring that I call her right away. “It’s about your house,” she added in an ominous tone.
When I called her back, M informed me that they were falling very far behind schedule and that I’d have to scrub the walls and trim before painting could continue. I reminded her that it was the painters’ job to prepare the walls for painting.
“That’s true,” she said. “But this goes way beyond painting. This is about the filth and lack of general cleanliness in your home.”
Oh. Yes. She. Did.
I replied in calm and mature manner that working with young kids at home left little time for scrubbing baseboards to her standards. Then I hung up on her.
After crying it out on the phone with the Serb, I decided to just get the job done and get M out of my house. Returning home, I found Mr. Handyman working alone; apparently M had called him and declared that she wouldn’t be coming over in order to teach me a lesson.
Luckily, Mr. Handyman’s regular partner was on his way over and he suspected things would go a lot faster without M’s obsessive cleaning (she’d scoured under my fridge for half an hour). I offered to finish preparing the walls but he assured me that my home was not something from How Clean Is Your House and sent me on my way.
That afternoon, M left me a five-minute message reciting the ways in which I had wronged her in months prior. She ended by detailing the money I owed her for Home Depot purchases and telling me that once I paid her I would never have to speak to her again.
The whole thing was surreal – like being in grade school, only on acid – and totally worth it: my place might not be the cleanest on the block, but it looks f***ing fantastic.
Ummm...no thanks.
Daddy’s Little Diva
Published November 26, 2010 | My daughter’s diva disposition was preordained. When an ultrasound revealed we were having a girl I started referring to her as El Diva (my son was Pepe the Cuban Love Child). If I’d known what kind of drama would ensue, I would’ve chosen a more innocuous nickname, like El Quiet One Who Listens to Her Mama.
Even in utero, she had a knack for stealing the spotlight: my pregnancy had issues that required bi-weekly ultrasounds; she went breech two weeks before my due date while I watched Dreamgirls and scarfed crappy Chinese food; she came out via c-section with a fully coiffed mullet – complete with frosted blonde tips – and the nurses called her as Posh Spice.
Ironically, once we brought my daughter home she didn’t demand much attention (probably because we gave it to her willingly), and at three-years-old she’s still a fairly low-maintenance kid – as long things go her way. When they don’t, the same four words come out of her mouth. Depending on the occasion and location, she may whisper, bark, wail or scream them, but the words never change: I. Want. My. Daddy.
My husband has been overly protective of our daughter since that day at the ultrasound when we found out her gender. In the waiting room he picked up this magazine…
…and immediately started swearing in Serbian.
From that moment, he’s been a tad over-protective (I pity the poor bastard who takes my daughter on her first date…can you say Meet the Parents?) but overall he’s the dad little girls dream of – unconditionally besotted and completely unable to say “no”. She doesn’t even attempt to spare my feelings of being sloppy seconds: last week when I asked her what m-o-m spelled, she said, “Daddy.”
My only consolation is this: I may be her ass butler, but he’s her tea party bitch.
It's so sweet I think I just got a cavity...
16 CommentsI Barf Like I Bake Cookies
Published November 24, 2010 | There are a few things I’m quite good at: drinking wine, pole dancing and sex education to name a few. One thing I am a very, very bad at is barfing. I know I’ve complained that my husband is the suckiest sicky alive, but when it comes to blowing chunks, I’m like a bad horror flick from the 70’s come to life.
My friend’s parents moved a few years ago and there was still a stain near their toilet (not in, or even around, but near) from my gin-and-cream-soda-do-not-mix debacle of 1986. My mom once gave me Eno (the medicine, not the musician) for an upset tummy and I thanked her by going all Linda Blair on her ass.
Like this. Exactly like this.
When we moved across the country as newlyweds, my husband and I would spend Saturdays exploring our new city. On our first weekend, I made the grave error of eating a street vendor hot dog (I know, right? I wasn’t even drunk!)
Back at our apartment a few hours later, I started to tell my husband that I might be sick, but before the words were out of my mouth, street meat and everything else I’d eaten in the past five years were being spewed around the living room like an unplugged fire hydrant (I swear to God, gum I’d swallowed in the third grade made an appearance).
My husband just stood in the doorway, staring at me in mortified disgust, until I slumped back on the couch. He took in the carnage on the floor, walls and furniture, looked back at me, and said, “Where in the f*ck is the cat?” Then he left the room, but poked his head around the corner and added, “We’re gonna have to move.”
Never again.
My son is equally lame when he pukes – he flops all over the place and we have to practically restrain him with a bucket strapped to his face (like a feedbag on a horse). My daughter is a stellar barfer. She just says, “I sick”, leans over a bucket and spits (like a cowboy shooting chew into a spittoon).
And the serb? He claims not to have puked since 1986. It would be more impressive if he didn’t claim death was imminent every time he gets the sniffles.
7 CommentsHope For Preggos Everywhere
Published November 22, 2010 | Most labour stories are not inspiring for women who are currently gestating. We moms love talking about the tearing and the forceps and the 85 hours of pushing. This is not one of those stories. This is the story preggos dream of for nine months. The birthing experience they aspire to, but don’t dare to believe is truly possible. I’m here to tell you that such a labour can (and did) happen. And the lucky bitch was my friend, B.
B is the one who got me locked and loaded. She already has a 3-year-old and that labour was fairly typical (in a word: ouch). We got together one Friday morning about a week before her due date and something about her was definitely “off”. For one thing, she wasn’t walking so much as sliding her feet across the floor; her body listing from side to side like an elderly, zaftig speed skater. She’d been having minor pains but was hesitant to check things out at the hospital (probably because I’d freaked her out with my tales of false labour).
The next morning B went about her day, which involved a birthday party for her son at Chuck E Cheese (sidebar: that place is like birth control with free refills). In the middle of the party, the noise, lights and smells became too much for her: she demanded to leave the premises. Immediately*.
She and her husband left their son with family and took off for the hospital. During the car ride she began timing her contractions – which were still fairly manageable – and in under half an hour, they went from ten minutes apart to less than five (note to the childfree readers: this is not what you want happening on an eight-lane highway).
Her husband dropped her off at the front door and walking from the car to the door she had to stop for a few more contractions. She was immediately whisked to a room and given a gown. Walking from the bathroom to the bed, she felt the baby starting to come out. Like, out. The nurses didn’t seem too concerned as they hoisted her on to the bed. Then her doctor, who was fortuitously doing rounds that afternoon, dropped by to have a look – and that’s when all hell broke loose.
The doctor immediately started barking orders like something out of Grey’s Anatomy and the nurses called for B’s husband, who was still filling out forms at the desk, telling him that if he wanted to see the birth of his baby he needed to run
Five pushes later B was holding her perfect and beautiful baby girl in her arms. Forty-minutes later B was texting me with the big news. Less than 24-hours later B was home with her newly expanded family. And this week, only four weeks later, B was contemplating going for a bike ride. She is a legend.
* FYI for all you first-time preggos – although this was fast, I have yet to meet a woman who has a baby like they do in the movies – i.e. yelling, “The baby’s COMING!” and popping it out a few minutes later. I also doubt the veracity of those women claiming not to know they’re pregnant until the kid plops into a toilet bowl at Burger King. But that could be a Canadian thing…it’s so cold up here that we’re constantly clenching.
B didn't even have time to do her labour exercises...
17 CommentsCookie Fairy Fail
Published November 18, 2010 | I’m one of two parent reps for my son’s second grade class at the hippie school. This basically involves attending monthly meetings and relaying any pertinent information to the other parents. I’m six months into the role and already drunk with power. “Relaying” has morphed into bossing and people refer to the e-mail I sent last month as the Bitch Slap of 2010. Well my friends, today my karma arrived and it was coated in a sugary, butter-drenched batter.
I’d been threatening encouraging people to bake a dozen sugar cookies for our upcoming Christmas Fair. The recipe looked easy enough: mix butter, sugar, eggs, flour, etc.; roll it out; cookie cutter; the end. Grand holiday feasts aside, I’m a fairly decent cook and was feeling so smug that I doubled the batch, thinking I’d make up for any slacker parents. I was the culinary equivalent of Glee’s Rachel Berry, minus the talent.
From the moment I turned on the oven it was a disaster. I briefly considered blaming the recipe, lack of granite countertops or non-silicone baking sheet, but none of these things mattered: a blind pygmy grandpa in Sub-Sahara Africa could easily out-bake me. Don’t believe me? I’ll let the pictures do the talking (getting a blog post out of this experience was the only silver lining).
Exhibit A:
Cookie #1: Looks good, right? Round(ish), well-proportioned and very cookie-esque.
Exhibit B:
Cookie #5: Uh oh. Why is the dough so sticky? And mushy? Dammit.
Exhibit C:
Cookie #7: Mother f***ing piece of sh*t son of a b***h!!!
Exhibit D:
I hate cookies.
Exhibit E:
The aftermath.
My three-year-old’s reaction summed it up best: “Those aren’t cookies!” And she’s right. But these are:
Now these are cookies.
And any future hippie school baking will rely on them. Heavily.
Ritual of Disaster
Published November 17, 2010 | Every so often people (a.k.a. grandma) ask if I’m done having children. I usually direct them to this post, but anyone seeing my bedtime ritual would undoubtedly assume that unless a stork or immaculate conception are involved, my chances of getting knocked up are abysmally slim.
It starts – and typically ends – with my jammies: now that the season of lingerie (e.g. summertime…and my 30’s…) has passed, I tend to favour flannel bottoms topped with an old t-shirt that’s covered in kid-schmutz. Sexy? Hells no. Comfy? Oh yeah, baby.
Mr. Lautner looks clean enough, but the shirt is shmutz-city...
If it’s allergy season (it seems I’m sensitive to oxygen) or I have a cold, then each nostril is either corked with tissues or I’ve strapped a Breathe-Right nasal strip across my nose.
This is how I envision myself, fully stripped.
Next up is a mouth guard that’s used to prevent teeth grinding (that’s not the only grinding being prevented…ba-dum-ch!) and, if the kids have been waking up at 5:45 a.m. every morning since the time change, earplugs.
I’ll pause a moment to let your libido recover (perhaps a cold shower is in order…).
My pièce de résistance is a pair of socks. But wait – it gets better: these aren’t just any socks and they aren’t worn on my feet (minds out of the gutter, people!). They’re super-soft chenille socks and I put them on my lotion-slathered hands, like mittens. Why not use super-soft chenille mittens, you ask? I have no answer (but anyone getting me for secret Santa…you’re welcome).
How we haven’t popped out a litter of kiddies, Duggar-style, remains a mystery…
Like this, but with softer hands.
20 CommentsLike A Virgin – Sprayed For The Very First Time
Published November 15, 2010 | Around this time last year I lost my virginity. It only took about five minutes and I was allowed to wear my undies, but had to ditch the bra. It was surprisingly painless, although the sheets were so badly stained afterwards that I had to throw them out. As hard as it may be to believe, and as difficult as this is for me to admit, until last year I’d never had a spray tan.
I know there are others out there who look like I do a month after Labour Day: pale; exhausted and deficient in a multitude of vitamins. Too scared to set foot in a Fabutan, too broke to get on a plane to Cabo, too intimidated to give more than a passing glance at the local Mystic Tan after seeing what was either a bodybuilder or Chippendale dancer emerge, glistening with a mahogany hue.
Then my local eyebrow waxer advertised a spray tan special at her salon the day before a fundraising gala I was attending at the hippie school. I figured that the cost would be offset by not having to buy nylons and signed up for a “medium” tan.
Rather than standing in a booth and having the goo sprayed on me by a machine, my little waxing lady did it herself with something that resembled a James Bond camera pen attached to a hose. Not only did she stand very close to me throughout the process, she also talked the whole time – with her hands.
I didn’t realize it then, but the key to a good spray tan (aside from not having it applied in a closet at a place called Crazy Nails) is slow, even distribution. Mine looked like it had been applied by a serial killer who was prone to seizures. I had splotches, streaks and one ankle was missed completely. Things were looking a little streaky, but my Fairy Tanmother assured me it would blend as it absorbed into my skin.
I was hoping to be transformed into a Sports Illustrated model, but at home I realized the result was more Toddlers & Tiaras (with legs like Sequoias). People, it was not good. My husband took one look at me and belted out a verse of No Woman, No Cry. Something had to be done.
I’d been warned against bathing for ten hours lest I lose some of my bronzed lustre, so I immediately wore out a loofah giving myself a Silkwood shower. The next morning I awoke with umber-smudged linens, but another 20-minute shower erased the last vestiges of my tan. That evening I enjoyed the party in all my pasty glory. Thank god this kind of virginity really does grow back.
Why, Mr. Valentino, it's like looking into a mirror.
You’ll Never Eat Brunch In This Town Again
Published November 12, 2010 | This is a love letter to all of the single mothers out there. Last weekend, while the Serb was out exercising, I decided that taking my feisty, screwed-up-from-the-time-change children for brunch would be a swell idea. I’m used to shlepping them around by myself – birthday parties and grocery shopping are a specialty – but there’s something about the confined space of a restaurant booth, combined with low blood sugar and tantalizing aromas, that begs for drama.
Not bailing at the sight of a 15-minute line-up was my first blunder. My daughter decided to serenade everyone with a lilting rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle until she realized that people were watching. Then she had a meltdown (she should teach a master class).
I’d have run for the car had I not just spotted a huge Belgian waffle, loaded with fruit and whipped cream, heading to some lucky bastard’s table. My resolve to see brunch through was as ironclad as a Trump pre-nup.
At this point, I’m pretty sure I was slipped the parental equivalent of a roofie in my OJ, because I let the kids sit side-by-side and across the table from me. Within minutes we had no clean forks, a packet of jam had been launched to a nearby table and I’d abandoned healthy conflict-resolution techniques for bribes and threats (the ridiculous kind i.e. “Get your finger out of her nose right now or you won’t eat until tomorrow!”).
Luckily we were in the kind of establishment that caters to delusional parents who think restaurants are a perfectly acceptable place in which to socialize their children, so the service was fast and the jam was plentiful. In less time than we waited in line, I ordered for us, fed us, took my daughter to the bathroom three times (to show off her mad potty skillz) and sent my husband four text messages requesting demanding that he join us immediately.
I don’t remember what we ate or how much it cost. All I know is, until further notice, any meals eaten without my husband and outside of our home will involve a drive-thru.
This is how I remember it...
14 CommentsCan I get a Yee F’ing Haw?
Published November 10, 2010 | I belong to a sasstastic writing group, the Restless Writers. We meet monthly to drink wine and eat Brie critique each other’s writing. At a writing conference in October, my partners met a group of amazing women who also share a healthy respect for vino and dairy products. The best part? They’re from my hometown – Calgary, Alberta.
When I left my job, family and friends in Calgary nine years ago for Toronto, it was without an ounce of regret. I was a newlywed embarking on a huge adventure that turned out to be the beginning of a fervent and ever-lasting love affair with Ontario. It was always nice to visit friends on our infrequent trips back, but for the most part, we couldn’t wait to get home.
I was back in Calgary last summer without my husband or son – and my daughter had been abducted by my mother and sister – so I barely saw her and I had a lot more time to re-visit places I hadn’t seen in years. I was able to see my hometown in a way that distance – time and geographic – allows for and I noticed some interesting things.
The cowboy culture in Calgary is rooted in history and I didn’t realize how imbedded it was in my psyche until I was driving around listening to a country music station. I’ve never considered myself a fan – aside from the annual, week-long, drunken stupor we call the Calgary Stampede – but on this trip not only did I get used to (dare I say like) country crooners, the odd song actually got me a bit booey*.
In Calgary, I could be on the last minute of a 90-minute run and ready to puke up a lung, but if someone were approaching, I’d use my last breath upon fainting to wheeze out an appropriate greeting. When we moved to Toronto in 2001, my husband and I would go running walking through High Park, greeting others as we passed. Every person just stared at us like we’d offered to kick a puppy. We quickly learned that – in High Park, on Yonge Street and everywhere in between – talking to strangers was simply not done.
Drivers in Calgary are truly an enigma wrapped in a riddle: if someone let’s you in their lane, proper etiquette dictates that you reciprocate with a friendly wave and, if you’re my mom, an audible, “thank you!” And yet, Calgary drivers are notoriously bat-shit crazy, regularly going 20-40 km over the posted limit, cutting people off and speeding up at merging cars to thwart people from entering their lane. I’ve determined that the wave is merely an acknowledgement that you’ve survived the lane change and recognizing the effort to prevent it.
Calgary has the largest per capita number of A&W, 7-11 and Dairy Queen franchises (this is based entirely on my own research driving to see friends around the city). In Toronto, these fine establishments are rare sightings, like loch ness monsters or Stephen Harper fans. This posed a huge problem for me when I moved east. A&W whistle dog combos with rings and root beer (diet, of course – I’m not a total glutton) got me through University. Grape slurpees defined my childhood and the “Bonavista Sev” was my adolescent clubhouse. And don’t even get me started on DQ blizzards: while pregnant, I would cut a bitch for a combination of strawberry sundae topping and Oreo (try it…you’re welcome).
To answer your question – yes I realize that, like music is for other people, the markers of my life involve fast food. And yes, it explains a lot.
* Booey = sad (i.e. “Brad Paisley gets me all booey, then I get all snarffley**)
** Snarffley = snotty
No joke - I stepped off the plane in Calgary and saw a lady wearing this t-shirt.
The Saintly, Sadistic Dentist
Published November 8, 2010 | It’s been established that my seven-year-old son loves money (or rather, loves the idea of having a butler). Unfortunately for him and his aspirations of immense wealth, his career preferences to date aren’t likely to bring in the big bucks.
When he was four, my son wanted desperately to be a dentist. He’d watched Finding Nemo and any scenes with fish terrified him, so we were left with the bits in the dentist’s office. It was cute at first and would’ve been very lucrative (not to mention a great excuse to get him brushing his teeth) had he stuck with it. Truth be told, I’m glad he ditched this one, because he soon set up a dentist office in our kitchen and I was his lucky patient (Every. Single. Day.).
Wearing rubber gloves and a mask, he would brush my teeth and have me spit in a bucket. I made the dentist retire after he made “tools” – various hooked-shaped instruments made out of tin foil – and started poking my old school (circa 1985) fillings. He became the sadistic dentist from Little Shop of Horrors and I was Sylvester the cat gripping the ceiling by my fingernails.
Next up was the knight phase. Very commonplace goal for kids his age, except that he didn’t want to be a knight of old – he enquired how he might get a job with Queen Elizabeth guarding her crowns. I informed him that we were lacking the necessary connections that I suspected one needs to become a proper knight and also that the job he was describing was more in line with a security guard.
The knight thing segued nicely into his saint phase. That’s right, my son (whose mother – when asked her religious affiliation – identifies herself as Wiccan and whose father was raised a Commie) aspired to be a Catholic saint, which he was studying at the Hippy School. He carried around a cross and pretended to rescue stuffed animals from…I’m not sure what…religious peril? He’s likely the only boy in the history of boys who begged his mom for a monk costume in the middle of Wal-mart’s Halloween clearance aisle.
He also likes to play S.W.A.T. and is already scuba diving with his dad, so we’re counting on these interests to hold his attention in the coming years. They may not make him rich, but they appear slightly more attainable than, say, a chimney sweep (guess who saw Mary Poppins recently?).
And then there are occasions like last week, when we took him to a very fancy (i.e. the hostess gives out horrified looks to children rather than crayons) restaurant. The chefs cooked within view of diners and my son was transfixed throughout the meal.
Driving home he said, in a voice filled with wonder, “Guess what I want to be when I grow up?”
“What?” I asked, as my husband and I smiled at each other, bemused by our little famous-chef-in-the-making.
“A waiter,” he replied with reverence.
Rather than getting a butler, he’s now one step closer to being one.
Is this the lesser of five evils?
Or this?
14 Comments
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