A Love Letter To My Mommy
Published May 30, 2011 | Why didn’t I write this a few weeks ago on Mother’s Day, like the rest of the blogosphere? Mostly because I was too busy trying to avoid the floral fiasco of last Mother’s Day (my lawyers have informed me that I can’t name the florist for legal reasons*).
I also have friends whose mothers have passed away much too young, and they’ve impressed upon me the need to appreciate those we love while they’re here. Besides, my mom’s most recent visit just ended (we see her a few times a year) and her awesomeness is still fresh in my mind.
I only trusted people who shared my DNA to babysit when my son was born years ago. My mom didn’t roll her eyes once when I went to a movie and presented her with a two-page document outlining my son’s bedtime routine. Without judgement (or with Oscar-calibre acting) she acquiesced to my ridiculous demands regarding no candy or junk food. And I didn’t hear a single “I told you so” when I willingly let the second kid scarf chips at nine months.
My mom is the grandma who gives her eight-year-old grandson a Tequila-flavoured lollipop (complete with worm) and freeze-dried ice-cream from NASA for his birthday (among other things).
He didn’t even need his stomach pumped.
She also gives my three-year-old daughter daily mani-pedis and believes that dinner isn’t over until you’ve had dessert (the all-time fave is Pink Cake, a concoction of cream cheese, cool whip and juice).
The kids aren’t the only ones getting goodies from granny: I recently received a contraption to grab lint and prevent my dryer from catching on fire. I can’t imagine buying something like that for myself and—full disclosure—I wasn’t aware that lint hazards and their preventative measures even existed until she informed me.
I believe you can buy these at Moms R Us.
This is a perfect example of what makes my mother (and other rockin’ mamas) a great mom: they worry about lint causing a fire in your home and take action to avoid it.
Mom, I love you. Although I spent my teens annoyed with you, I can now appreciate and be thankful for the great job you did raising me.
Above all else, I am terrified of the day that your granddaughter becomes hormonal.
*I don’t have lawyers. The florist was Bloomex. No flowers were delivered and no refund was given. They are the worst—never use them.
21 CommentsMr. Rogers is Haunting My House
Published May 26, 2011 | Last year I had a little problem when my nutbar neighbour screwed with my home’s mojo. Thankfully she’s moving this weekend (I know! If you call me this weekend and I don’t answer, I’m likely celebrating in a pool of Sangria.), but I have a new situation brewing. It’s not nearly as scary, but is twice as creepy.
My eight-year-old son started riding his bike to the park by himself. It’s less than a block away, but he takes great delight and pride in riding to the park, locking his bike to a street sign, playing two feet from the bike for ten minutes, then unlocking the bike and riding home. He carries his key on a special keychain that has a compass and whistle (as you do when traveling twenty feet from home).
The first day he made the trek, he promptly lost the keychain while the bike was still locked to the street sign. He and the Serb searched for over an hour, to no avail (keep in mind that this “park” is the size of an average Wal-mart bathroom, i.e. not very big). They tried sawing through the bike lock and got nowhere, so the bike was left locked to the post overnight.
The next morning I loaded my kids in the car for the drive to school. As we approached his locked up bike, we noticed that the key—on the keychain—was hanging from the bike lock. My son was overjoyed and I assumed a benevolent neighbour had come across it on a morning run/dog walk and, seeing the locked bike, put two and two together.
C’mon, Lori, you’re thinking, that’s hardly poltergeist material. Just you wait—it gets better.
Later that day, my daughter received an additional Puh-see (aka Percy). For those of you keeping track, her Puh-see had been missing for weeks and it was traumatic for everyone involved. She woke up early the next morning still clutching her new toy and together we went downstairs for breakfast.
And that’s where we found the original Puh-see, set on the edge of the otherwise bare kitchen table.
I distinctly remembered thinking how abnormally clean the kitchen was before I’d gone to bed the night before, so I’m certain it wasn’t there when I turned out the lights to go upstairs. My daughter’s happy hysterics convinced me she hadn’t stumbled upon it earlier (“My PUH-SEE! My PUH-SEE! My PUH-SEE!”). The Serb swore he hadn’t put it there (“You think I don’t know what to do when I find an extra Puh-see lying around?”). My son had no idea what I was talking about (“I don’t play with trains anymore, mommy. I’m eight.”).
The only explanation is that we have a ghost of the pleasant, play-enabling variety. Like I said: freaky, but friendly. It should fit in just fine around here.
It IS all good in my 'hood, thanks to Fred "Caspar" Rogers.
26 CommentsDon’t Judge the Virgin
Published May 23, 2011 | I’m sitting in a Starbucks on a busy Saturday afternoon, having escaped the house for a few hours of uninterrupted navel-gazing writing time. People are eyeballing me with either undisguised resentment because I’ve managed to score some prime real estate (comfy chair near the window with a power outlet) or, more likely, because I’ve been here for an hour and have yet to order anything. And it is here that you will find my secret shame. The dirty little secret I’ve carried for years, like herpes or clandestine mustache waxing. Are you ready? <deep breath>
I have never had a cup of coffee.
The merest hint of anything java-related repulses me—I’d rather lick a dirty diaper than try to choke down a Coffee Crisp, and Tiramisu just makes me sad. I earned my nasty badge of dishonour at an early age after ordering coffee-flavoured ice cream. Even then I took my ice cream seriously and the taste sensation traumatized me.*
Diet Coke got me through all-nighters during university and hot chocolate is my cold weather beverage of choice. How a European man with caffeine in his DNA ever married a despiser of all things mocha (and don’t get me started on Espresso or that Turkish gack) remains one of life’s great mysteries.**
But I digress. Back to Starbucks.
Today is the first day I’ve ordered something to drink in a Starbucks by myself. Usually I’m with a friend and follow that person’s lead (i.e. “I’ll have a Peppermint Tea, same size that she ordered.”).
I know this isn’t a big deal when compared to, say, Lisa Ling’s sister surviving imprisonment in North Korea, but for me it’s kind of a Big Deal.
The whole sizing situation is very intimidating for the uninitiated. I walked in and promptly fumbled my tea order. I’m Canadian and went to a French school, so for me “grande” is pronounced “grand,” not “grand-day” (although the Pepe Le Pew accent I added probably didn’t help).
The order-taker (I know they have a special name but I’m too lazy to look it up. Stop judging me!) regarded my ineptitude with equal parts mistrust and curiosity. I was so flummoxed that I forgot to get my frigging cookie and now I’m too embarrassed to go back up there.
That, in a long and wordy nutshell, is why I try to stay away from Starbucks. The reason I will keep coming back is easy—the clientele. The IM conversation I had with the Serb sums it up best:
Lori: starbucks people are weirdos
Lori: maybe not the ones that take their coffee to go, but the ones that stay are nuts
Serb: tell me …
Lori: i’m getting character sketches for the next 10 books from these wackados
Lori: i’m on a couch sharing a coffee table with 3 other people:
Lori: 1) old man wearing shoes at least seven sizes too big who keeps asking me to help him with his iced coffee
Serb: watch your wallet
Lori: 2) lady who keeps covering her face with a paper and giggling uncontrollably
Lori: (when not trying to engage strangers in conversation)
Lori: (except me…cuz I’m a bitch…obviously)
Lori: 3) dude trying to look up my skirt
Lori: but he just left cuz I kept my knees locked
Serb: squeeze that butt
Lori: whose…his? 
Serb: yours mofo
Lori: wtf – i just sneeze and the old man jumped so high he spilled on himself
Serb: time to come home. bring me an americano
Lori: i don’t know what that even means but i think i just wrote my next blog
The Mount Everest of the culturally challenged.
* This is similar to—but should not be confused with—the time I ordered the tiger tail flavour. Instead of chocolaty goodness, I was assaulted with black licorice. I still can’t drink Ouzo because of that little debacle. I’ve stuck with Strawberry ever since…I’m no dummy…except for those two previous times.
** Not really—I have other attributes that make up for it, but that’s another blog…
34 CommentsPuh-see Is My Pre-schooler’s Favourite Word
Published May 19, 2011 | My children, though born and raised in Canada, have acquired accents. I blame my husband. He moved here almost 15 years ago and still retains a slight Serbian twang—just enough to seem exotic and sexy, but not so much that you can’t understand what he’s saying—whereas my kids sound Bostonian.
Fortunately they’re more John Kennedy than Cliff Claven, but it’s still cause for concern, particularly for my daughter. To recap, my 3-year-old daughter has the looks of a flaxen-haired cherub and the mouth of a 50-year-old lounge singer. Her favourite things in life are her daddy, Lightning McQueen cars and Thomas trains, all of which she likes to dress up in doll clothes.
Nothing makes her happier than a good fart joke during a tea party. Like many girls with older brothers, she is an enigma. Her current crush is a little green train named Percy. Unfortunately, due to my daughter’s enunciation situation, she pronounces his name as Puh-see. This has proven to be…not great.
In the beginning it was hilarious:
- I wanna puh-see cake for my birthday.
- Where’s my puh-see?
- I love green puh-see!
- I’m going to play with my puh-see now…
Then she lost Percy, which was very sad for her, but still pretty funny for us:
- I’m so sad about my puh-see.
- Has anyone seen my puh-see?
- I think I left my puh-see in the car.
- I need a new puh-see!
When she started asking strangers if they knew where her Percy was, we knew it was time to buy a replacement. Of course, the day we gave her the new Percy, the old one showed up. This caused her to practically convulse with joy and she bellowed the following phrases at the bank, drycleaner and grocery store:
- I have TWO puh-sees!
- I found my puh-see!
- Now I have a puh-see for me and a puh-see for mommy!
- I. Love. Puh-see!
Now, the Serb and I adore a good beaver joke as much as the next guy (actually, maybe more), but not when it’s our pre-schooler doing the delivery. She sounds like she belongs in a Marky Mark video, circa 1992.
I fear that the worst is yet to come: my daughter hasn’t been to pre-school since she doubled her Percys. I think I’ll just leave a printout of this blog outside the teacher’s door (along with a brick of chocolate…or maybe just some cash).
Have you ever seen such a beautiful puh-see?
37 CommentsI Hated Telemarketers. Until I Kinda Became One.
Published May 16, 2011 | I can’t stand telemarketers. Aside from free health care and twelve-month maternity leave, I think the Canadian government’s greatest contribution to its citizens has been a list citizens can join to prevent a telemarketer from trying to sell them duct cleaning while they’re trying to enjoy dinner.
People put their names on this list and telemarketers aren’t allowed to call, at all. Every so often, some shmuck breaks the rules and people like me get really angry (“I’m on the list, ass hat, so you need to take me off of your list.”).
As a WAHM (that’s Work At Home Mom, not illiterate George Michael groupie), I bring home the bacon in a variety of ways. During lulls in my part-time corporate writing gig, I’m often approached to do freelance marketing, which can be really fun. A few months ago I was hired by a medical corporation to update some client files, which ended up being really weird.
I quickly learned not to call during the day—people have way too much time on their hands if they’re home before dinnertime, especially the seniors. Although I prefaced each call by stressing that I was not located in the office I represented, many people felt an urge to confide their latest maladies, difficulties and—in one memorable call that lasted 17 minutes—bowel movement irregularities.
In each instance, I would commiserate and console while attempting to confirm personal data (i.e. “You’re absolutely right, Mr. X—you probably should have that looked at, especially if it’s oozing. Are you still located at 212 Arlington Avenue?”).
I refused to call people during the dinner hour, which in my mind ranges from five to seven o’clock. I also wouldn’t make calls after nine o’clock, which is a testament to my dad, who used to yell at anyone calling after that hour when I was growing up.
That left three optimal calling hours. This was also the time targeted by telemarketers. Whenever I called in the evening, people were automatically suspicious verging on hostile until they realized I wasn’t trying to scam them with a crappy window installation.
Only one person, henceforth referred to as Scum Sucker, was overtly cruel and it was harsh:
Me: Hi, my name is Lori and I’m calling from X to update their client files. Can I please verify your address?
SS: For Christ’s sake! You’ve already called me once before.
(Note: I wasn’t the only person making calls)
Me: Oh, I apologize.
SS: Are you tired? Or are you just not used to thinking past five o’clock? I don’t need you people calling me at all hours asking for stupid information that you should already have.
Me: I—
SS: I don’t care about excuses. You need to get more rest or get someone to do this job who has a brain, because—
Me: (click)
I felt a moment of real empathy for telemarketers; these people are simply trying to earn a living doing jobs no one else wants, like parking cop or school bus driver. My solidarity quickly passed, however. All it took was some d-bag calling me during dinner to seal my driveway.
Tell me about it, sister...
14 CommentsWho’s the Real Dope Here?
Published May 12, 2011 | The plan held so much promise: order tickets for a documentary film at Toronto’s Hot Docs Festival; book a babysitter; enjoy some time in the big city before the movie and grab a drink afterwards.
The only movies that the Serb and I have seen in a theatre since having kids involve 3D glasses and Tylenol, so we were pumped. As often happens when we attempt to recapture our wanton youth in the big city, every move we made quickly took a turn for the ridiculous.
Order tickets
I learned that most of the films we wanted to see were sold out with the exception of a Saturday matinee. In a panic, I bought the tickets without confirming our babysitter’s availability, reasoning that 15-year-old girls would have nothing better to do on a weekend afternoon than go to the park with my kids.
Book a babysitter
For two days I searched in vain for someone to watch my kids, but apparently they have a lot going on these days. I briefly considered soliciting teenage girls outside the 7-11 by my house, but just writing about it feels dirty. Finally a mom at my kids’ school gave me the number of someone studying education who worked in a daycare centre. Credentials aside, she had what I needed: some free time on Saturday afternoon.
Enjoy some time in the big city
Whenever we begin the thirty-minute drive into Toronto from our suburban sprawl, my husband and I wonder why we ever left such a funky, vibrant city. By the time we reach downtown, the Serb is invariably cursing at everyone in his wake while I dig around the glove compartment looking for my flask. On this particular day, however, a bong would’ve been more appropriate.
Traffic was at a complete standstill. Police officers had closed the main streets leading from the downtown core to some nearby government buildings and traffic was being diverted. It. Was. Mayhem.
The Serb: "I just wanna go home!"
Pedestrians were moving faster than cars, so I hopped out and walked a few blocks (through a throng of slow-poke pot-smokers) until I reached the festival box office. Inside the building I learned the cause of the big commotion: the Serb and I had inadvertently stumbled right in the middle of the annual Global Marijuana March.
One woman's spliff is another woman's huge pain in the ass trying to cross the street.
If we didn’t have a babysitter on the clock and pre-paid movie tickets, the Serb and I may have joined in the festivities. God knows we could’ve used it.
Maybe next time, sailor...
Grab a drink
We finally made it to the movie theatre and settled in to enjoy the show. I’d told our babysitter that it likely wouldn’t last more than an hour and to expect us home by five o’clock. As the final credits rolled I realized it was almost five-thirty. We got up to leave and quickly sat back down. Our seats were in the middle of theatre and the director was preparing for a Q&A session. Nobody was going anywhere.
Thankfully, the weed warriors were sleeping it off by the time we left the theatre. I called our babysitter to let her know we were on our way and also ask what she charged per hour (did I mention I was desperate when I booked her?).
She didn’t seem to mind that we were running late, and why would she: her rate was thirteen cash-in-hand dollars an hour (we usually pay eight to ten), which made her better paid than most nurses.
Instead of a drink, we should’ve grabbed a gun to rob a bank in order to pay our babysitter the ninety bucks we owed her when we finally arrived home.
I called my grandma that night to tell her about our very expensive date. My birthday is coming up and she asked me if this was an early present.
That’s when the Serb leaned over and said, “It is now.”
Hot Mama or Hoochie Hooker?
Published May 9, 2011 | In June I’ll be attending the wedding of our Serbian cousin (she of the skinny legs) and if I’ve learned anything in my marriage, it is this: when Serb chicks attend a formal event of any kind, they bring their A-game. Since having kids, I struggle for a D-game at best. My sad little black dress that I dust off every Christmas was not going to cut it at this shindig, so I grabbed my three-year-old daughter and hit the mall.
I knew it couldn’t be worse than bathing suit shopping, but I still prepared for battle: makeup was slapped on, glasses were ditched for contact lenses, and—most importantly—a skirt was worn, under which was a sturdy foundation garment (because nobody looks good in a dress with Tevas, bed head and back fat).
My only blunder was not shaving my legs—they haven’t seen a razor since Mexico—but thankfully my contact lenses have a weaker prescription than my glasses so I hardly noticed.
I walked into a fairly swanky store (i.e. one that doesn’t sell yoga pants, aka the kind of store I never shop in). I grabbed a few black dresses and one taupe number that was the exact shade of my bathroom walls. On my way to the dressing room, I spotted a red confection that was full of shimmer, ruching and sexy.
Normally I wouldn’t consider wearing such a dress to a Vegas nightclub, let alone the holy union of two souls. But a Serbian wedding is not your average nuptials: it has the vast quantities of food found at an Italian wedding; the crazy drinking and dancing seen at a Greek wedding; and the bling of the royal wedding.
I decided to give the red dress a shot, suspecting that even if I could cram myself into it, I’d end up resembling a blushing weeble:
A glimpse inside my imagination. I know-terrifying, right?
In fact, the results were quite the opposite:
Okay, maybe not quite like this, but as close as I’ll ever get.
Although my three-year-old daughter loved it (“Mommy! You look like a fairy!”), I worried that it was too provocative. I phoned the Serb from the dressing room to see if he could shed light on the sartorial protocol of his people. It was, as expected, a complete waste of time.
I decided to call the bride’s sister, K, but couldn’t get a hold of her. In desperation I phoned K’s husband (at work!) only to find him, quite rightly, perplexed by my call. We decided that I would buy the dress, take a picture of me wearing it at home, email it to him and K, and they would give the final verdict.
When I tried it on for the Serb that night, he did a fantastic Roger Rabbit impression and the dress was deemed a keeper. The cousins saw a picture and declared it absolutely appropriate. Even my 88-year-old grandma proclaimed that I looked “totally hot.”
But the absolute clincher for me came from my seven-year-old son. He looked me over and said, “It’s pretty nice mommy, but your boobs look kinda chubby.”
All-inclusive Resort=Worst Birth Control Ever
Published May 5, 2011 | Were it left up to the Serb and me, we still wouldn’t be parents. Thankfully the universe had other plans.
Eight years ago we were a couple of freewheeling D.I.N.K.S.* living large in the city with only a low-maintenance pussy** to worry about. It merely took unlimited booze and a few minutes hours to kill at a friend’s wedding in Cuba to change everything.
About six weeks after returning home from our trip, my co-worker, M, confided that she might be pregnant. The pharmacy in our building had a “buy one, get one free” promotion on pregnancy tests, so—as a joke—I offered to take one alongside her for moral support.
Back in our office, M scurried into the washroom and sauntered out a few minutes later with a relieved look on her face. Then it was my turn. I hid the kit in my purse and slunk into the bathroom, feeling equal parts devious and ridiculous.
I peed on the stick and put it aside while I washed up. Applying some lipstick, I glanced down and froze: the pee stick was branded with a giant plus sign. My stomach turned over and my knees literally buckled. I thought of all the sushi, brie and—ack!—martinis I’d devoured that month. I fumbled for my cell phone and called M at her desk.
Me: “WHAT DOES PLUS MEAN!?!”
M: “Huh?”
Me: “IS PLUS GOOD OR BAD!?!”
M: “Oh sh*t.”
Me: “Get. In. Here.”
M ran into the bathroom and we both stared at the pee-stained stick with horrific fascination. I refused to accept the results and ran to the store for another test—one that wasn’t in the bargain bin. It, too, was positive (or negative, depending on one’s perspective).
I swore M to secrecy and sat at my desk in a stupor for the rest of the afternoon. Meeting the Serb to take the streetcar home, I pondered the best way to break the news to him.
Me (thrusting stick at him): “Check this out.”
Serb: “What’s that?”
Me: “It’s a pregnancy test. That says I’m pregnant.”
Serb: “What do you mean?”
Me: “It means I’m pregnant.”
Serb: “No you’re not.”
Me: “Yes I am.”
Serb: “No you’re not.”
Me: “Yes I am.”
Etc.
When we arrived home, the Serb insisted on driving to get another test, which I administered in the grocery store washroom. Still positive. Still pregnant.
I immediately demanded a Big Mac (which was a sign of things to come) and we sat in the parking lot of an industrial park, gorging on grease while we gaped at our trio of pregnancy tests.
I was most definitely Knocked Up.
Me, in the parking lot after the third test. I have no idea why I had a camera in the car. Re. my hair: shut up.
* Double Income No KidS (perverts)
** Our cat, Dude (seriously, you guys are a bunch of freaks)
Go on, spill it: how did you find out you’d be a hot mama (or big daddy)? And if you’re not a parent, has reading my blog turned you off procreation for good?
65 CommentsHow to Get Kicked Out of the PTA
Published May 2, 2011 | I know my strengths—margarita connoisseur, gluten avoider—yet I’m also well aware of my limitations: gardening, home repair and baking calamities are de rigueur in my world. Now I can add “visual artist” to my ever-growing list of Things I Kinda Suck At Doing But Which Make For Interesting Blog Fodder.
As a parent representative at my kids’ school, I attend monthly meetings where we discuss upcoming events and sometimes replicate an activity that the children do in class, such as painting.
While in grade one last year, my son painted us a picture using a technique called wet on wet. The paper is saturated and then sponged off. As paint is applied, it diffuses on the page. When done correctly the results can be extraordinary:
“Night Sky” was painted by my six-year-old.
When done incorrectly (i.e. by yours truly), the results are rather…pornographic:
What would Dr. Rorschach say?
I don’t know if subconsciously I was hankering for some sexy time with the Serb or what, but I am now the Georgia O’Keeffe of the hippie school. I’ve wanted to overhaul the look of my blog for months and based on the example above, I obviously require some artistic intervention.
Enter the fabulous Jenn of Munchkin Land Designs. We’ve only met online and live in different countries, yet she was able to take my ramblings (“Make it silly and creative and professional and, you know, like me…okay?”) and turn them into pure gorgeousity.
Obviously, I am thrilled; when you see it later this week, hopefully you will be, too. Mostly, I’m just happy it doesn’t look like a big snapper.
30 Comments
Blog Design Goddess
