Real Housewives of Summer Vacation
Published June 30, 2011 | The hippie school runs on the credo of Pay More, Go Less, so my kids were finished weeks ago while other kids go until the end of June. During the school year, those few hours my daughter was either at nursery school or home napping while my son toiled away in grade two were precious to me. It was my time to work, clean, exercise, grocery shop, shower and pee alone. Alas, that time has now passed.
I feel like a vacation veteran by the time other moms in my ‘hood are left quaking in their minivans at the thought of spending roughly 780 unscheduled hours with their kids, many of whom will declare boredom twenty minutes after school lets out.
In the spirit of momidarity, I have compiled some handy tips to make it through the summer without killing your kids (for the first few weeks, anyway):
Camps
I’ve staggered a few week-long day camps over the summer, mostly for my son because he is more dangerous when he’s bored. When he starts getting on my nerves, I threaten to send him to a different kind of camp (i.e. manners camp, cleaning camp and sitting-in-his-teacher’s-backyard-doing-math camp).
That laundry ain’t gonna fold itself, son.
Weeding Gardening Projects
I am the grim reaper of gardening and when you combine my ebony thumb with an allergy to nature, the result is a backyard that resembles a landfill.
Like something you’d come across in a Stephen King novel.
We have a professional landscaper dude coming in July to make things attractive and bomb-proof (will he be planting rubber shrubs?) but until that time, when my kids tell me they’re bored, I hand them a trowel, some gloves and tell them to go for it.
Exactly two of these green things are supposed to be here.
Toy Time
I always have a few gifts hidden away (aka: things I bought for Christmas in August and promptly forgot about) and they can come in very handy during rainy summer days. A word of caution: don’t blow your wad by giving the toy too soon; and be sure it isn’t something that requires adult supervision or assembly.
This thing took 2 hours to build and I had 18 leftover parts.
Bribes
I want my kids to enjoy a restful summer, but I also don’t want their brains to atrophy completely. To this end, my son and I have reached an agreement: every page he reads to me earns him five minutes of TV watching. At the rate he’s going, Anna Karenina will be done by early August.
Any tips you have to keep me sane until my kids’ friends join them on vacation? Please?
My Lookalike is a Ho
Published June 27, 2011 | A few weeks ago I was glugging wine and trolling Twitter (as one does) when I had a twittersation with the lovely Morgan over at The Little Henhouse about which celebrities we resemble. She is a gorgeous young thing who will be played by Kimberly Williams (According to Jim/Father of the Bride) in the movie of her life. Some of us aren’t so lucky.
Years ago someone mistook me for Sigourney Weaver (say what now?) and most recently someone said that I resembled Nigella Lawson (now we’re talking!), but the most enduring comparison—one that lasted a decade too long for my liking—was Monica Lewinsky.
This was during the height of Monica-gate. Clinton’s concubine and I shared poofy hair and big teeth (fortunately, this was before she really beefed up…it could’ve been a lot worse). I went to a formal event once and had people doing double takes all night. After that I cut my hair to escape the comparisons and—no joke—the next day, Miss BJ showed up on Barbara Walters with my new hairstyle. All I can say is, thank God the 90’s are over.
I have never had sexual relations with a president.
The Serb is often compared to Ben Affleck (which he loves) but lately his chiselled jaw and dark good looks are being overshadowed by something I like to call the Phil Factor. Rather than bringing to mind the ex-Mr. Bennifer, my husband is—in maturity and attention span—Phil Dunphy all the way.
Exhibit A:
Son: I’m really excited to go on a hike today, mom. NOT! (in the most obnoxious voice possible)
Me: ???
Son: Isn’t that awesome?!? Daddy says it to me all the time.
Give him a slight accent and we're good to go.
If Bill Murray circa Stripes and Doc Brown from Back to the Future had a kid, the result would look something like my eight-year-old son: he is a comedic mad scientist. Last week he disassembled my steam mop to build a robot that can clean his room. I pushed him on the swing and he told me it made his sausage tingle. He regularly fakes being asleep in the car so my husband will carry him into the house. Last night my husband caught him sneaking around at midnight with underwear on his head, trying to rob us (he just watched The Pink Panther). I could go on, but I’m getting a migraine thinking about it.
All we're missing is the flux capacitor.
My daughter is a fusion Cindy Lou Who and Lou Gossett Jr. from An Officer and a Gentleman: sweet and gentle on the outside; crusty taskmaster on the inside. I suspect it’s her Serbian roots breaking through.
The part of me doing a sit-up will be played by Richard Gere.
So, dearest Morgan, long story made longer, I’m gonna stick with this one:
Big teeth? Check. Huge hair? Yup. Carb whore? You betcha!
C’mon, spill it: who would play you in the movie of your life?
Secrets of a Serbian Party Ninja
Published June 23, 2011 | I’ve been married to the Serb for eleven years and in that time we’ve been lucky enough to attend a few cultural shindigs. The recent wedding of his cousin, with over 600 people at the reception, was the pinnacle of my training.
It could be my giving nature or that I watched Karate Kid II yesterday, but I’ve decided to impart you with some wisdom from the Rakija-soaked trenches. Here is a handy cheat sheet to help you survive—nay thrive—should you ever find yourself in a similar situation.
Get Yer Hooch On
I purchased my hoochie mama dress months ago, but chickened out when I realized the celebration would begin hours before the ceremony. Also, despite my lack of religious upbringing, it seemed wrong to have so much cleavage flopping around a house of worship. Fortunately, most of the other women had two outfits planned all along, so my girls had a chance to come out and play after all.
Me being demure. I don't know why I'm wearing sunglasses indoors.
Me doing my best Blake Lively impression.
Barfing and Car Crashes Aren’t Cool
Prepare hangover cures and designated driver arrangements in advance. The Serb swears by Ibuprofen and vitamin B before bed while I rely on a quarter pounder with cheese for breakfast the next day. As for the driving situation, I think it’s an unspoken Serbian marriage vow that the wife will be DD until death do they part.
Kako Si?
Like most people learning a language, the first Serbian phrases my husband taught me were the bad ones. As a result, I can make a sailor cry in ten words or less. Make sure you have some phrases in your back pocket that can be used in polite company (“moje ime je Lori” = “my name is Lori” “hvala” = “thank you” “Ja sam oženjen” = “I am married”).
Prepare for the Meat Sweats
A Serbian wedding reception without meat is like a politician without a sex scandal: it’s just not done. This reception was held at an Italian banquet hall and offered guests the standard soup, salad, pasta, chicken parmesan with veggies and tiramisu (*shudder*). What made our dining experience uniquely Serbian were the massive trays of lamb, pork and beef that supplemented the meal (the lamb and pig having been recently roasted on a spit). Any leftover meat was brought out at midnight along with the mountains of cookies and cakes.
This isn't from the actual reception, but you get the idea.
Embrace the Sweaty Palms of Others
A kolo is a folk dance that is part bunny hop, part line dance and all sorts of awesome. People hold hands and perform a grapevine-type move from side to side. The music usually gets faster and one song can last over five minutes with hundreds of people snaking across the dance floor, around the tables and maybe even through the kitchen. Dancing kolo is a wonderful metaphor for life: some take it very seriously while others smile the entire time; most parts are beautiful but it can also get a bit messy; and, just when you think you’ve got the hang of it, a new move is thrown your way. All you can do is hold on tight and try not to step on too many feet.
I can’t get this thing to embed, but here is a quick link of a kolo that began before the meal was even served, or the bride and groom even sat down: IMG_2341
Serbian Wedding Halftime Analysis
Published June 20, 2011 | It’s three o’clock on Sunday afternoon and we are on a short hiatus from our cousin’s wedding. We left the house at nine o’clock to get to a pre-wedding celebration at the bride’s parents’ house, had the church ceremony at one o’clock and now we have an hour before the reception begins. I’m sure a full recap will follow, but for now here is a brief rundown of the day:
Hours of blissful, uninterrupted sleep last night: 5
Hours spent dodging daughter’s foot after she climbed into my bed: 2
Number of outfits scheduled to be worn: 2 (hoochie mama dress deemed too provocative for church at noon)
Minutes taken by me to get ready: 58
Minutes taken by my kids and the Serb together to get ready: 9
Number of parental threats uttered on the car ride: 27 (i.e. “Touch her again and I will throw out all of your toys!”)
Times I stabbed my kids with the pin from my boutonniere: 6
Number of Serbian grannies that pulled my kids in for a cuddle/kiss/squeeze/etc: 17
Plates of food at the pre-wedding party: 26
Plates I Sampled: 24
Pairs of foundation garments holding me together: 2
Cans of Pepsi consumed by my son, the barfer, who never drinks soda: 4
Number of times he’s barfed: pending
Instruments played by band on the driveway: 4 (trumpet, accordion, violin and guitar)
Party on the driveway? Hells yeah!
Number of firecrackers set off on the driveway: 18
Number of times I almost hit the floor for cover: 0 (ten years ago I would’ve belly-crawled out of there)
Pre-emptive blister Band-aids on each foot: 7 (each toe, ankle and arch)
Number of blisters: pending
Flasks/bottles of Rakija (aka Serbian Hooch) floating around at any given time: 8
Percent of the ceremony I understood: 3
Photos my son took of the videographer: 146
I'll save this in case they want to put it on their wedding album cover.
Photos my soon took of the bride and groom: 1
Minutes until the babysitter comes so the Serb and I can escape to the reception (aka date night): 77
Number of people at pre-wedding party/church: 60 (give or take a few)
Number of people at reception: 600 (give or take a hundred)
Odds that I’ll lose my husband in a sea of Serbs: 50/50
23 CommentsIt Was the Best Birthday Ever, Until Someone Almost Died
Published June 16, 2011 | My son recently celebrated his eighth birthday and we decided to make it a low key affair with only a few of his classmates. I figured that fewer bodies would mean less stress, right? (Right?) Alas, like most events organized by yours truly, things went down the crapper almost immediately.
We suggested a movie (with 3-D glasses!) or a sleepover (in a tent!) or laser tag (in the dark!), but my son had something else in mind. He chose a one hour horseback riding lesson, despite never having ridden a horse (two dollars for a lap around the petting zoo on a donkey doesn’t count). His current crush, on a bona-fide equestrian, may have factored into his decision.
I found a stable that allowed each child to ride his or her own horse for a group lesson. We arrived on a blustery day and the manager showed us the double-wide trailer where we would do the pizza, cake and presents following the lesson. The Serb took one look (and smell) in the trailer and proclaimed it fit for a crime scene.
“Oh, it’s not that bad,” said my mom, taking the cake into the kitchen. She quickly came back, still holding the cake. “Forget what I said; it’s bad.”
We opened some windows, set everything on a table that I doused in Purell, and then headed for the indoor riding ring.
Riding boots and helmets were handed out as waivers were signed (cue foreboding music). The kids were paired up with horses matching their riding experience: the cute little equestrian girlfriend rode a silvery diva; the best friend had a horse that was small in stature and feisty in nature (just like him); and my son was given Dexter, the biggest, most mellow horse in the stable (he was an equine Jeff Spicoli).
The parents lined the boards taking pictures of the kids learning how to start, stop and even weave through some traffic cones. The best friend’s mom turned to me and declared it was the best birthday party ever. Then her son’s horse went berserk.
The entire episode lasted a few minutes, but of course time stretched into forever. It was initially a slow trot around the ring followed by some bursts of cantering. The best friend tried to gain control, but as the horse picked up speed the boy’s arms started flailing. As the boy attempted to pull in the reins the horse became increasingly spooked.
Boy and horse began galloping around the ring, completely out of control. The instructor tried to stop the horse but she was on the ground and weighed slightly more than the kids, so I doubt she was even seen. Best friend’s mom was clutching me and every time her son whipped by us, she would smile reassuringly at him while gouging my arm.
In what felt like slow motion, we watched as her son tilted off the side of the saddle. For one brief moment he was suspended, parallel to the ground, like a trick rider in the circus. Then he was lost in a trample of dust and hooves. Through it all the other kids were silent, their horses still.
Best friend’s horse had come to an immediate halt and the instructor led him out of the ring after checking the best friend. She asked all parents to enter the ring and stand by their children. Best friend’s mom walked calmly to her son and sat with him, talking in low tones (for the record, I would’ve been hyperventilating in a fetal position while the Serb drove the horse to a glue factory).
I envisioned a lifetime horse phobia for this little boy, one that originated at my son’s party. And yet, to my absolute astonishment, the instructor brought in a new horse and the best friend hopped right into the saddle. He even asked to gallop before the lesson ended.
My son’s horse never made it past an amble and that’s just fine—he is not the daredevil type so it was a match made in heaven. The best friend, however, is a thrill seeker. After catching his breath, he told his mom that it was a bit scary but mostly cool. And he couldn’t wait to tell his teacher on Monday.
Our equine adventure ended on a positive note—the best friend’s mom even signed herself up for lessons at the stable—and the kids agreed it was a stellar party, especially the near-death experience.
The moral of this story, aside from getting back in the saddle, is this: horses have attempted murder on those close to me in the past, so if you ever see me at your hayride, rodeo or anywhere near a carnival carousel, you might want to consider running for your life.
Not exactly what I had in mind.
The Day Martha Stewart Ripped Me a New One
Published June 13, 2011 | The Year: 1998
The Place: Calgary, Alberta (home to one of the biggest rodeos on Earth, among other things)
The Event: An Evening with Martha Stewart
When my boss asked me to attend a dinner where Martha would be the keynote speaker I wasn’t exactly psyched: anyone who reads this blog or has been to my house knows that crafts are not my thing. I possess neither the patience nor the skill to create Handmade Body Scrub and Mini Terrarium Place Cards.*
I was obligated to attend because my client at the ad agency where I worked bought ad space in Martha’s magazine. The only person less interested than I in spending an evening with Martha was the Serb. We were newly dating at the time, so I didn’t press the issue (I would totally make him share my pain if it happened today).
I asked N, a pal from work, to be my date. As an interior designer, N worshipped all things Martha. When I informed N that we would meet Martha at an exclusive reception prior to the dinner, she had to leave the office and calm down with a cigarette (she doesn’t smoke).
On the day of the event, N and I went to the venue straight from work. I was wearing slim-fitting brown pants, a chartreuse green silk blouse and brown boots with a slight heel (normally you wouldn’t need to know my ensemble; this time you do). N was decked out in some cool designer-type outfit. Martha wore a power suit that was blue, although I’m sure she referred to it as Aegean Sea or similar, and beige (Tobacco Glaze?) stilettos.
When introduced to Martha, I shook her hand and asked if she had enjoyed her helicopter ride through Banff and the Rocky Mountains earlier that day. Martha replied that it was lovely, aside from being delayed and throwing her team off schedule. Despite having nothing to do with her stupid helicopter ride I found myself apologizing, like I was an employee, for the inconvenience.
My co-worker N decided to take a more casual, personal approach. In retrospect, I think she may have been stoned.
“Omigod, Martha. Please tell me you did not wear those to the mountains,” N said, indicating to Martha’s shoes.
I stood beside them, mute with shock, as N went on to disparage Martha and her choice of footwear. After a minute or so, Martha had clearly had enough.
“What am I supposed to wear?” she sniped. “Do you expect me to trudge around in the dirt all day looking like that wearing those?”
At “that” she motioned in my direction. Nobody else was standing near me. There was no mistaking the subject of her scorn. “That” was me. “Those” were obviously my cute brown boots.
How I remember my boots.
How I suspect Martha saw my boots.
The meet and greet had become a slash and burn. I was dying of mortification while N rummaged in her bag for a cigarette (of one sort or another). We were quickly ushered to our seats, set among hundreds of women who had paid hundreds of dollars to worship their idol.
Martha’s presentation was less than stellar. She interrupted herself throughout her speech to complain that the lighting and acoustics were not to her specifications. She insulted the décor of the facility. She clearly did not want to be there.
In fairness to Martha, her personal taste had just been questioned by a random commoner. Plus, she was presenting in a building called The Corral—you can hardly blame her for feeling a bit crotchety.
All of this went down well before her infamous trial and incarceration—therefore, I choose to believe that spending some time in the clink softened her around the edges a little bit. And if not, I take comfort in the fact that I wasn’t alone in witnessing what a stone-cold bitch Martha Stewart could be, at least for one night.**
How's that for a look?
*Note: I just went to her website for some crafty examples and have broken into a full sweat.
**The evening had a silver lining: after the event we grabbed the Serb and went dancing with Martha’s personal assistant, who assured us that Martha was a delightful taskmaster.
Virgins Anonymous, Population: Me
Published June 9, 2011 | I’ve done some interesting things in my life—bungy jumping in the rain forest and kissing Tom Selleck (not at the same time) come to mind. However, my recent revelations concerning coffee made me realize a couple of things: I’ve missed the boat on a number of experiences that others might take for granted; and, most reassuring to me, there are a lot of you out there who are equally oblivious.
Here are some of my greatest misses:
Oliver Stone
I’ve never seen one of this dude’s films. It’s not that I don’t want to see Platoon or Natural Born Killers. And I have nothing against Michael Douglas in his suspender-snapping prime. There is no plausible explanation for my Oliver Stone aversion, but now that I’m aware of it, I have a weird compulsion to keep my streak alive.
I'm probably fighting with my friend, Sara, after she reads this.
Justin Bieber
Just because I live in Canada doesn’t mean I’m stuck in an igloo of ignorance—I know who this little dude is, although I must admit I spent a year thinking his last name was Beaver, which is why I even remembered him at all. (Fun fact: I sported a similar hairdo in 1977). Despite being able to pick him out of a line-up, I couldn’t name or recognize one of his songs if my margarita depended on it. As a woman of a certain age, some might say that’s a healthy thing.
Do you have the Bieber Fever? I just have a rash.
Jersey Shore
I love me some Real Housewives of Wherever and Project Runway makes me positively giddy, so it’s not like I’m a reality television novice. Based on my questionable taste, I should be swooning over the reality road kill that is Jersey Shore. And yet…I just can’t. It’s too repulsive, even for me.
I am all kinds of cranky that I know who this chick is without watching her stupid show.
Dooce
The babes of the blogosphere might not believe me on this one, but I swear on my Spanx that it’s true: I have never read Dooce. I know it’s a lady who started blogging and the next thing you know she’s a bagazillionaire. Is Dooce her first name or last? Is she funny? She better be hilarious, because I read chicks like this, this, this and this on a regular basis and they should be getting p.a.i.d. for their funny.
The Bloggess is my co-pilot.
So tell me: are we fighting?
Carrie Bradshaw Can Suck My Bunion
Published June 6, 2011 | It has been established that when it comes to feet, I am to shoes what Dolly Parton is to brassieres. That is, our cups runneth over, big time.
The challenge for me isn’t so much finding shoes that fit but rather ensuring they don’t make me: a) look like I’ve fastened boats to my feet; and b) fall on my face.
There was a time—back when shoes were first invented—that I willingly strutted around town in stilettos like it was no big thing. These days, sexy declarations such as Arch Support and Shock-Absorbing Heel are what make me swoon at the shoe store.
I have a pair of utilitarian heels to get me through most formal events; however, an upcoming Serbian wedding for 600 (and counting) guests had me heading to the mall in search of some shoes that could do my hoochie mama dress justice.
First up was a slip of leather with some ribbons attached:
It looked gorgeous on the shelf, but with my swollen size ten strapped into it, the result was Bambi meets drag queen:
The antithesis of arch support and shock-absorbing heel.
I obviously needed something with a bit more structure to it. Something that would look good while I chased my kids after they’ve consumed hundreds of Serbian sweets. Something like this:
I know, right? They were sexy, stylish and I’d seen Gwen Stefani rockin’ a pair in US Weekly last month. Unfortunately, I couldn’t take a picture of me in them because—no joke—I fell over walking to the mirror.
After dusting myself off and assuring the cashier that I wouldn’t sue, I wandered around the store in a funk, staring longingly at the shoes I wanted to buy:
Like angels kissing my toes.
Which should come as no surprise considering what I wore into the store:
How you doin'?
So what did I end up with?
Some might say it’s just another pair of utilitarian black heels, but they would be wrong. My new shoes are patent leather, therefore, they are fancy. The heel is too high for my granny, but not so high that I can’t run in them; which isn’t a consideration until you have a three-year-old with a penchant for public nudity. Most importantly, they are comfortable. Not as much as Tevas, but as close as I’m gonna get.
When I Grow Up I Wanna Be Naked
Published June 2, 2011 | When I was younger, all of the kids wanted to be police officers, teachers, doctors or ballerinas.* These were lofty, important professions we aspired to; careers that would make our parents proud. Many of today’s kids (yes, I realize I sound like a relic) crave the instant gratification and truckloads of moolah that come with being Real Teen Pregnant Housewife of Jersey Shore. It is, quite frankly, depressing the hell out of me.
My three-year-old daughter’s precociousness is not easing my distress. She’s obviously too young to have proper vocational testing; however, through informal analysis I’ve been able to identify some occupations for which she appears well suited:
Streaker
This is a no-brainer (and also the most terrifying) because it combines her love of running around at top speed and nudity.
Pickpocket
When not tearing through house like a naked banshee, my kid slinks around the house stealing stuff, the shinier the better. Last week I found the following items in her closet: a gold bracelet; salad tongs; my bra; her brother’s light sabre; a roll of toilet paper; and thirty-seven pennies.
Clown
After last Halloween my daughter is very eager to pursue a career in the clowning arts, with one caveat: “I need a space without makeup right here,” she’ll tell me, indicating to her mouth. “So daddy has a place to kiss me.” (Cue the Serb weeping uncontrollably at work as he reads this.)
Bouncer
My kid is tough, which is usually the case for younger siblings when a big brother is around to beat the crap outta them roughhouse. She also has a strong sense of right and wrong when it comes to certain issues, such as line cutting. Woe to the child who tries to sneak on the trampoline before her at gymnastics.
Publicist
Discretion is not a three-year-old’s strong suit. At various times my daughter has announced to groups of strangers that she has: a broken bagina; a daddy who likes tea parties; a mommy who poops; and a brother who farted in her face (all true, but do the bank tellers need to know?).
Minx
This one is particularly disconcerting. My daughter’s name is quite common and, to differentiate her from another girl in her class, the kids have started referring to her as “the one who loves Jonathan.” She also informed me last week that I should get married again. When I asked how many times I should get married, she replied, “All girls should get married six times.” (Cue the Serb weeping uncontrollably at work as he reads this.)
While these options are not ideal, I figure it could be a lot worse: at least she doesn’t want to be a Kardashian when she grows up.
Why couldn’t she just wanna be bionic?
*True confession: I also wanted to be Kelly Garrett, Jaime Sommers and Diana Prince. If you’re too young to get these references, we may be fighting.
Blog Design Goddess
