How to Avoid a Speeding Ticket Without Throwing Your Panties
Published September 29, 2011 | You know how some women complain of Dummy Mummy syndrome when they’re pregnant? When they can’t remember/find/accomplish much of anything because most of their brain power is being siphoned by a 3-ounce fetus? I suffer from a particularly virulent strain of Dummy Mummy that has lasted well past gestation, through toddlerhood, and appears to be settling in for my children’s tween years.
I can lose my keys when I’m holding them in my hand. I once put a package of mushrooms away in the dryer. My kids play Let’s Find Mommy’s Glasses on a daily basis and, more often than not, they are found on my head. My point being, I’m often operating at a level that would suggest I not operate heavy machinery.
A few years ago I was driving my son to school—stuck behind a school bus going the speed limit—and we passed a speed trap. I slapped on a mental post-it to slow down on the way home and promptly forgot all about it. Ten minutes later I blew past the police car going 45 kilometres per hour over the speed limit (29 miles per hour for you non-metric types).
The officer who pulled me over was not impressed with my Daisy Duke driving demonstration. He was even less amused when I couldn’t find my registration. After spending ten minutes in his cruiser, the officer came back and informed me that not only was I speeding and lacking proper registration, but my driver’s license had also expired. Sixteen months earlier.
At that moment I did what women (and more than a few men) have done in my situation since the first Model A Ford rolled off the assembly line: I cried.
Through my tears I explained that when the license had expired I was pregnant and on sick leave with pneumonia, impetigo (!), pink eye, strep throat and a host of other maladies, leaving me barely able to stand, let alone take notice of a renewal notice.
The policeman told me that by law he should confiscate my car on the spot and release it only when my paperwork was in order. Then he glanced in the backseat at my sleeping nine-month-old daughter, and at me with my uncombed hair and stained pajama top, and he took pity on me.
The speeding ticket was reduced from $250 and four demerit points to $70 and no demerits. Driving without registration was going to cost me a whopping $600, but he advised me to fight the fine with my medical records in court. Since I’d been stopped only a few blocks from where I lived, the officer followed me home (rather than impounding my car) after I promised to get new registration that day.
A few weeks later I showed up in court and faced the judge. With one smack of the gavel my charges were dropped. Lesson learned: if you get stopped by a cop, try crying. If that doesn’t work, blame your spawn. If all else fails, throw your undies. As a last resort, put the three together. Game, set and match.
Now this is my kind of speed trap.
33 CommentsDental Deliverance
Published September 26, 2011 | My son loves going to the dentist. In his eight years, he’s had one filling and—after one-too-many slips on the ice/wrestling sessions with daddy—a tooth was pulled; but rather than scarring him for life, these trips to the chair only fuelled his fascination.
For years he wanted to be a dentist (either that or a waiter) and would practice on me with tools fashioned from tin foil while wearing a mask and gloves. I even had to spit in a Tupperware bowl.
This obsession is beyond ironic when you consider what complete wusses the Serb and I are at the dentist. My husband comes by his terror apprehension honestly: Serbian dentistry in the 80s was not pretty.
Novocaine was a luxury few were afforded, fillings were often taken care of without so much as a Tylenol, and burly male assistants held down the patients, allowing the petite female dentists to get the job done. The results were such that Canadian dentists would bring in students to marvel at the Serb’s mouth as an example of Third World dentistry.
When I met the Serb his teeth were a work in progress and he had a flossing phobia. Every time we move I have to canvas the local dentists to ensure that: a) the hygienists are sweet, young and attractive; and, b) the dentists won’t shy away from the happy gas.
He now has a mouth full of pearly(ish) whites and will happily hop in the dental chair. Unfortunately, I seem to have appropriated his dread of dentists through some sort of marital osmosis.
Growing up, I was on a first-name basis with everyone at my dentist’s office, similar to Norm at Cheers. I’ve had retainers, braces, fillings, crowns, root canals, etc. and never had a problem—especially after they started putting televisions on the ceiling (genius!), but obviously the bucket of freezing pumped into my mouth also helped.
Unfortunately I had a bad experience a few years ago, one involving bargain-bin novocaine and excessively long roots, which resulted in me sobbing in the fetal position.
Today I’m going for another root canal with a dentist I’ve recently started seeing. The entire office is incredible and I’ve briefed everyone from the dentist to the plant-watering lady that I require excessive freezing. I plan on walking out of there with my face sliding onto my chest.
Wish me luck.
Things could be worse, right? RIGHT?!?!??!
Diary of a Flu
Published September 22, 2011 | Saturday
8 am
Wake up with runny nose, assume it’s allergies, take a Claritan. Nose is a faucet throughout the day.
4 pm
Mention to Serb that I could be getting a cold. He tosses me an orange and commences elaborate hand-washing protocol.
9 pm
Pass out with wads of Kleenex shoved up each nostril. Serb elects to sleep with kids, ignoring the near certainty of receiving an elbow to the nose from son.
Sunday
7 am
Serb wakes up and—with just one glance at me whimpering in agony—quickly hustles kids out of the house for breakfast.
9 am
Serb peeks in and offers to make tea, soup, etc. I beg for an epidural to my head.
9:01 am
I take cold and flu pill.
9:02 am
I scream for a bucket.
9:04 am
Serb peeks in and offers to open the window, and then quickly retreats as I screech my reply. (Roughly translated to: “Thank you so much for enquiring, my darling, but unfortunately I am quite indisposed at the moment as my body seems intent on regurgitating my pancreas. Toodles.”)
9:05 am—2 pm
Flit in and out of consciousness while Serb ferries kids from park to home to store to home to restaurant to home. I marvel at my body’s ability to function (i.e. barf and sweat) while verging on the brink of expiring.
2 pm
With family all living out of town and husband busy with kids, turn to Twitter on iPhone for support:
2:30 pm
Throw iPhone across room when beepy sound nearly causes head to explode. Attempt a different cold and flu pill. More bucket time.
3 pm
Serb checks in and finds me writhing on bed in achy agony, resembling little girl in The Exorcist, and pleads to let him open a window…just misses Kleenex box chucked at his head.
3:30 pm
Serb brings laptop with Judd Apatow’s greatest hits on DVD as peace offering. All is forgiven. Send Mr. Apatow a delusional tweet of appreciation:
7 pm
Emmy red carpet begins live streaming on lap top.
7:05 pm
Headache abates. Fever breaks. Nausea subsides.
8 pm
Emmy awards begin. I politely ask Serb for soup.
11 pm
Fall into blissful, sweat-free slumber.
Monday
7 am
Wake up and immediately open all windows.
A Parental Quandry (aka when you want to punch the neighbour’s kid)
Published September 19, 2011 | Aside from some camps and an unlimited supply of sidewalk chalk, the thing that kept me from putting my kids on the curb with a For Sale sign this past summer was the family up the street.
Our kids have known each other since birth and we get along really well with the parents. This was the first year that our son and their kids have been old enough to take off in the morning and come back when the streetlights came on. We’d see them when they burst into the house looking to fill water guns, use the bathroom or get some snacks, but otherwise they were off enjoying the kind of old-timey summer that I didn’t think happened anymore.
Then we went away for a week and when we returned things took a turn for the bizarre. A new boy, let’s call him Damien, had joined the group. Like my son and his friends up the street, Damien is eight-years-old, and while some would call him a spirited or strong-willed boy, I call him an asshole. Allow me to elaborate…
Damien makes a habit of peeing wherever and whenever the mood strikes him. Often this is at the park, which I don’t encourage but can understand. On more than one occasion, however, Damien has relieved himself in the overflowing recycling bin in the other family’s garage, which is all sorts of wrong. (Also? He tried unsuccessfully to poop in it.)
My son and his buddies like to play Harry Potter games or pretend to be wild cats living in the woods. Damien insists that they play Call of Duty, which apparently involves copious amount of swearing, particularly the f-word. He tried to make the game more palatable to the girl of the group by asking her to bring Barbies to the park so they could “do sexing on each other.” There is another boy living on the street who tried to infiltrate their game and Damien spit in the boy’s eye.
The parents found all of this out last week, when Damien was caught peeing in the recycling bin. We interrogated our kids and they spilled every nasty detail. It was mutually agreed that Damien was persona non grata until further notice. Our kids were relieved because they didn’t particularly enjoy watching him pee all over the place while barking the f-word at them.
But two days later my husband went to get my son from our friend’s house and there Damien was, enjoying a dance party in the basement with the kids. It appears that we have a different definition of “until further notice” than our friends do. Damian promised to not use bad words or violate recycling bins, so they relented and let him join in the fun.
My question is this: do we buckle and let our son play with this little turd or do we hold our ground?
Don't get too close or he'll hawk a loogie in your eye.
The Serb’s Travel Diary
Published September 15, 2011 | The Serb is currently in Europe on “bidniz” (as he refers to it), staying in an apartment for the week.* The following story, transcribed by moi, is too good not to share. Enjoy.
–
This place is beautiful. From the window of my bedroom I can see a castle and a little grocery store on the corner where I bought supplies (Editor’s note: he means beer), but not much else. My first night here I walked up the street to the only restaurant in sight and had a slice of the most revolting pizza ever made (Editor’s note: You are not in Italy. Have something local. Hint: Schnitzel).
The next day I drove around looking for other restaurants or some stores (Editor’s note: The kids are expecting five presents. Each.) and ended up driving for thirty minutes. I found a village that looked like something from a postcard. There were a bunch of stores and cafes, so I did some shopping and had a decent meal before getting in my car and driving back to the apartment.
A few hours later I needed some water and walked to the grocery store, only this time I decided to go around the corner, past the store. That’s when I saw it: a village just like the one I’d driven half an hour to reach earlier in the day. It had similar stores and restaurants—and I felt like an idiot for driving so long when this was literally around the corner from my apartment.
I decided to check the toy store and when I walked through the door I saw the same sales clerk who’d helped me earlier that day…in the other village.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. “You own this store, too?”
She stared at me, not understanding, and then it hit me—I was in the same store. I had driven over an hour to visit a village that was a three-minute walk from my apartment.
(Editor’s note: I asked the Serb, “What did you do then?” His reply: “What else could I do? I ditched the toy store, bought some beer, came back here and called you.”)**
–
* As opposed to an apartment for the weak; that would be sad.
**It should be noted that the Serb is usually a stud (not dud) with directions, which is why this story is all sorts of awesome.
19 CommentsA Respite from the Funny
Published September 12, 2011 | I spent yesterday as I have every September 11th for the past 10 years: mourning the loss of people I’ve never met and a country I rarely visit. When the Serb left Canada for Europe on Saturday night, it wasn’t particularly noteworthy until I looked at a calendar: he was going to be flying into one of the world’s busiest airports on 9/11. This wouldn’t have mattered ten years and two days ago, but yesterday it did matter.
Long story short, the Serb is perfectly fine—he’s likely swimming in a vat of lager as I write this—but I didn’t sleep until he sent me a text once he’d landed. Thinking of how our world has changed since the 9/11 attacks frightens and saddens me; it also pisses me off.
Every year on September 11th I will listen to the roll call of the deceased. I will lose myself in the images and stories. I will never forget where I was when the towers fell. But rather than wallowing in anger, I will focus on the good stuff in my life; of which there is an embarrassing abundance:
- Health
- Love
It sounds so corny and clichéd, but honestly, people—if you have these things, you have it all.
The Art of War (aka Marriage)
Published September 8, 2011 | My friend is married to the king of all douche canoes.* She was recently venting to me about him over drinks and I could tell there was an expectation for me to join in with some bitching about my own husband. I couldn’t really think of anything and kept my trap shut while nodding my head in sympathy. I drove home thinking how lucky I was to have the Serb. Then I decided there was room for improvement, after going for a midnight tinkle and being greeted with this:
My worst middle-of-the-night nightmare.
Don’t get me wrong, the Serb is nowhere near douche canoe territory; however, when I put my mind to it I was able to come up with a few areas of improvement:
Toilet Paper Trauma
While on the subject of toilet paper, it should be noted that the Serb will retrieve a new roll when it suits his needs, and yet it never seems to make it onto the roll holder thingy. If I don’t change the roll it will remain on the sink ledge until it’s also empty, only to be replaced with a new roll…on the ledge. One time I let the empty toilet paper rolls sit on the ledge to see how many would pile up before he replaced them. We ended up with a team of cardboard foosball players.
The proof is in the paper.
Booze Wars
We are fans of red wine; so much so that we bought wine glasses that resemble fish bowls. We can never agree on who is guzzling the most hooch. He insists that I’m matching him glass for glass, but it’s our perception of what constitutes “a glass” of wine that seems to differ:
Guess which one Boozy McDrunkerson poured?
Laundry Litter
Although the NBA won’t be scouting the Serb any time soon, when it comes to his aim, the dude’s got game. He was once a very highly regarded water polo player back in the old country, and water polo is basically basketball played in a pool. This is why it boggles my mind that a man who can throw a ball into a net while wearing a Speedo and treading water can’t manage to hit the laundry basket with his ginch as he walks into the bathroom.
So close, yet...not really.
Recycling as Art
The Serb and I are engaged in an epic battle of balance. Rather than walking to the garage to empty our recycling into the bigger bin, we pile up our containers and cans until our recycling bin looks like something from Tetris.
Saturday.
Tuesday.
Friday. (Don't judge my Coolwhip...the soup underneath was organic so it all evens out.)
Fridge Blindness/Deafness
The Serb loves asking me to find him things in the fridge after insisting he’s already looked, without success. This, my friends, is bullsh*t. Usually, he hasn’t even set foot in the kitchen, or else he’s opened the fridge, glanced briefly at the top shelf, and then given up. Either way, it drives me bonkers because he often interrupts me when I’m doing something important. Like Tweeting.
"Where's that leftover Spanikopita? I don't see it."
"Yes, I checked behind the hummus! It's not there!"
"Whatever. It must've been way in the back."
"Really?"
Another classic is when he leaves empty milk in the fridge. Our milk comes in clear plastic bags, so there’s no excuse for not seeing that only 2 tablespoons of milk remain (yes, I measured and yes, I realize that this entire thing says more about me than him).
*Don’t worry, [insert every friend’s name here], I didn’t mean you.
39 CommentsMortifying Moments of Moi
Published September 5, 2011 | If I wasn’t so old that I no longer give a crap, I would live in a near-constant state of embarrassment. I’m not talking about when your four-year-old daughter announces to the waiting room at the doctor’s office that she’s there to pee in a cup because her vagina is broken (#beenthere). I’m talking about those instances when I have been the mistress of my mortification. Here are some highlights:
Propositioned an Under-age Movie Theatre Concession Employee
I love licorice at the movies, but biting into a stale piece makes me stabby, so I’ll often check to make sure they’re squishy. I once approached a pimply-faced popcorn jockey and asked, “Excuse me, can I just give your nibs a squeeze to see if they’re fresh?”
Had I been a nubile sixteen-year-old, it might have made his day. Unfortunately, I was well into my thirties and likely wearing mom jeans, so I’m pretty sure I scarred him for life. I now stick to Rolos.
He kinda looked like this.
Threw My Undies at a Cop
All I’m gonna say about this one is that I’d been to a sleepover and when I was pulled over for speeding the following day, I reached into my bag for my wallet and pulled out some spare ginch instead. In a moment of nervous spazdom, I accidentally tossed it right in the officer’s face. I was let off with a warning, most likely to prevent me from having a seizure from the shame of it all. The moral of this story is, obviously, when stopped for speeding don’t forget to:
Auditioned for Mamma Mia
Back in my pre-mom-jeans days, I dabbled in acting. I took classes, did plays, had an agent and headshots—the works (and unless you enjoy safety training or student films, you haven’t seen me in anything). I heard about an open call for Mamma Mia and decided that it was time to unleash my talent on the world. I showed up and took my place in line behind 200 other hopefuls, waiting hours for my turn. The cranky casting dude made Simon Cowell look like my grandma and, only three lines into my song, I was shown the door. (For which I’m grateful, because seriously, can you imagine how brilliant an American Idol audition would’ve seemed to me back then?)
There but for the grace of God...
Pulled a When Harry Met Sally at the Hair Salon
I have a lot of thick, crazy hair. It’s also so grey (not sophisticated-silver-fox Anderson Cooper grey, either…it looks like cement) that I require monthly trips to the salon for colouring.
Getting my hair washed by a pro is like a religious experience for me because the average person has to dig for days to reach my scalp. A few years ago, I was so blissed out during a follicle massage that I actually moaned. Loudly and very inappropriately. I caught myself, but not before the shampoo girl and half the salon heard me. I tipped extra and changed salons.
What are some of your mortifying moments? I won’t tell…
When Teachers Make House Calls
Published September 1, 2011 | I know that I bust the wool-lined chops of my kids’ hippie school, but it’s done with the utmost affection. To outsiders it looks like my kids are spending all day gardening, playing in the woods and knitting, but somehow they’re also learning math, spelling and amazing life skills (for instance, teaching mommy how to garden and knit).
My four-year-old daughter is entering her second year of pre-school and before the semester begins her teacher has a home visit with every student. It’s meant to be an informal opportunity to see the child on his or her own turf, but as a parent it’s the most stressful day of the year.
You see, the school has certain expectations for younger kids in particular—excessive television/computer time is discouraged, as are mountains of plastic/electronic toys—and for the most part, I’ve been completely on board. There is a noticeable difference in both of my kids when we limit their TV and two years ago I donated a dozen garbage bags of toys that they have yet to miss.
But then it happened: summer vacation. Two days in, I was going crazy. Four days in, I was negotiating reading practice for TV time with my son. Two months in, as I write this, I can hear them watching cartoons downstairs, as they shoot their plastic guns, with nary a book in sight. All of my best hippie-inspired intentions have gone down the crapper.
Yesterday afternoon when my daughter’s teacher showed up for our home visit, this is what she found:
1) Me, with my ass up in the air as I frantically swept crumbs from under the table.
2) My son, shoving his cache of weapons under his bed.
3) My daughter, proudly showing off her bedroom. Specifically, the airline blanket from our recent trip that she now uses as a bedspread, as well as the Barbie Party Bus stuffed with naked Barbies and one terrified-looking Ken.
We then sat down to discuss our respective summers until my daughter hijacked the conversation to summarize the cartoons and movies she had watched over the past few weeks.
After exhausting that list, my daughter began imitating her brother (who’d been imitating the Serb the other night) by running in circles yelling, “Fuggit!” (pronounced with a very hard G) in lieu of fuhgeddaboudit.
This was followed by a ten-minute soliloquy about her fabulous Puh-see, and since I’m fairly certain that this teacher has never read my blog, she had no way of knowing that Puh-see is how my daughter pronounces Percy, a little green train that is the bane of my existence.
We finished off the visit with my daughter introducing the teacher to a stuffed pig that—for some unknown reason*—she named Honky.
Thankfully, my daughter’s teacher is one of the exceedingly cool (or is it groovy?) hippies. She once told me that she would only believe half of what our kid told her if we would do the same.
As of yesterday, I’m going to need that deal in writing.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you...Honky. (the real one is currently being held captive in my daughter's death grip)
*We do not watch, nor do we emulate, sitcoms from the 70s. I’m hoping thinking it’s because she goes around honking its nose.
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