Bringing Halloween to Australia, One Slutty Belly Dancer at a Time
Published October 31, 2011 | I spent a year drinking my way travelling through Australia in my early 20s and during this time I became aware of many interesting customs. For example, did you know that a fried egg or beet (aka beetroot) on a hamburger is the norm? What about cantaloupe being called rock melon? Or mall Santas wearing Bermuda shorts? All kooky and all true.
The thing that amazed me the most was discovering the Aussies reaction to Halloween, which was basically: meh. The Europeans had a similar disdain for this great tradition of children gorging on candy as adults booze it up while dressed like idiots. Obviously, something had to be done to rectify this grave injustice. (Note: Did you see what I did there with the ghoulish pun? I was made for Halloween!)
I was working at a small backpacker’s resort in Airlie Beach (a beach town on the edge of the Great Barrier Reef and exactly as fantastic as it sounds) with a bunch of other Canadians* who were just as keen to introduce a proper Halloween to our pals.
We convinced the resort manager that a Halloween extravaganza was in order and once he understood that it was just another party, we were allowed to move forward with our plan. First step: costumes. Prizes would be awarded for best dressed in the form of bar tabs, so the competition was instantly fierce.
My travel bud and I went in search of something we could wear together. Everyone else was getting in groups to plan top-secret, themed costumes…it was all very Bourne Identity meets Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. Airlie Beach in the early 90s had one main street of shops with nary a Wal-mart in sight and nobody was selling costumes. We would have to get creative.
It was a rope strung with jingly bells that determined our theme. All we needed after that was some sheer fabric and sports bras, and we were set:
Comfiest costume ever.
Our fellow Canucks (along with a token Yank) were equally resourceful:
The little piggy on the far right grew up to be Sara at http://www.urbanmoms.ca/diy/
And the Aussies did us proud with their efforts:
The two hot nuns bookending them are Canadian.
As did the British:
He enjoyed himself a little too much...
But it was the Swedes—those nudity-loving, bikini-top-eschewing Swedes—who really raised the bar:
Guess who won with her interpretation of Eve?
We decorated the bar with cut outs of black cats and bats, and in lieu of pumpkins (some people hadn’t heard of them…and yet they put beetroot on a burger…) we carved acorn squash and zucchinis. Everyone agreed that October without Halloween was like a backpacker without birth control: something essential was missing.
I have no idea if the resort repeated Halloween the following year (we left shortly after Christmas to avoid arrest see the rest of the country) but it remains the best Halloween party I’ve ever attended.
Happy Halloween Everyone!
*You know who you are and don’t worry, you won’t be named…I’ll wait for the “How I Spent Christmas in Australia” post for that…
For Sale: House from Hell
Published October 27, 2011 | I found a home listing that looked great on paper: four bedrooms, a pool and hot tub, finished basement, modern décor, a fantastic neighbourhood…what could possibly be wrong with it? <Cue evil cackle>
The exterior was completely normal looking, although when you got closer there was an homage to the Jetsons going on, with lots of stainless steel curves and a futuristic feel.
The interior was a fusion of suburban Blair Witch Project meets American Psycho.
The house felt cold and clinical. It wasn’t just vacant in terms of people; this place lacked a soul. I’m all about the woo woo so obviously I was freaking out, but my logical Serb could feel the nasty mojo seeping through the floors, too. Even the realtor was freaked out.
The metal staircase leading to some barbed-wire "art."
The home was in disarray: bedding was hanging off the beds askew; litter was scattered throughout the rooms; and the pool area looked like it needed to be hosed down.
Although there was an absence of photographs or other signs of lives being lived, we did find this:
A centrepiece of safety pins.
And the counters—even those in the bathrooms—were made of poured concrete and looked like sidewalks:
Photos do not do the weirdness justice.
At first I tried to give the owners the benefit of the doubt: sure, a metallic sidewalk house wasn’t my cup of tea, but I could appreciate their strong sense of aesthetic vision. Then we went downstairs and things got real.
This dude met us at the bottom of the stairs.
The basement was empty aside from a vanity table and chair plunked in the middle of the barren space. The mirror was cracked as though something had been thrown at it. This sparse display was the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen. We (okay…I) almost ran up the stairs screaming, but not before I took a picture.
Hello, my pretty...
As we left, I noticed a scale set at the front door. Was it to weigh the porn stars as they arrived for a day of shooting in the pool area? Maybe making sure victims would provide an ample enough skin suit? Perhaps the swingers have weight restrictions? Or would the owner simply not leave the house if s/he didn’t hit a certain number? Whatever the case, it didn’t help with the freak factor.
Needless to say, no offers were made that day.
In the Serb’s words: "Leave real estate to the professionals and don’t quit your semi-part-time day job." Noted.
When Being Bendy is a Bad Thing
Published October 24, 2011 | I’ve been a klutz my entire life. The Serb is constantly amazed by my ability to fall on my face while standing perfectly still (and relatively sober). I also have a tendency to throw my back out while performing random tasks, such as reaching across the counter for a paper towel.
During a recent chiropractic appointment, I casually mentioned that my hip makes a weird popping sound and can click out of its socket. My chiropractor asked if I possessed any other peculiar skills, so I showed her the following party tricks:
Handsy in a weird way.
This could be why it took almost 30 years to find a husband.
And why I had to go foreign.
I always knew I was double-jointed, but that day the chiropractor gave my uber-dexterity a proper designation: Benign Joint Hypermobility Syndrome. In other words, I’m double-jointed everywhere. According to her, my ligaments make Gumby look like the Tin Man and I totally missed my calling as an Olympic gymnast.
If I were in porn or Cirque du Soleil, being this flexible would be a huge bonus. As a mom in the ‘burbs, it’s a total drag. There’s the aforementioned clumsiness due to loose ankle ligaments. Ditto the back spasms, thanks to a overly supple spine (not as sexy as it sounds). My favourite workouts include running, swimming and yoga, yet I’m easily sidelined with wonky knees, shoulders and wrists.
Fortunately, my chiropractor treats a lot of dancers and other athletes with injuries, and she has a plan to rebuild me. Just like the Bionic Woman, only bendier.
In Defence of the ‘Burbs
Published October 20, 2011 | When the Serb knocked me up with our son nine years ago, we were renting a house in a funky, up-and-coming area of Toronto. We woke up on Christmas morning (I was four months pregnant) to find crime scene tape wrapped around our neighbour’s house like a macabre Yuletide offering.
Apparently, the home was a grow-op and the partners had a difference of opinion; one they had settled with weapons. To a pregnant woman in the throes of nesting, the whole murder-next-door thing didn’t sit well.
Finding used condoms in the gutter near my bus stop further emphasised that we weren’t the trend-setter types who can see potential in a dump and swoop in to restore everything to its former glory. We are, in fact, more than happy to be followers—those who move in once everything is fixed up and prices are at a premium.
Suddenly, the uniformity of suburban living, something we’d eschewed for years, was looking more appealing—especially with murder and street jizz being the alternative. I was raised in the ‘burbs, so it was practically hard-wired into my DNA to seek out cookie-cutter houses with big, safe yards and no prophylactics in the street. We moved two months before my son was born and although it wasn’t terribly exotic or exciting, it was home.
Almost nine years later, we’re once again looking to move. We told our realtor that privacy was our main priority (as well as an in-law suite…with a separate entrance), because right now we have none and I’m sick of psycho neighbours being all up in my business.
She showed us some secluded acreages and didn’t even flinch when I nixed them all. My reason: nobody could hear me scream way out there if some nutbar attacked me (that and the whole septic tank situation, because the Serb and I have no idea what a septic tank is, but it sounds dirty…and not in a good way).
Tomorrow we head out for round two. We’ve asked to see newer houses in older areas that give the illusion of privacy with a sense of community. Oh, and a pool would be amazing. And big trees. With no fixer-upping required. A pimped-out kitchen, for sure. And a home office. But no bungalows. With a finished basement. And wrap-around porch. Or big deck. Don’t forget the in-law suite (did I mention separate entrance?). And when I say “move-in ready,” I mean not even needing to change a light bulb. Finally, we’d like it to cost only about 20% more than our current house.
I’m sure our realtor is dreading it.
Imagine the nightmare requirements this guy gave his realtor.
The Great Chi Chi Experiment
Published October 17, 2011 | I’ve written in the past about my rack—or rather, my attempts to promote the appearance of a rack. This preoccupation is nothing new: I grew up diligently performing the bust-enhancing exercises detailed in Judy Blume’s Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. When those didn’t work, I resorted to some clandestine bra stuffing, with mixed (not to mention uneven) results.
There was a brief moment when I was pregnant that my buds became bazooms; however it coincided with the worst bout of morning sickness ever reported and only lasted about two weeks before my stomach overtook them. While I know that I possess many fine attributes, my chesticle region has been low on the list.
Until now.
Thanks to innovations in the undergarment industry my knockers are experiencing a renaissance of sorts. I don’t know the technical term, but when you put water and gel and padding together with some wire, the results are…impressive.
I have one bra that I refer to as my boob-job bra. It hoists everything into place and, if I deploy the extra clip located mid-strap in the back, there is jiggling and jostling when I walk, the likes of which has never been seen on my parts.
When I wear it, the Serb is speechless. And a bit handsy. I bought three more when they went on sale recently and chucked all of my underachieving brassieres in the trash. This means I’m packin’ heat on everything from school runs to emptying the dishwasher.
Crisp autumn weather has compelled me to keep the girls under wraps, but two weeks ago saw the return of summer temperatures and scoop-neck t-shirts, so I decided to flaunt my fun bags.
Throughout the day, my husband referred to me as “B.B” (as in “Big Boobs”) and spoke of my chest in the third person—i.e. when we went for a hike, he asked, “Are they coming with us?”
Driving to the hiking spot, we were stopped for speeding. Although I neither cried nor threw my panties at the cop, I’m confident that he reduced our ticket because of the eyeful I gave him as I leaned across the Serb to hand over our registration.
Serbs and cops weren’t the only ones giving me preferential treatment, but this elevated status of my mammaries was interesting for about five minutes. After that I became seriously self-conscious, not to mention creeped out, from the blatant leering.
I’m certainly not going to ditch my boob-job bras; however I will be more discerning when it comes to that mid-strap back clip—that thing is dangerous.
When I wear this...
The Serb gets like this:
Crap In My Pocket
Published October 13, 2011 | Last year I wrote about crap in my bag after I pulled a mason jar from my purse. I recently had a similar experience when I reached into the pocket of my fleece jacket and whipped out a sea shell (note: we do not live near the sea).
Further investigation revealed a treasure trove of non sequiturs:
1. Pirate eye patch. So I can role play with the Serb prepare for Halloween.
2. Angel card from the woo woo place, offering me a meditation on “truth,” which is timely considering that I’m the mother of a pathological liar.
3. The aforementioned sea shell. Did I mention we live in the middle of Canada?
4. The lid of my son’s ant farm. Yes, that’s right: the lid.
5. Miniature cupcake wrapper from the cupcake boutique that opened across the street from my gym.
6. Dental floss to erase all evidence of said cupcake from my teeth (erasing it from my ass is what the gym is for…it’s a vicious circle, really…).
7. Luigi from Cars, because my pink-dress-wearing, fart-joke-telling, car-and-train-obsessed daughter is an enigma.
8. A game piece, because you never know when a Snakes & Ladders’ death match will break out.
9. A rock that my son promised not to use as a weapon.
10. Halloween candy wrapper, to help me get in the spirit of the season (or something).
11. Band-Aid wrapper, because my son lies more than my daughter (see #9).
12. Nail clippers, ‘cuz nothing says “classy broad” like clipping your nails in public.
13. Proof that I am a mother: tissues in various stages of decomposition.
14. An almond, to counteract the guilt effects of #5 and #10.
15. A two dollar Euro coin, because I’m an international woman of mystery.
16. Barrettes for my daughter, who is currently running around school looking feral with her semi-dreadlocks.
17. Mitten clip, because it’s like summer outside and I don’t need it. In two months I will find sunscreen in my pocket during a blizzard.
18. Dora, to placate my daughter when she smells chocolate and cupcake on my breath after I pick her up from school (note: it never works).
The scariest part? This all came from one pocket.
27 CommentsHow Not to Kill Your Husband for the Insurance
Published October 10, 2011 | The Serb was nervous. He was flying to Europe for a week and had it in his mind that the trip would end in a fiery mass of twisted steel if he didn’t get some life insurance, pronto. It fell to me (his de facto secretary) to arrange it.
I spent an hour on the phone with an agent, answering questions and crunching numbers. It was quickly determined that I, the unemployed one, am not worth much if I kick the bucket prematurely.
My husband is another story—if he went to the big schnitzel house in the sky, I would be loaded. When the insurance dude brought up the amount, my inherent elegance and class came shining through. Below is a transcript of our conversation that is, I swear, verbatim.
Me: Let’s look at insurance just for my husband, since my numbers are so puny.
Dude: Of course. The quote for your husband is [REDACTED] dollars.
Me: HOLY SH*T!
Dude: Erm…do you have any questions about the policy?
Me: You’re telling me that, if my husband dies, I get all that money?
Dude: Well, yes, with some exceptions…
Me: Sure—if he’s committing a crime that results in his death or if he kills himself, I get nothing. But otherwise I get it all, right?
Dude: That’s right.
Me: Even if he gets five different diseases, the money is mine?
Dude: Correct.
Me: So it doesn’t matter if he has a heart attack, gets hit by a bus, or someone kills him in his sleep…I’d still get that money?
Dude: Err…
Me: Is it possible for me to qualify for an even bigger payout?
Dude: I’ll need to speak with your husband before we go any further with this process.
When I giddily recounted this conversation to my husband, he replied, “You realize that it’s not like winning the lottery, right? I’d be dead.”
Needless to say, the Serb flew to Europe secure in the knowledge that we’d be okay if he had a heart attack after being hit by a bus following a stabbing. If he feels safe sleeping in his own bed at night is another matter entirely.
I may leave this on my night stand for kicks...
A Love Letter to My Dentist
Published October 6, 2011 | Dear Dentist of my Dreams,
I just wanted to take a moment and publicly thank you for the root canal last week. As you (and your receptionist, and fellow patients, and the lady waiting for the elevator) know, I am generally terrified of all things dental. I start to twitch just thinking about flossing, so I did not have high hopes for our date.
Little did I know that it would be such a treat! First of all, your waiting room selection of magazines is outstanding—O and Forbes for the highbrow, along with Star and In Touch for people like me.
Initially I was perturbed that you don’t offer a measly Xanax or at least some laughing gas to scaredy cats such as myself, but your suggestion of taking Gravol an hour before my appointment was, quite simply, genius. I also greatly appreciated the double dose of freezing (applied after a numbing topical gel!) in lieu of the cranial epidural I requested.
As I settled back in a glorious, Real Housewives-esque haze, your assistant fitted me with goggles, so as not to get gum guts in my eyes as I watched Anderson Cooper’s new show on my flat screen television (which was perfectly angled on the ceiling…your head didn’t get in the way once!).
Obviously, I am not the first person to freak the frick out when that drill turns on, and whoever suggested those noise-cancelling wireless headphones deserves a big raise.
And a dentist chair that massages? Are you kidding me?!? I was practically moaning with pleasure as you slaughtered my molar’s roots. It was better than the vibrating chair at my local spa!
Speaking of spas, when I joked afterwards that all I was missing was a pedicure, I didn’t expect you to take me seriously. Nor did I expect you to tell me that offering manis and pedis was considered, but ultimately discarded because ticklish patients could interfere with you doing your job. You know, as a dentist.
At first I didn’t believe that you also checked into providing Botox to patients, but after seeing what a sassy lady you are, and enjoying my experience in your office so thoroughly, I’m beginning to think anything is possible.
When I told you that my son wanted to be a dentist but was leaning towards SWAT team member, your sweet assistant put together a goody bag of gloves, masks, bibs and even the mirror-on-a-stick thing, so he could practice on his sister. This sweet gesture has been the gift that keeps on giving, as he stays busy while she stays quiet, and for that, words cannot convey my thanks.
In summary, I love you. Also, I am considering chipping my tooth on purpose just to get back in that chair.
Kindest regards,
Lori Dyan
It felt like this, but with a sink for spitting.
Pretty Little Liars
Published October 3, 2011 | Four-year-old children are a work in progress: there’s the wanton nose picking; lack of anything resembling a brain-to-mouth filter (“WHY IS THAT MAN SO FAT, MOMMY? IS HE PREGNANT?”); and midnight trips to the parental bed, along with the kicks to the crotch that go with that, are the norm. But the most off-putting trait of four-year-olds is their proficiency and proclivity for lying.
At the hippie nursery school, a new boy accidentally knocked my daughter over on the first day. Her teacher witnessed the entire thing and not a tear was shed by my daughter (which is a credit to her older brother’s roughhousing ways). Since then we have had the following conversation every day after school (Every. Day.):
Me: How was your day, sweetie?
Her: Charlie punched me in the face.
Me: Oh dear.
Her: Yes, he punched me like this [punches herself in the face] and no teacher was looking out for me and he never learned his lesson about punching kids in the face.
Me: Are you sure he punched you?
Her: Yes. Of course. I promise he did.
This is often followed by exchanges like this one:
Her: Guess what, mommy? The dentist told me I should have jelly beans and chocolate milk all the time.
Me: Really? Why don’t I call her to make sure? [Pick up phone]
Her: NO! She doesn’t want you to call her because she’s eating lunch right now.
Me [Speaking into phone]: Hello, dentist? Did you really tell my daughter to have jelly beans and chocolate milk? No? Okay, thank you.
Her: You called the wrong dentist.
Or this one:
Me (to her brother): Don’t forget your cello because today is your lesson at school.
Her: I have my cello lesson, too.
Me: Really?
Her: Yes. And gymnastics and soccer and karate.
Me: You don’t say…I can’t recall you in any lessons at the moment.
Her: Daddy takes me. I will also be dancing Swan Lake.
She isn’t simply exaggerating the truth for the sake of a good story (something I do for a living and fully endorse); she is brazenly trying to con me. When I think of boys and hormones thrown into the mix, I start to hyperventilate.
Her teacher insists that lying is a perfectly normal developmental milestone, indicating healthy creative growth. This is only mildly reassuring to me and I plan on sticking a lie detector in her stocking this Christmas, just in case.
I'll take one for each stocking, Santa.
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