The Joke is (on) Me
Published November 28, 2011 | 4yo daughter: I wanna have a baby brother.
The Serb: Sounds good to me.
8yo son: Looks like it’s time for you to get sexy again, mommy.
8yo son: Mommy! Why are that teenager’s pants so low? You can see his underwear!
Me: Because he’s a goofball.
Him: But that lady is following him and she can see everything!
Me: She’s more than a block behind him.
Him: I hope she’s carrying pepper spray.
4yo daughter: Mommy, did you marry daddy because you fell in love?
Me: Yes.
Her: What about your other husbands? Did you love them too?
Me: I wasn’t married before daddy.
Her (with a frustrated exhale): Fine. Whatever. Your next husbands after daddy. Will you love them?
Me: Erm…
The Serb: Aren’t you done that book yet?
Me: Not yet. Let me read in peace.
The Serb: Do you realize that you’re an over-reader? [NOTE: say that last word out loud a few times.]
Me: Not cool, Serb. Not cool.
4yo daughter: Mommy! You look so beautiful in that red coat!
Me: Thank you, sweetie. It’s new.
Her: Yes, just like a big, red tomato.
Me (muttering): Where’s that #*&% receipt?
Me: It’s too quiet up there—what are you two doing?
Them: Getting married!
Me: What does that mean?
Her: I put on a fancy dress…
Him: We do some dancing…
Her: Then I smack him in the head with my doll…
4yo daughter (dropping her doll): Oh sh*t.
Me: You’re saying that wrong, sweetie. It’s pronounced shoot.
Her: Okay, mommy. Oh sh*t shoot.
Me: When L comes to visit, you’ll sleep with me and daddy so she can sleep in your bed.
8yo son: No way. She can sleep with you and daddy.
Me: That would be crowded. And weird. Can you imagine if I went to Calgary and had to sleep with L and her husband?
Him: What’s the problem? Will they be having…sexy moments?
Family Portrait.
Tales from a Swim Meet: aka Where Civility Goes to Die
Published November 24, 2011 | Our family is not one for competitive sports. We don’t do hockey, soccer or baseball, preferring more solitary activities such as rock climbing, horseback riding or water-sliding.
My eight-year-old son recently joined a swim club and on the weekend he attended his first meet. I believe that our expectations for our kid—remembering to put on goggles before his race, staying in his lane and making it out alive—were realistic. We were in the minority.
To say some of these parents were intensely enthusiastic is an understatement. To say more than a few were bona fide nut jobs is getting closer. One woman, who was the size of a Hobbit, spent two hours yelling “FAAASSSSSTAAAAR!!!!!” every time her petrified tween entered the water. She sounded kind of like this (times a thousand):
There was a young boy competing who had an eight-pack. He was no more than ten-years-old and from the viewing stands I could see his muscle definition. The Serb and I were equal parts mesmerized and horrified. This kid was out of the pool collecting his ribbon before most kids reached the half-way mark. Between races, he simply stood by himself, flexing. He was in dire need of a cookie.
“See how that kid is standing?” asked the Serb. The boy was gripping his arms behind his back, flexing his abs and delts. “He’s posing. Someone taught him how to do that.”
The Serb played water polo in his homeland at a very high level and was familiar with posturing tactics. (There’s only so much intimidating one can do in a Speedo.) I couldn’t tell if the boy was posing, but I was certain he got a power bar or similar in lieu of Halloween candy.
Like this, but in a Speedo.
As I waited for the Serb and my son outside the locker room, one of the fathers approached me.
“How did your boy do?” he asked.
“OmigodIwasincrediblyproudofhimhedidsogreat!” I gushed. I really was bursting with pride. My son is a sensitive, quirky kid who has never been a fan of crowds nor competition. The fact that he was with a hundred kids he didn’t know and then stood on those starting blocks in front of all of them and their parents and dove into the water and swam as hard as he could to the other end without drowning? That. Was. Amazing.
“That’s nice,” said the father. “Mine didn’t do so good—he didn’t get better than fourth in any of his heats.”
“Oh, I have no idea how he placed in any of the races,” I answered. I only knew he wasn’t first, nor was he last. I was too busy trying not to barf from the stress to worry about placings. “But that was such a scary thing for them to do, right?”
“Right. Of course,” he said, totally not getting it.
Mercifully, the fellas appeared just then, allowing me to ditch Debbie Downer and go smother my boy with kisses.
Another parent cornered the Serb and started spewing f-bombs about the disorganization and sub-par coaching, furious that his kid didn’t swim in every heat (it should be noted that his child could’ve used water wings for the races he did manage to finish).
The Serb and I gave each other our patented “get me the F*** outta here” look and we headed for the restaurant of my son’s choice to celebrate his stellar efforts with some—what else?—seafood.
That's a Nova Scotia lobster, baby. (Mounting a baked potato, apparently.)
The Fingers of a 50-Year-Old Farmer
Published November 21, 2011 | My best pal, L, recently flew here for a cupcake binge visit. Having known each other since we were 13-years-old, we’ve experienced the good (cafeteria fries), the bad (double headgear) and the ugly (cream soda and gin).
Although L and I have both changed a fair bit—sayonara rugby pants with leg warmers—there has been one constant throughout our relationship: L’s crazy-ass nails. You only have to meet my pal once to realize that she’s not the sweet-little-French-manicure type. L has talons, y’all.
She is who you want in your corner should you find yourself in an old-school catfight. Or with a hard-to-reach mosquito bite. L’s nails have always been shellacked with vibrant, rich colours that match her personality. She can pull off Serious Jewelry because her hands are a beautiful showcase for all that glitters.
This brings us to my meaty mitts.
I have many fine attributes, but my fingers are not on the list (what I can do with them is another matter entirely…ba dum bum). There are a couple of reasons my fingers look the way they do:
1) I bit my nails as a kid and now they’re too weak to grow very long.
2) One finger is permanently crooked from writing with HB2 pencils as a kid (I suppose the equivalent for today’s kids would be…texting calluses?)
As a result, rather than the elegantly tapered digits of my BFF that end in perfectly formed tips, I have a raging case of Jimmy Dean Sausage fingers (or cevapi fingers, in Serbie-parlance).
Are these delightful digits mine...?
Or perhaps these graceful (& tasty!) little morsels...?
Did the crooked middle finger give it away?
L was trying to convince me that I should invest in some gel nails; however I think it’s a lost cause. One of my nails once grew freakishly long (i.e. past my fingertip) and in the course of one day I put a run in my daughter’s tights, poked my son in the eye and couldn’t use my iPhone.
I will have to settle for cute pedicures because my toes are adorable. Except for that freaky baby toe…
16 CommentsTo Catch a Pervert: The Trial
Published November 17, 2011 | Despite having polished off three (Serb-sized) glasses of wine at dinner, my husband insisted on accompanying me to the police station where I would complete my statement against Mr. Creep.
I think the Serb was expecting a gritty building that overflowed with drug dealers, hookers and Detective Sipowicz doppelgangers. In reality, it looked more like a library. Unimpressed, the Serb settled into a club chair to read pamphlets covering such hot topics as littering and reducing the cost of home heating.
Two burly, football-player-looking detectives interviewed me for over an hour. I wasn’t told much about the incident, except that it had been thwarted by quick-thinking lifeguards (#yayteenagers).
We went over my statement from the pool, which I realized was erring on the side of hyperbole (i.e. THIS MAN IS OBVIOUSLY A PEDOPHILE AND SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED NEAR CHILDREN!!!!!) but I reminded them that I was trying to persuade the pool manager at the time, not prosecute a pedophile.
Afterwards, one of the detectives walked me back to the lobby, where my husband was passed out dozing in a chair. The Serb stood up, approached the detective and shook his hand.
“I just want to thank you for everything you do,” my husband said. “And I hope you get this guy and—” The Serb leaned towards the detective. I expected a platitude along the lines of “put him away for good” or similar.
“I hope you beat the shit outta him.”
The detective’s eyes widened and I wondered briefly if I’d need bail money. Then he burst out laughing. “Unfortunately, we can’t do that, sir, but it doesn’t mean we don’t want to.”
It took six months for the case to go to trial. Six months of nightmares featuring Mr. Creep’s vile face leering at children. Six months of Google searches looking for his name. Six months of contemplating if I could blitz his neighbourhood with “This Man is a Pedophile” posters without getting caught.
During the 90-minute drive to the courthouse I was on the verge of tears and nausea. I was met by the prosecutor—she was the Doogie Howser of D.A.s and didn’t look old enough to babysit, let alone battle pedophiles—who did a wonderful job putting me at ease and walking me through the process.
She encouraged me to answer honestly and not worry if I couldn’t remember something. I was also warned that Mr. Creepy would be in the room, and it would be a small room, likely with some friends or family, but she would also do her best to block him from my view so as not to distract me from the questioning.
The detectives who took my statement were also there and they mentioned that Mr. Creep would look different without his pompadour toupee (he’d obviously realized it made him memorable), and that witnesses had given varying estimates as to his age (I suspected he was in his early 40s).
I was asked to wait in the courthouse coffee shop until I was called to the stand. I didn’t open my book or laptop. I simply stared at nothing, willing myself not to puke when faced with the monster that had been haunting my dreams.
Finally, it was my turn. The detective brought me to the room and again cautioned me that it would be cramped and Mr. Creep was there with his supporters. I entered a space no bigger than my garage (note: I have a single-car garage). I stepped up to the witness box—it really was just like TV, only more cramped and more real—and swore to tell the truth on a bible. I sat down and focused solely on the prosecutor, convinced that I would start bawling if I saw Mr. Creep.
The prosecutor calmly and efficiently walked me through the events of six months prior. I read my statement aloud. She thanked me for my time and sat down as the defence attorney prepared to cross-examine me.
And that’s when I saw him.
He was sitting on a bench with family members surrounding him. He did not look like Chris Isaak at all. He looked like a balding, pathetic Steve Buscemi in a twenty-dollar suit. Was this the same man? Could this frail, little old man be the same monster I’d lived with for half a year?
The defence attorney was at a podium that did not block my view of Mr. Creep. My heart was beating in my throat as I tried to focus on the attorney’s questions.
Was I an expert in identifying sexual deviance? What made me so sure his client was allegedly looking at children? How could I state that a stranger was “obviously a pedophile?” Where was I positioned in relation to his client? What colour was the pool flotation device that his client allegedly had in his possession? Was I not distracted by the waves or my own child? Did I wear contact lenses? Was my prescription current?
I might have loathed the attorney more than I did Mr. Creep. “How can you defend people like this?” I wanted to scream. Instead I answered his questions with a shaky voice, trying desperately not to cry, furious that he was making me doubt myself.
Near the end I managed to say that in certain cases a parent’s intuition is more accurate than any psychology degree (“so suck it” was my subtext), but I still felt that I had failed. I left the stand in tatters. The detective walked me out and assured me that I’d done my job perfectly and not to worry about having compromised the case. Then he filled me in on some details he couldn’t share prior to my testimony.
Mr. Creep was in his mid-60s and lived at home with his parents. Police had confiscated his computer, which was filled with child pornography. He was currently on probation, prohibited from owning a computer or going near children, and they were watching him closely. With or without the ridiculous hair, Mr. Creep was a monster.
Sitting in my car, I finally let myself have a good, long cry. I drove home and hugged my babies a little tighter. I tried to put the case out of my mind, but obviously I could not.
A month later I received a call from the detective. There would be no trial (did I mention this was only a pre-trial and I’d been expecting to repeat the entire mess?!?). Mr. Creep had been caught in a Wal-mart parking lot downloading child pornography onto his new computer. He was immediately arrested and given a sentence of 18 months without parole. His name was entered in a database of registered sex offenders. It was over.
But as we all know, especially this week, it’s never really over.
**The ha ha will resume next Monday—mama’s having a hard time with the news this week**
To Catch a Pervert
Published November 14, 2011 | Like many parents, the Serb and I are complete wusses when it comes to anything involving children in peril. We’ve also become extremely wary—some would say paranoid, but I say better safe than sorry—when it comes to leaving our kids alone with, well, anyone. As far as I’m concerned, my job is to view people as potential pedophiles until they show me otherwise.
The events of a few years ago prove my point.
My mom was visiting just after my daughter was born and we capitalized on the trustworthy babysitting by taking our then five-year-old son to a wave pool.* It was a long weekend in May and the pool was packed with families. Within minutes of entering the water, the Serb and I both spotted him—a creepy-looking dude with a crazy pompadour that reminded me of Chris Isaak if Chris Isaak had been a meth addict.
We immediately steered our little flotilla of flutter boards away from him, but we kept a wary eye on Mr. Creep. He was there by himself, moving through the water like a shark searching for prey, which, it turns out, he was. He hovered behind groups of young children who were flopped on pool floats, just staring at them like they were lunch.
Parents, especially mothers, have a sixth sense when it comes to perverts. We don’t always listen to it, but certain people give off a malicious vibe that cannot—and should not—be ignored. The Serb was on high alert, ready to bust out some aquatic Krav Maga moves if Mr. Creep lingered too long near the kids. We noticed a lifeguard staring at him just as intently and knew that we weren’t alone in our suspicions.
Soon enough, my son had to pee and we left the pool for the washroom (I realize that he was likely the only child who has ever done this). While I was waiting on the pool deck near a lifeguard, one of his colleagues rushed towards us.
“Did you see him?” she asked, breathless. “I think it’s the same guy, but I can’t be sure.”
“We’re watching him,” the lifeguard replied.
I couldn’t help myself. I leaned over and asked, “Are you talking about the perv with the Elvis hair?”
“Yes!” they replied in unison.
The lifeguards informed me that Mr. Creep had been frequenting their pool for weeks. Always alone. Always during the family swim. Always lurking near the children. I was told that he couldn’t be prevented from entering the pool unless he was caught doing something inappropriate or other patrons complained. Five minutes later I’d completed a formal written complaint.
We left the pool shortly thereafter, our day ruined. As we turned out of the parking lot, a police cruiser pulled up to the pool entrance. We knew the cops weren’t there for Mr. Creep because the lifeguards had told me that the manager would be informed of my complaint when he was in the following day. We hoped that the police presence would act as a deterrent for Mr. Creep if nothing else.
That night we were enjoying a beautiful roast beef meal prepared by my mom when the phone rang. It was the police. Mr. Creep had been arrested that afternoon “following an incident with a young girl.” I was asked to come to the station immediately to prepare a statement, based on my complaint. I almost threw up.
To Be Continued…
*You have to understand, the Serb and I go bonkers for waterslides and wave pools (we used to skip work to hit the slides…before we had kids).
Lori Dyan Does New York
Published November 10, 2011 | Wednesday
7:00 a.m. – 1:30 p.m.
Drive to train station in the ‘burbs. Take train to Toronto. Take shuttle bus to ferry. Take three-minute ferry to airport terminal. Take plane to Newark. Take Air Train to train station. Take different train to Penn Station. Walk three blocks to apartment building. Climb five flights of stairs in ill-fitting boots to apartment.
1:31 p.m.
Exhale
1:32 p.m.
Host hands me roll of toilet paper to bring on trips to the shared bathroom and reminds me to bring keys to the can. Have flashbacks to wild hostel adventures in Australia during my 20s and make note to buy ear plugs.
1:35 p.m.
Host departs and I investigate bathroom situation.
1:36 p.m.
Vow to use wet wipes in lieu of shower and limit toilet time to Radisson where conference is being held.
2:00 p.m.
Explore Chelsea. Make note to buy Band-Aids for impending blisters. Quickly adopt posture of locals (walk quickly and look straight ahead, yet through everybody) to avoid engaging the crazies/pervs in conversation.
2:30 p.m.
Use iPhone GPS to guide me via subway to SOHO for exercise class at Physique 57—the DVDs are life (and ass) altering, and I’ve come to the mothership.
2:40 p.m.
Receive text from cell phone carrier alerting me to sixty dollars in roaming charges, despite travel plan. Curse Google Maps and turn phone off.
2:50 p.m.
Feel kinship with the Amish as I navigate New York without electronic assistance. Find exercise studio after asking three different people for directions.
3:30 p.m.
Enter carpeted exercise studio and meet instructor who resembles movie star playing the part of instructor. All other participants are anorexicish model/dancer-types. Feck.
4:30 p.m.
Collapse on the carpet, twitching in a pool of my own sweat.
6:30 p.m.
After limping through SoHo to buy presents for kids (sorry, Serb, only a simple NYPD t-shirt for you) and enjoying a stir fry dinner that had me moaning inappropriately, get on 6 train back to Penn Station.
6:35 p.m.
Realize I should be on C train. Am headed to Queens. Feck.
6:38 p.m.
Cindy from Queens gets me on the right track, literally. #ilovenewyorkers
7:00 p.m.
Arrive back at walk-in closet apartment after stopping to buy flat boots. Neighbour is singing karaoke, by himself, loudly.
7:30 p.m.
Talk to family via Skype. Kids demonstrate their pining for mommy by sticking feet up to camera and asking me to smell them.
8:30 p.m.
Walk to Upright Citizen’s Brigade for stand-up show featuring writers of Conan. Meet lovely girls in line who hold my spot while I search for tolerable washroom. #success!
11:00 p.m.
Go to bed.
4:30 a.m.
Fall asleep.
5:45 a.m.
Wake up.
Thursday-Friday
Attend kick-ass, life-altering writing conference. Meet swoon-worthy agents and sister-from-another-mister writers. Learn. Write. Repeat.
My swanky flight crew. Pan Am meets Mad Men.
The dream store for an eight-year-old boy.
I almost bought this for the Serb, but I don't want to encourage him.
Feel. The. Burn.
I Need Lipo. For My Head.
Published November 7, 2011 | Last week I was in New York for the bad-ass Backspace writer’s conference (you can read about all of my non-writer plans here), where connecting with agents and writerly peeps was my priority.
Yet I was also in New York pursuing the object of my obsession, something that has eluded me for years—my white whale, if you will. For twenty years I have searched in vain for a hat that fits my massive melon.*
Whenever I don a sharp chapeau, I look like Laurel (or is it Hardy? Whatever. Neither of their hats fit…). For example:
Me, not getting a new hat for the NY trip.
Growing up in Calgary, I was always assured of two occasions where I could rock a hat: the Stampede (a cowboy hat, for 10 days) and winter (a toque, for 6 months). Neither option offered much when it came to attracting the fellas.
I went to London years ago and sought out Princess Diana’s hat maker to see if there was hope for my enormous noggin, or if it was simply a profusion of lustrous hair covering a normal-sized head that kept me from being a hat model.
After measuring me with assorted millinery tools, he proclaimed—in the snootiest accent possible—“While it is true that you have a great deal of hair, underneath that is an extremely large head.”
Me, around the time of my London trip. I didn't stand a chance.
I probably should have funnelled my hat money into therapy at that point.
Alas, I am home now, and I am still living a hat-free life. I may be the only winter-sport-hating Canadian who is praying for winter, so I can get my toque on.
It's supposed to be in the Rastafarian style, as opposed to a cranial tea cozy.
*Not to be confused with melonS, which despite recent illusionary tactics that would suggest otherwise, remain on the petite side.
Fun Daddy is in Charge. What Could Possibly Go Wrong?
Published November 3, 2011 | Many years ago (2000 B.C. – aka Before Children) I had a job that involved a few business trips. Although they never lasted more than a week, preparing the Serb for my absence often took that long (highlighting takeout menus and stocking up on cereal, for example).
Now that we have kids, the Serb is infinitely more capable in the domestic arts; however he’s never been with both kids for more than one night while they’re in school and he’s working.* Until this week.
I’m currently in New York at a writer’s conference for three days and you’d think I’ve been deployed overseas for a year by the way my family is reacting, which can be summed up thusly:
Four-year-old daughter: “Mommy I will miss you so much. Please don’t go. Will you come back? Do you promise?”
Eight-year-old son: “How many presents will you bring me?”
Forty-year-old Serb: “I won’t see you for a week! What are we gonna eat?!?!”
Granted, this does make me feel somewhat appreciated (FYI, the son is getting socks), but the effort I’ve put into getting them ready has been monumental. Every moment of every day has been accounted for with directions, instructions and ministrations.
It should be noted that the Serb has a Tupperware phobia.
Does this make me a hyper, anal-retentive narcissist for thinking the world stops when I’m not around, or simply an astute—not to mention clairvoyant—household organizer?
Stay tuned…
* I don’t mean to leave the impression that my husband is clueless about child rearing—he’s very involved with his kids, home from work by 4pm and always focused completely (sometimes annoyingly) on them. It’s the day-to-day minutia that he’s not familiar with. He’s Fun Daddy and I’m Get Sh*t Done Mommy.
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