Karmic Cousins
Published February 27, 2012 | It started with French kissing, as things often do. My 8-year-old son advised me at dinner that before a man and woman can make a baby they must spit in each other’s mouths. This is a kid who’s been quizzing me on birds, bees and badinahs since he was a toddler, therefore he should know better.
Since my son’s BFF was the bearer of this news, it was accepted as fact. BFF can do no wrong in my son’s eyes—they’ve been inseparable since the first grade, refer to each other as “brother” and have alternating 8-hour play dates every weekend. BFF’s mom, A, has become a close friend of mine and even the husbands get along, so it’s an ideal situation for all concerned.
I emailed A regarding her son’s precociousness vis-à-vis the sexual arts, and then forwarded the email to my mom, sister and 89-year-old Grandma. The next day my Grandma called enquiring about A’s parents, whom I’ve met on numerous occasions—were they living in Brampton? (Not sure.) Were their names Joan and Mike? (I’ve only called them Mr. and Mrs. W.) Had they ever lived in Winnipeg? (Say huh?) Were they by chance vacationing in Hilton Head at this very moment? (Put the bottle away, granny.)
Now, as a Canadian, there are few things more clichéd than someone who assumes that, because I live in Toronto, I also know Sue from Winnipeg. Apparently it’s a cliché for a reason.
It turns out A’s parents lived in Winnipeg when my family did. And my Grandpa worked with A’s father for years. And A’s parents were guests at my parent’s wedding. And after my parents moved to Calgary and A’s family left for Vancouver, my Grandma and A’s parents kept in touch. And yes, A’s parents were in Hilton Head last week, a fact shared with my Grandma in their annual Christmas letter to her. And now, 40 years later, their spawn were best friends in the same grade at a school in central Ontario with less than 200 students.
We were all shocked, to say the least.
My Grandma said, “It warms my heart to know that their grandson is in the life of my great-grandson, because they are two of the most wonderful people I have ever known.”
My son asked, “Does this mean BFF and I are officially related?!?”
The Serb asked, “Did you set our kid straight on the spit thing?”
Just like this, but with boys. And less singing.
Bikini Boot Camp Blues
Published February 20, 2012 | I recently joined an exercise studio that offers holistic therapies, organic cooking lessons and a variety of classes, including Pilates, meditation, twelve kinds of yoga, spinning and strength training. I’ve been sticking with hot yoga (literally and figuratively…booyah!), mainly because I’ll never understand the point of Pilates, meditation always turns into a nap and my lady parts are still recovering from the one spin class I did in January.
When my friend, M, suggested we check out their boot camp class, I figured it would be kind of like the studio—peaceful, encouraging and almost spiritual. I was very, very wrong. (Very.)
Our first mistake was not reading the warning description of the class:
This high-intensity workout combines plyometric interval training and strength training. Everyone should bring a towel, water, workout gloves and a mat for abs. Also, it is not a workout that should be done on an empty stomach. A small healthy meal (like Greek yogurt and berries or a protein shake) should be eaten 1 hour before this workout.
I once read that plyometrics (“explosive” exercises like jump squats) shouldn’t be attempted by women who’ve had babies because their pelvic floors might not be strong enough and, long story short, they could pee themselves on impact.
Let me be clear: I have birthed a ten-pounder. My pelvic floor ain’t what it used to be. Thankfully there were no impact issues in the class, but if I’d known that what I was doing was plyometrics, and that the impact risk was there, I totally would’ve faked incontinence and bailed from the class.
Our second blunder was not bolting from the class as soon as we saw our instructor:
Her name is Magda. She is a former Miss Universe. Her goal is to make you feel pain. And nausea.
There were only three of us in the class. I had nowhere to hide. We did lunges, sit-ups, burpees, push-ups and planks. That was our warm-up. The rest of the class was a gasping, sweaty blur and I can’t remember most of the exercises. I suspect the experience was repressed, similar to childbirth or bikini waxes.
For three days after the class I was constantly reminded of Magda’s boot camp, mostly because I couldn’t stand up from a chair (or toilet) without assistance.
I’ve determined that if my exercise regime requires digestive preparation and more than two pieces of workout gear, it is not the class for me. Also, I shall no longer exercise if I cannot do it barefoot.
The Day the Serb Almost Expired
Published February 13, 2012 | The Serb was in pain. It was, according to him, the kind of excruciating, tormenting, soul-sucking agony that I—who had birthed a ten-pounder with only half an epidural—couldn’t possibly understand.
Here are snippets of his ordeal, in his words:
I had to reach deep to make it through.
All I kept thinking was, save me from the light.
This would’ve killed a lesser man.
It was by far my darkest hour.*
All feeling in my fingers was lost—that’s when the fear really set in.
I started wondering if I could get voice activation on my computer to compensate for no hands.
I didn’t think I was gonna regain my functions.
Then I was thinking, who will drive us home?
Winter would be more fun if I didn’t have to worry about my heart stopping.
Can a jaw freeze shut? Because I’m pretty sure mine was frozen.
Stop laughing.
In case you haven’t figured it out (and really, how could you, based on the above declarations?), the Serb had been tobogganing.** With our kids. For 38 minutes.
*Please keep in mind that this man escaped a war-torn country.
**That’s Canadian for “sledding.”
This was taken on the weekend, -4 Celsius/25 Fahrenheit. Not exactly Donner Party material...
In the Cards
Published February 6, 2012 | “Tarot 911,” I recited, “where dreams are told and wishes realized. This is Desiree, what is your question today?” I spoke slowly, the better to rack up precious minutes and fill my quota.
“Um, hi,” a young woman’s voice breathed in my ear. “I have a question? About a guy?”
I automatically flipped to the red tab (‘romance’) in my “consultant” binder and started shuffling a deck of playing cards near my mouthpiece.
“Okay,” I said, scanning the page before me. “The two of hearts has come up, indicating a new relationship.” I paused. “Or perhaps one that recently ended…”
My binder had been provided by the owners, a couple from New Jersey with sketchy morals and questionable credentials (as if one could even have credentials in such a venture).
The caller jumped in where I’d left off, just like she was supposed to. “Yes! I’ve just started seeing David…”
My heart clenched like it always did when I heard that name. Why couldn’t I have married a Denzel, or a Sigmund?
“I’m wondering if he’s The One.” She was still babbling, just like they all did, eager to provide all of the necessary information required to get the answers that they craved. “We actually met when he was still married… so he doesn’t want to jump into something serious. But he’s been separated for, like, months.”
My headset suddenly felt too tight, my cubicle too constricting. “His, err, wife…”
“Ex-wife,” she interrupted.
“Right. Whatever. I’m, uh, sensing her name begins with an…M?”
“Yes!” she exclaimed. “It’s Melanie! And she’s a total nut job, too. She’s, like, practically a stalker.”
“Really?” My tongue was like sandpaper against my teeth. I took a quick sip of my Big Gulp. “The cards show him to be rather tall, with dark hair…” It was time to stop messing around. “…and it looks like he works with animals.”
“OMIGOD!” she bellowed into my ear. “That’s amazing! How did you see…?”
“It’s all in the cards,” I answered in a stronger voice. “He’s coming through very clearly.”
So clearly I could punch him — if it wasn’t for that douche bag, I wouldn’t be here. I didn’t even get to keep the damn cat.
“So, um, what was your name again?” I inquired.
“It’s Sherene.”
Of course it is.
“Well, Sherene,” I said, as visions of payback danced in my head. “I have good news and I have bad news.”
“Oh no,” she moaned. “I knew he was too good to be true.”
“You’re half right,” I assured her. “There is some negative energy in your relationship house that’s preventing true bliss with Dr. Dave, but the cards are showing me how you can release it.”
“I’ll do anything,” she pleaded.
Like taking candy from a baby, I thought, closing the binder and leaning back in my chair. Or, in his case, dignity from a dumbass.
An hour later, Sherene had a lengthy to-do list and I’d doubled my quota for the day.
“I think I’ve got everything,” she said. “I’ll put it on eBay as soon as I get off the phone with you.”
“Perfect,” I answered. “And remember: he might be upset at first, but all those big boy toys — the Wii, the diving equipment — are just cluttering his psychic house. He’ll be muchbetter off without them.”
Just like I’m better off without him, I thought, finally believing it.
She exhaled loudly. “Thank you, Desiree. I feel so much better after talking to you.”
“The feeling is mutual, Sherene.”
We said our goodbyes and I was about to hang up when I was struck by a final, inspiring thought.
“One more thing,” I added. “Make sure his ex gets the cat.”
This is not me (my ball is bigger).
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