The Fancy Pants Restaurant Rebuttal
Published January 16, 2012 | After sharing my disastrous dining experience with you last week, many people urged me to immediately reveal the name of the Fancy Pants Restaurant that done me wrong. I resisted—not because I’m a classy dame who takes the high road, but because I was hoping for some restitution in the form of a free meal.
The day after I sent that letter (minus the subtext), I received the following reply:
Hi Lori,
This email just came to my attention. I apologize sincerely for the unsatisfactory dinner experience you had at my restaurant. Please provide me with detail as to the date you had dined here, who your waiter was (if you do not know the name, please describe him or her), and also who had paid for the dinner. I will get the situation straightened out and follow up with you with a personal phone call!
Best,
Ms. Fancy Pants Restaurant Owner
Obviously I was thrilled with such a prompt and promising response. Then I realized I would have to speak to her, which I wasn’t so keen to do. My best work is done with a laptop as my buffer. Talking often leads to inadvertent Canadian politeness that could diminish the impact of my grievances.
Thankfully the Serb saved the day by pissing me off (who needs 9 jackets in the hall closet?!?) right before the owner called me and I had an appropriate edge to my voice. The owner kindly offered a complimentary meal for me and a guest on a night of my choosing—all I would need to do is phone in advance and speak to the manager.
I hung up quite pleased with myself; a feeling that lasted for all of three minutes, until I began imagining how it would feel to show up at the Fancy Pants Restaurant with every employee knowing that I had complained. What if someone spits in my soup? Or wipes my fork in their armpit? Or worse?*
Herein lies my conundrum: do I risk the wrath of wait staff for a free meal? What do you think? Should I walk in there with my head held high and demand some decent food without the attitude, or should I take the apology as my prize and forget about the meal? I know I’ve done a lot more for a lot less in my time…
*The Serb has worked at FPRs all over the world and he assures me that yes, worse things could easily happen.
Sweet Jeezuz, I am screwed.
43 CommentsRu Paul is My Co-Pilot
Published August 29, 2011 | As a teenager I was told that makeup, like youth, was wasted on the young. I took that advice and stuck with my Bonne Bell Lip Smacker throughout high school, eventually stepping up my game in university to incorporate mascara. As a result, I’ve never learned how to properly apply makeup. This is fine if you’re a teenager, or Amish. For a suburban woman in her forties, however, it’s a bit of a disaster.
I’m now at that age where makeup is more of a help than a hindrance, yet every time I apply more than the bare minimum* I end up looking like a drag queen on a budget. I’ve sat in countless department store makeup chairs over the years—taking copious notes and buying mountains of crap—as the Monets of MAC treat my face like their canvas. When I attempt to replicate the process, what should look like this…
…invariably ends up looking more like this:
I was married on a beach wearing only lip gloss for makeup, yet this fact isn’t as noticeable when juxtaposed against the stunning scenery and (once the rain came) my transparent dress.
Did I mention that youth is wasted on the young?
Since then the only opportunities I’ve had to get my glam on have been acting-related. Community theatre requires actors to do their own makeup, the heavier the better, and this is where I both excel and fail in equal measure. While everything may appear fine under harsh lighting, it’s a different story offstage—which is where I can usually be found, looking like this:
Is it a play or a Christmas party? Even the Serb couldn’t remember…
I have a couple of friends who can’t wait to sit me down for a makeup lesson and I’ve decided to go for it—learning about eye shadow can’t be harder than my recent garden makeover, especially since I’m currently using a trowel to do both.
OMG: did you totally start humming
*In addition to loose powder and mascara, I slap on some lipstick (and there is a direct correlation between the brightness of shade and fanciness of occasion).
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 CommentsWho’s the Real Dope Here?
Published May 12, 2011 | The plan held so much promise: order tickets for a documentary film at Toronto’s Hot Docs Festival; book a babysitter; enjoy some time in the big city before the movie and grab a drink afterwards.
The only movies that the Serb and I have seen in a theatre since having kids involve 3D glasses and Tylenol, so we were pumped. As often happens when we attempt to recapture our wanton youth in the big city, every move we made quickly took a turn for the ridiculous.
Order tickets
I learned that most of the films we wanted to see were sold out with the exception of a Saturday matinee. In a panic, I bought the tickets without confirming our babysitter’s availability, reasoning that 15-year-old girls would have nothing better to do on a weekend afternoon than go to the park with my kids.
Book a babysitter
For two days I searched in vain for someone to watch my kids, but apparently they have a lot going on these days. I briefly considered soliciting teenage girls outside the 7-11 by my house, but just writing about it feels dirty. Finally a mom at my kids’ school gave me the number of someone studying education who worked in a daycare centre. Credentials aside, she had what I needed: some free time on Saturday afternoon.
Enjoy some time in the big city
Whenever we begin the thirty-minute drive into Toronto from our suburban sprawl, my husband and I wonder why we ever left such a funky, vibrant city. By the time we reach downtown, the Serb is invariably cursing at everyone in his wake while I dig around the glove compartment looking for my flask. On this particular day, however, a bong would’ve been more appropriate.
Traffic was at a complete standstill. Police officers had closed the main streets leading from the downtown core to some nearby government buildings and traffic was being diverted. It. Was. Mayhem.
The Serb: "I just wanna go home!"
Pedestrians were moving faster than cars, so I hopped out and walked a few blocks (through a throng of slow-poke pot-smokers) until I reached the festival box office. Inside the building I learned the cause of the big commotion: the Serb and I had inadvertently stumbled right in the middle of the annual Global Marijuana March.
One woman's spliff is another woman's huge pain in the ass trying to cross the street.
If we didn’t have a babysitter on the clock and pre-paid movie tickets, the Serb and I may have joined in the festivities. God knows we could’ve used it.
Maybe next time, sailor...
Grab a drink
We finally made it to the movie theatre and settled in to enjoy the show. I’d told our babysitter that it likely wouldn’t last more than an hour and to expect us home by five o’clock. As the final credits rolled I realized it was almost five-thirty. We got up to leave and quickly sat back down. Our seats were in the middle of theatre and the director was preparing for a Q&A session. Nobody was going anywhere.
Thankfully, the weed warriors were sleeping it off by the time we left the theatre. I called our babysitter to let her know we were on our way and also ask what she charged per hour (did I mention I was desperate when I booked her?).
She didn’t seem to mind that we were running late, and why would she: her rate was thirteen cash-in-hand dollars an hour (we usually pay eight to ten), which made her better paid than most nurses.
Instead of a drink, we should’ve grabbed a gun to rob a bank in order to pay our babysitter the ninety bucks we owed her when we finally arrived home.
I called my grandma that night to tell her about our very expensive date. My birthday is coming up and she asked me if this was an early present.
That’s when the Serb leaned over and said, “It is now.”
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