Two Realsies and a Whopper
Published May 9, 2012 | Do you ever wonder what your kids really think of you? Are you dying to know their latest little white lie? If so, then I have the perfect game for you.
The rules are simple: state two true things about yourself (realsies) and one falsehood (whopper). The other person must discern the whopper from the realsies.
My eight-year-old son uses this game as an opportunity to confess his sins:
Him: “Ready, mommy?”
Me: “Yep.”
Him: “Number one: I once ate three large pizzas at once.”
Note: He has never eaten 3 large pizzas at once.
Him: “Number two: I was a rodeo cowboy.”
Note: He has never been to a rodeo.
Him: “Number three:”—deep breath—”I needed some of your goopy make-up to make experiments in the garage and spilled it all over the place.”
That little bugger.
My four-year-old daughter’s approach is more straightforward:
Her: “Number one: I was a mermaid. Second: I was a princess. Last: I was a princess who can turn into a mermaid.”
Not only has this game been useful in determining my kids’ latest obsessions (and transgressions), there’s been an added benefit of knowing what they really think of their mommy:
Me: “Number one: When I was a kid, we had 2 hamsters, 2 cats, 2 dogs, some fish and a lizard in our house. Number two: Daddy and I got married barefoot on the beach. Number three: I rode a rollercoaster naked.”
My son: “The animal one is the whopper. Definitely.”
My daughter: “Married is a whopper.”
Me: “You guys seriously think I would go on a rollercoaster naked?”
My son: “It’s a lot of animals for one house, mommy.”
My daughter: “You’re not married, are you?!?”
So. To recap: I’ll spend this Mother’s Day warmed by the thought that my kids think I’m a pervert.*
C’mon, spill it—what are your two realsies and a whopper?
*Note: They’re right of course, but not for the reasons they suspect.
Don't get me started on how unsanitary that seat would be...
Mala Madre
Published March 28, 2012 | You know those moments when you think, I should really call so-and-so, and then so-and-so calls you? The Serb and I are always doing that. Usually it’s about picking up a bottle of wine (me) or needing a sandwich (him).
During a trip to Mexico last week, this clairvoyant connection may have saved my daughter’s life.
My husband is a stickler for showing up an hour earlier than necessary when we fly. This may or may not be a result of me once causing us to miss a flight after assuring him I could get us to the airport in 20 minutes or less (note: we live 40 minutes from the airport).
My internal alarm clock went off at 3:00 a.m. the day we left and I spent two hours in my basement reading Autocorrect Fail and waiting for my family to wake up. We arrived at the airport well in advance of our 8:00 a.m. flight only to learn that fog had left one runway operational at Canada’s busiest airport. As a result, our flight was delayed and we would miss our connecting flight.*
At this point, my body was ready for lunch.
Seven hours later, we arrived at our Mexican hacienda with one suitcase missing. Luckily, I’d divided our clothes amongst the suitcases, ensuring that all four of us would have an assortment of clothing should our luggage be delayed. Unfortunately, my share of the “assortment” consisted of a skirt and half a bathing suit.
By the time I fell asleep in Mexico that first night, I’d been awake for 22 hours straight (which is fine for a teenager on Spring Break in Cabo, but sucks balls if you’re a 41-year-old mother with no clean undies).
The following morning I stayed behind waiting for the suitcase delivery with my daughter while my family and our friends traipsed to the swim-up bar at a hotel down the road. My four-year-old offered to keep me company, but her true intentions—playing Barbies with me as she deplored Ken’s overly gelled hair—soon became clear.
The last thing I remember is Malibu Barbie and Metrosexual Ken using my stomach as a bouncy castle. The next thing I knew, the Serb was shaking me awake, talking so fast I thought he’d lapsed into his native tongue.
While at the pool, he’d been gripped by an urgent need to check on us at the house. Telling our friends to watch our son, the Serb had sprinted barefoot up a gravel-strewn road—where he found me passed out on the bed with a Barbie in each hand and our 4-year-old daughter chatting with the maintenance workers along the street in front of our house.
The trip had nowhere to go but up.
*I know—First World Problems…which could be the title for this blog if it wasn’t already taken…
I don't know what I'm holding, but I'm sure it was delicious.
16 CommentsBeing Called a Whore was the Highlight of My Night
Published March 5, 2012 | I’ve recently discovered a talent and passion for throwing parties using other people’s money. My kids’ school held a Mardi Gras event this past weekend and I was asked to organize the festivities. The theme was Wear What You Dare, a chef lit bananas on fire (not a euphemism) and yours truly provided Tarot card readings for the masses. From a party-planning perspective, the evening was a triumph. On a personal level, not so much.
The night began with my eight-year-old son walking in on me getting dressed. He took one horrified look and ran from the room screaming, “THE HORROR!” (With his JFK-style inflection, it sounded more like “THE WHORE!” Either way, it was not my finest moment.)
I was due at the venue an hour before guests arrived, so the Serb stayed behind to get our kids settled when the babysitter, A, showed up. We hadn’t seen A. in over six months—a testament to our laziness when it comes to date night—and I’d found her phone number scribbled on the back of my 2010 tax return. After reminding A who we were, she had agreed to babysit.
People showed up that night in amazing costumes (feather false eyelashes!), the dance floor was packed and my Tarot card readings were a huge success. Being a devotee of all things woo woo, it should come as no surprise that I read Tarot. I learned about the cards from a white witch (as one does) over 20 years ago and have been reading friends, families and strangers ever since. The teachers and parents at the school had no clue about my Wiccan ways, but they were keen—I had a line-up all night.
I drove home afterwards feeling very impressed with myself; I had just pulled off a substantial shindig that people were sure to talk about for years to come. I was the kick-ass mom who could manage it all: event planning; taking care of the family; freelance writing…was there anything I couldn’t do?
Walking into the house, A came up from the basement to greet us. My mouth dropped open in surprise. This was not the girl I thought I’d called to babysit. I wasn’t sure who this was standing before me. The Serb seemed to know her and she appeared to recognize me, so I committed to the “fake it ‘til you make it” credo and acted like I knew her.
We got in the car and I asked her to remind me the fastest way to her house. Her response is what clued me in: the A I thought I’d called was the daughter of my friend’s co-worker, who charged seven dollars an hour. The girl in my car was also named A, but we hadn’t spoken in almost two years. Plus, she charged ten dollars an hour.
Snippets of our earlier phone conversation came back to haunt me:
Me (assuming I’m talking to a 14-year-old who’s on a ski team): How have the slopes been?
A (responding as the 16-year-old non-skier that she is): Ummm…
Me (see above): Say hi to your mom for me.
A (ditto): Okaaaaay.
After processing what had transpired, I took the whole incident as a sign: I should strongly consider a career in event planning/Tarot card reading; and I should leave the Serb at home with the kids.
I am a bohemian gypsy fortune teller. The Serb is a Hugo Boss model in a borrowed mask.
I texted this pic of my sassy, sparkly nails to a friend and she replied, "Are those fingers?" #jimmydeansausagefingers
20 CommentsThe 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...
ER Trauma or Sitcom Fodder? You be the Judge.*
Published January 12, 2012 | Last weekend I had to take my son to the ER because of a headache that had him screaming in pain (diagnosis: stress headache. Even hippie school students feel the pressure!). We live in a suburb with one hospital, which is located on a tree-lined street surrounded by century homes. It’s not exactly County General from ER, is my point.
And yet, as we bustled into the waiting room, we found this playing on the television at three o’clock in the afternoon:
The final scene of Scarface. Unedited. Full Volume.
I was mortified. My eight-year-old gun-loving son was utterly delighted. The Serb was unfazed. He pointed out that when it comes to our family and ER weirdness, this was to be expected. Then, as we tried to distract our son from Tony Montana’s demise, the Serb reminded me of two classic ER visits:
Brain Leaking From Nose:
When my daughter was two-years-old, she approached me crying and pointing to her face. She was swollen from her eye to her chin on one side. She wailed and thrashed when I tried to touch her and, being the sensible mother that I am, I immediately assumed a tumour in her brain had burst and then I started freaking out.
I think I drove her to the hospital because we ended up in our car in the ER parking lot, but I have no memory of the trip because my daughter’s nose had started leaking a thick, green-red mucous at an alarming rate. We were immediately triaged and told that it wouldn’t be a long wait.
I clutched my daughter to me in the waiting room with a cloth over her nose to catch the gunk until her thundering sobs had subsided to pathetic whimpers. I slowly removed the cloth and there it was, sticking out of her nostril: a purple Light Bright piece. I don’t think I even told the nurse I was leaving.
Weirdly Wedged Foreign Objects:
I’ve documented exactly how I get so sexy for the Serb in the past, and part of that ritual involves sticking Kleenex up my nose when it’s allergy season (or cold and flu season, so basically every night).
One night I woke up with a start. Something was lodged in my sinus cavity, similar to when a piece of carrot gets stuck up there (or is that only me?). I spent the rest of the night getting kicked by my husband while I made disgusting snarfing sounds with my throat, trying to loosen whatever was stuck in my head.
In the morning I realized that one of my Kleenex wads nose plugs was missing. A quick Google search (“Kleenex stuck in nose”) confirmed my suspicions: a tissue stuck in my head would definitely fester and lead to death unless action was taken to remove it.
First I dragged my family to a walk-in clinic where a doctor poked and prodded my proboscis before declaring me clear of foreign objects. I didn’t believe him. The Serb went home with the kids (rolling his eyes the whole way) while I hauled my clogged cookies to the ER. I may have exaggerated my discomfort slightly to the doctor there and he ordered an X-ray to get to the bottom of things. He peered at me over the folder holding the results.
“Before I tell you the findings, do you promise not to stick Kleenex up your nose?” he asked.
“I promise,” I answered.
“Good,” he replied. “We see a lot of things stuck in a lot of places, but there’s nothing in your sinus cavity that shouldn’t be there.”
By this point I was feeling a lot better. Like, perfectly fine. I thanked the doctor and left before he realized that my family stuck crap up their noses and signed me up for a TLC show, like that one where they eat diapers.
I should probably invest in one of these.
*This post is dedicated to my sister the nurse, who puts up with my frantic phone calls concerning the likelihood of brains leaking from one’s nose. (Answer: Not likely. But also not impossible.)
Hell is spelled S-C-R-A-P-B-O-O-K-I-N-G
Published January 4, 2012 | In 2012 I am resolving to get my memories in order. I’ve had this resolution for six years and although there are a few I’ve had even longer than that, this is the only one I’m willing to admit in a public forum. I figure if I put it out on the interwebs for all to read, there’s a chance I might follow through this time.
Before “scrapbook” was a verb, I was making killer photo albums. I’m a compulsive picture taker and keepsake keeper, which resulted in a lovely chronicling of my wanton and hedonistic youth. My wedding album is work of art, as is the recording of our move to Toronto, and my first pregnancy. Then I had a kid and it all went down the toilet.
I love marking the special occasions in their lives, but I’m the absolute worst and preserving them. The last image I put in a photo album was from my son’s second birthday. He is now almost nine. My four-year-old daughter is missing completely.
When you combine my love of mementos with my attention span (roughly that of a Muppet), you’re left with a 76-litre (that’s, like, 837 gallons) Tupperware storage bin crammed with crumpled arts and crafts (facilitated by someone else, obviously) that likely wouldn’t even make the scrapbook edit.
This failure to part with garbage stuff pertains to all areas of my life. The 837-gallon rubber tote is simply the most glaring example. I have a stash of MAC lip gloss that I ordered in a panic five years ago after the colour was discontinued. Did it matter that I was pushing the limits of lip gloss chemistry when I bought enough to take me into 2020? Apparently not.
I’m consoled by, and resigned to, the fact that I come by this trait genetically. My eighty-six-year-old grandma has been known to keep salad dressing and ketchup years past their expiration dates. Although we’re dealing with condiments versus cosmetics and crafts, the motivation to hang on to them remains the same: we have plans for them. We just haven’t gotten around to figuring out what they are yet.
Look out, 2012. You’re about to be de-Tupperfied.
R.I.P. Lustrebloom Lip Gloss, I'll miss you even though you made my lips tingle in a bad way when I used you.
Finger Lickin’ Fail
Published December 19, 2011 | I’ve been having what could be described as a run of bad luck in the kitchen department (unless you’re the Serb, who describes it as a run of trying to kill him with my cooking).
As with many things in my life, I blame the internet: it’s full of websites purporting so-easy-a-monkey-could-make-it recipes, all of them accompanied by saliva-inducing photographs that look so yummy they might as well be scratch and sniff.
These websites make a sucker out of people like me.
Thursday was Easy Bake Chicken Parmesan. The picture, ingredient list and number of steps made it seem like a no-brainer:
Chicken, sauce, cheese and croutons...what could possibly go wrong?
The results looked somewhat like this:
That red stuff ain't sauce, y'all....
The notable exception? While the cheesy-crouton topping was crispy verging on burnt, the chicken underneath was raw. While the Serb was upstairs with the kids I scrambled to fix my fiasco, but alas, the microwave was no match for my culinary catastrophe and promptly overheated, leaving me to haul ass to Dominos for some restitution with extra pepperoni.
The following night I was heading out with the Restless Writers for dinner so I planned a delicious-looking sweet-and-spicy chicken crockpot recipe for my family:
Five ingredients in a crockpot...how hard can that be?
An hour before I was due to leave, the Serb had gone to pick up the kids from school and I sent the following tweet:
Forgive me Twitter, for I have sinned...
I attempted to salvage the meal by dousing the chicken in sweet-and-sour sauce and throwing it in the oven. The results were, to put it mildly, revolting:
This looks like what you pull out of a chicken before you roast it.
The Serb walked in the door, inhaled once and asked, “Are you improvising dinner again?”
My kids were less restrained.
“What’s that disgusting smell?” asked one.
“It smells like toilet,” said the other.
“What’s plan B?” asked the Serb, mouth-breathing like his life depended on it.
Plan B (aka my third attempt at dinner that day) was frozen fish sticks along with the wilted broccoli and mushy rice I reclaimed from the chicken disaster. My family gobbled their meal and even asked for seconds. You might think I’d recaptured my cooking mojo. You would be wrong. It was the ketchup, and a lot of it.
Clench When You Sneeze (& other advice for new moms)
Published December 12, 2011 | My friend is due to have her first baby any moment now and it got me thinking about when my I had my son, and all of the things I wish I’d known back then. And so, without further ado, here is the definitive* list of things you should know before you have a baby.
You won’t get a medal for having a natural delivery. C-sections and truckloads of drugs are just as commendable as squatting in a field under a full moon without so much as an Advil. You’ve grown a frigging person inside of your stomach—that is the impressive part.
Your first poop after delivery will have you thinking you’re in labour all over again.
You will feel stupid. For example, spending 15 minutes search for the car keys that are in your hand. Some people refer to this as Dummy Mummy Syndrome. It is a real thing (last night my son told me that his favourite thing about me was how I’m always telling him to do stuff and then forget all about it).
You will be haunted by teenage plights, such as backne.
You may pee up to 15 seconds before you plan to start. On a similar note, crossing your legs and clenching before you sneeze would be…wise.
You will overcome your greatest fears, like crafts (am I right, Leanne?).
You will have no shame when it comes to nudity and bodily functions, which may coalesce in one glorious cluster f**k when your kid opens the bathroom stall door as you’re peeing in a mall bathroom on the Saturday before Christmas.
You will have a sympathetic appreciation for the mother of that kid freaking out on a plane/at the mall/in a restaurant or any other public place, because last week that mother was you.
You will sound like your mother—not the good parts, but the ones you swore you’d never repeat to your child/ren. Last weekend I threatened to pull over and leave my kids on the curb if either of them said another word. We were on a six-lane freeway. I meant every word.
*Okay, so I may have missed a few…I blame Dummy Mummy Syndrome…leave your contributions in the comments!
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 CommentsI 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.
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