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...
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.
The Serb’s Travel Diary
Published September 15, 2011 | The Serb is currently in Europe on “bidniz” (as he refers to it), staying in an apartment for the week.* The following story, transcribed by moi, is too good not to share. Enjoy.
–
This place is beautiful. From the window of my bedroom I can see a castle and a little grocery store on the corner where I bought supplies (Editor’s note: he means beer), but not much else. My first night here I walked up the street to the only restaurant in sight and had a slice of the most revolting pizza ever made (Editor’s note: You are not in Italy. Have something local. Hint: Schnitzel).
The next day I drove around looking for other restaurants or some stores (Editor’s note: The kids are expecting five presents. Each.) and ended up driving for thirty minutes. I found a village that looked like something from a postcard. There were a bunch of stores and cafes, so I did some shopping and had a decent meal before getting in my car and driving back to the apartment.
A few hours later I needed some water and walked to the grocery store, only this time I decided to go around the corner, past the store. That’s when I saw it: a village just like the one I’d driven half an hour to reach earlier in the day. It had similar stores and restaurants—and I felt like an idiot for driving so long when this was literally around the corner from my apartment.
I decided to check the toy store and when I walked through the door I saw the same sales clerk who’d helped me earlier that day…in the other village.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. “You own this store, too?”
She stared at me, not understanding, and then it hit me—I was in the same store. I had driven over an hour to visit a village that was a three-minute walk from my apartment.
(Editor’s note: I asked the Serb, “What did you do then?” His reply: “What else could I do? I ditched the toy store, bought some beer, came back here and called you.”)**
–
* As opposed to an apartment for the weak; that would be sad.
**It should be noted that the Serb is usually a stud (not dud) with directions, which is why this story is all sorts of awesome.
19 CommentsMortifying Moments of Moi
Published September 5, 2011 | If I wasn’t so old that I no longer give a crap, I would live in a near-constant state of embarrassment. I’m not talking about when your four-year-old daughter announces to the waiting room at the doctor’s office that she’s there to pee in a cup because her vagina is broken (#beenthere). I’m talking about those instances when I have been the mistress of my mortification. Here are some highlights:
Propositioned an Under-age Movie Theatre Concession Employee
I love licorice at the movies, but biting into a stale piece makes me stabby, so I’ll often check to make sure they’re squishy. I once approached a pimply-faced popcorn jockey and asked, “Excuse me, can I just give your nibs a squeeze to see if they’re fresh?”
Had I been a nubile sixteen-year-old, it might have made his day. Unfortunately, I was well into my thirties and likely wearing mom jeans, so I’m pretty sure I scarred him for life. I now stick to Rolos.
He kinda looked like this.
Threw My Undies at a Cop
All I’m gonna say about this one is that I’d been to a sleepover and when I was pulled over for speeding the following day, I reached into my bag for my wallet and pulled out some spare ginch instead. In a moment of nervous spazdom, I accidentally tossed it right in the officer’s face. I was let off with a warning, most likely to prevent me from having a seizure from the shame of it all. The moral of this story is, obviously, when stopped for speeding don’t forget to:
Auditioned for Mamma Mia
Back in my pre-mom-jeans days, I dabbled in acting. I took classes, did plays, had an agent and headshots—the works (and unless you enjoy safety training or student films, you haven’t seen me in anything). I heard about an open call for Mamma Mia and decided that it was time to unleash my talent on the world. I showed up and took my place in line behind 200 other hopefuls, waiting hours for my turn. The cranky casting dude made Simon Cowell look like my grandma and, only three lines into my song, I was shown the door. (For which I’m grateful, because seriously, can you imagine how brilliant an American Idol audition would’ve seemed to me back then?)
There but for the grace of God...
Pulled a When Harry Met Sally at the Hair Salon
I have a lot of thick, crazy hair. It’s also so grey (not sophisticated-silver-fox Anderson Cooper grey, either…it looks like cement) that I require monthly trips to the salon for colouring.
Getting my hair washed by a pro is like a religious experience for me because the average person has to dig for days to reach my scalp. A few years ago, I was so blissed out during a follicle massage that I actually moaned. Loudly and very inappropriately. I caught myself, but not before the shampoo girl and half the salon heard me. I tipped extra and changed salons.
What are some of your mortifying moments? I won’t tell…
When Teachers Make House Calls
Published September 1, 2011 | I know that I bust the wool-lined chops of my kids’ hippie school, but it’s done with the utmost affection. To outsiders it looks like my kids are spending all day gardening, playing in the woods and knitting, but somehow they’re also learning math, spelling and amazing life skills (for instance, teaching mommy how to garden and knit).
My four-year-old daughter is entering her second year of pre-school and before the semester begins her teacher has a home visit with every student. It’s meant to be an informal opportunity to see the child on his or her own turf, but as a parent it’s the most stressful day of the year.
You see, the school has certain expectations for younger kids in particular—excessive television/computer time is discouraged, as are mountains of plastic/electronic toys—and for the most part, I’ve been completely on board. There is a noticeable difference in both of my kids when we limit their TV and two years ago I donated a dozen garbage bags of toys that they have yet to miss.
But then it happened: summer vacation. Two days in, I was going crazy. Four days in, I was negotiating reading practice for TV time with my son. Two months in, as I write this, I can hear them watching cartoons downstairs, as they shoot their plastic guns, with nary a book in sight. All of my best hippie-inspired intentions have gone down the crapper.
Yesterday afternoon when my daughter’s teacher showed up for our home visit, this is what she found:
1) Me, with my ass up in the air as I frantically swept crumbs from under the table.
2) My son, shoving his cache of weapons under his bed.
3) My daughter, proudly showing off her bedroom. Specifically, the airline blanket from our recent trip that she now uses as a bedspread, as well as the Barbie Party Bus stuffed with naked Barbies and one terrified-looking Ken.
We then sat down to discuss our respective summers until my daughter hijacked the conversation to summarize the cartoons and movies she had watched over the past few weeks.
After exhausting that list, my daughter began imitating her brother (who’d been imitating the Serb the other night) by running in circles yelling, “Fuggit!” (pronounced with a very hard G) in lieu of fuhgeddaboudit.
This was followed by a ten-minute soliloquy about her fabulous Puh-see, and since I’m fairly certain that this teacher has never read my blog, she had no way of knowing that Puh-see is how my daughter pronounces Percy, a little green train that is the bane of my existence.
We finished off the visit with my daughter introducing the teacher to a stuffed pig that—for some unknown reason*—she named Honky.
Thankfully, my daughter’s teacher is one of the exceedingly cool (or is it groovy?) hippies. She once told me that she would only believe half of what our kid told her if we would do the same.
As of yesterday, I’m going to need that deal in writing.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you...Honky. (the real one is currently being held captive in my daughter's death grip)
*We do not watch, nor do we emulate, sitcoms from the 70s. I’m hoping thinking it’s because she goes around honking its nose.
22 Comments
Cool Kid Central
Blog Design Goddess
