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.
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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.”)**
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* 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 CommentsI Wanna Take My iPhone Behind the Middle School and Make it Pregnant
Published August 30, 2011 | I did a guest post over at The Suniverse about how I get lost crossing the frigging street. Read about my mortification here. But don’t stop with my post – everything on that blog is spit-water-on-your-keyboard-style funny.
Ru 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).
Revenge of the Slow, Fat Triathlete’s Comeback
Published August 22, 2011 | A couple of years ago I attempted my first triathlon, despite not owning a bike, having no clue how to swim and relying on my old-man-going-to-the-bathroom-in-the-middle-of-the-night shuffle in lieu of running.
After finishing the race I vowed to continue my training, which lasted until I got an ear infection that landed me in the hospital. This was followed by an infection in the other ear that haunted me for nine months. I had to avoid getting water in my ear for the duration of my condition, which meant taking a lot of baths and wearing earplugs at the hairdresser’s sink.
Although I was given the all-clear to swim in July, it wasn’t until this past weekend that I dared to don my bathing suit and attempt a few laps. At the peak of my training, my son’s swim coach had me powering through 1,800 metres (that’s 72 lengths of a standard YMCA pool, thankyouverymuch) in under an hour. I was like the Little Mermaid in a sea of Red Bull.
Alas, that was then. On Sunday I vowed to begin training in earnest. I dusted off my swim cap and bought fancy silicone earplugs the size of quarters. I shaved my legs (above the knee) to improve my aerodynamics in the water. I warned the Serb that I could be gone for a couple of hours if things went well.
Before I could test my aquatic mettle, I had to find the stupid pool which, despite having trained there for months, proved challenging. My non-sense of direction had me in the wrong parking lot and then the wrong building (who confuses a high school with a swimming pool? Um…me?).
I proceeded to narrowly escape being kicked off the premises when I moseyed into the change room via the pool deck (big no-no) and then badgered the lifeguard for a kickboard until he pointed to the stack beside me (the earplugs sealing off my hearing didn’t help—I had more silicone in there than Pamela Anderson has in her entire body).
The pool was blessedly empty aside from two uber-fit ladies in the adjacent lane, one of whom had Olympic rings discreetly tattooed on her ankle. This explained why I almost drowned in her impressive wake when she surged past me a few minutes later.
After 40 minutes of trying not to barf in the slow lane, I’d managed 600 metres; far less than my best effort, but in the words of the Serb, “At least you made it out of there alive.”
It wasn’t the most auspicious start, but it was a start. Tomorrow I plan to hit the pool before dawn: my bag is packed, the GPS is pre-loaded and I’m considering sleeping in my bathing suit. Why so early? Because my face needs a few hours to recover from the goggles/swim cap combination:
The Serb is one lucky dude, non?
Nobody said fitness was pretty.
Bunny & Buford: A Love Story
Published August 15, 2011 | It was a bleak Saturday afternoon many years ago. My brother-from-another-mother (we’ll call him Ho Boy) was despondent because the most recent lust of his life had jilted him. On his birthday.
I’d already bought tickets for us to attend Tony & Tina’s wedding* that night, but HB was not in the mood for a party. That’s how I knew things were bad: HB usually was the party. He was a former army engineer studying to be an ER doctor who served as a big brother to kids with special needs and acted in murder mysteries on the side.
We’d met in a university ballroom dance class and became fast (and platonic) friends. At our end-of-session shindig, we ditched the dancing to play darts in a pub across the street, where we proceeded to convince the patrons that we were brother-and-sister Latin dance champions with a background in porn. Obviously, this Tony & Tina thing was just what HB needed to wash that skank right outta his hair.
After a few hours of cajoling and a vat of wine, HB agreed to go with me to the “wedding” on one condition: we couldn’t just dress like the other guests in everyday wedding finery. We would have to wear costumes and improvise characters as though we were part of the show. I swallowed my wine, along with my dignity, and agreed to his terms.
Raiding my mom’s closest, I came up with a dress that would’ve made Rhoda Morgenstern proud and stuffed my bra enough to make Dolly Parton blush. HB threw together a few mismatched pieces, topped it with a cowboy hat, and we were good to go.
At the church, other guests nudged each other as we sauntered to our seats. HB greeted everyone like long-lost friends. For some unknown reason we adopted southern twangs, despite the Italian-New York backdrop. He introduced himself as Buford, a Zamboni** driver, and me as his wife, Bunny, a Mary Kay beauty consultant.
The cast didn’t know what to make of us but once they realized that we were there to enhance the guests’ experience rather than disrupt it, they brought us into the action. The night was a blur and a blast. As they say in the biz, we killed. Other audience members assumed we were part of the cast and by the end of it, we felt like we were, too.
Not only did I give HB one of his favourite birthday presents, he gave me the confidence to give acting a try—which led to me dancing on stage in fishnets less than a year later. And for that, dearest Ho Boy, the Serb thanks you.
*An interactive and improvised play where audience members “attend” a faux-Italian wedding.
**The ice tractor you see on the rink at hockey games. Why someone with an accent from Georgia would be driving a Zamboni, I do not know.
A match made in Value Village clearance bin Heaven.
It Ain’t Easy Being Amish
Published August 11, 2011 | Like Kim Kardashian and turtlenecks, technology and I do not mix.
I don’t get TIVO, literally or figuratively, but I use my VCR several times a week (fun fact: I still have The Bachelor’s Andrew Firestone proposing on one of my tapes). I had an answering machine until last year, when my phone company informed me I’d be getting voice-mail and call-waiting whether I liked it or not. My 89-year-old grandma had to bully me into joining her on Facebook and I was on Twitter for a month before I dared to tweet.
My home life isn’t the only casualty of my technical no-how. Before getting knocked up nine years ago, I worked for a huge telecom company as an account director for their eBusiness clients. The day I was offered the position, I ran (no joke: I got shin splints) to a bookstore and bought Internet for Dummies, however…it did not help.
I muddled along for a year channeling Amanda Woodward* while spouting terms like “Portal” and “UNIX” but I was a disaster. Getting my husband drunk (and getting myself pregnant) was my only way out that mess.
Now I stay home with my kids and write fiction, but I don’t understand how Kindle works—can I order a book to read online if I don’t have a Kindle? Who’s keeping track of all these eBooks? Where’s the *&$#* library?!?
Google Connect is on my blog because it’s on every other blog, but I have no clue what Google Connect really does. (p.s. to the twelve of you who’ve joined? Thank you for justifying the three days it took me to get it on there.) As for this Google+ hullaballoo: is it even a real thing? Do I need it? Why is Google trying to take over my life?
Two years ago I got an iPod from my justifiably appalled sister and it took me six months to figure out iTunes and how to upload (download?) music. It’s not like I’ve simply fallen behind in recent years: I missed the entire CD Man trend in the 90s because I was loyal to my Walkman.
Also? I’m a fossil.
*For those of you unfamiliar with the deliciously malicious Ms. Woodward, first of all: how dare you! Secondly, sit back, relax, and learn from the master:
Bite Me, Barbie
Published August 1, 2011 | I have a love/hate relationship with Barbie. Growing up I had dozens of dolls along with the sailboat, uneven bars (Olympic Gymnastics Barbie!) and even the infamous Growing Up Skipper, which grew taller, slimmer and bustier with the turn of her arm.
When I had my daughter four years ago, I jumped on the prevent-unrealistic-body-image bandwagon and decided to boycott Barbie. It went about as well as my earlier plan to shield my older son from toy guns (i.e. not well…you’re welcome, Nerf, for those third-quarter results).
Fortunately, my daughter idolizes her older brother and has grown up obsessed with cars, trains and booger jokes, so I thought I’d dodged the Barbie bullet. Then she played with someone else’s Barbie. And she loved it.
As @eliskacounce tweeted to me when I took my grievances online, where are the realistic Barbies? Is Astrophysicist Barbie too much to ask? What about Cankles Barbie? Or PMS Bloat Barbie? I’m not picky—I’d be happy with Botox-free Barbie, Settled-for-the-Dork Barbie, or Realistic-boobs Barbie.
Now, one birthday party later, my daughter is the proud owner of a pimped-out Barbie camper and an assortment of dolls, including the following:
Thing 1 and Thing 2:
They came in different boxes, from different people, but they both appear to be from the Hugh Hefner Collection.
I think the one on the right had a face lift.
Eastern Bloc Whore Barbie:
I’m not sure which (circa 1992) rave this chick stumbled out of, but she is looking rough.
The smudged red lipstick tells you everything you need to know about this one.
Ethnic Barbie:
In my attempt to add a little diversity to the mix, I bought Urban Barbie but ended up with Kate-Middleton-with-a-Tan instead.
Check out those non-knees.
Stepford Camping Family:
Alas, the Serb never ran into these kinds of campers on their father and son trips.
Like Toddlers & Tiaras, but these girls are more lifelike.
Confused Ken:
Unfortunately, this was the only Ken I could find* and he looks more like a Late-in-Life Lesbian than a hot surfer dude, which is a far more realistic representation of our culture than the creepily perfect blonde family.
Your purse isn't helping your case, Ken.
As the Serb watched me spend an hour dressing, posing and photographing my daughter’s Barbies, he made a comment that speaks to Barbie’s enduring appeal:
“For someone who fronts like she’s anti-Barbie, you seem to be having a lot of fun playing with them.”
Well played, Serb. Well played. (And speaking of playing, Barbie and Ken have a mani/pedi date. I gotta go…)
*Confession: there was a “Sweet Talking Ken” for sale with the ability to record a short message that Ken repeats. Can you imagine what kind of filth the Serb my kids would record and play back to me?
12 CommentsThe Internet Thinks I’m a Dude
Published July 18, 2011 | Uncovering my celebrity doppelgangers is a current obsession pastime of mine and I recently checked out a nifty little website that allows you to upload a picture of yourself and, using facial recognition technology, determine which famous person you most resemble.
I immediately took a picture of myself and uploaded it to the genius website. Who would be my celebrity twin? Angelina? Reese? Julia? Umm, try Hardly, As If and Not In This Lifetime. In fact my Hollywood dream was more of a Freudian nightmare.
My shrieks brought the Serb running. He’d already proclaimed the site bullsh*t after Barack Obama was deemed his brother from another mother. My results were just as wonky, but infinitely more terrifying:
It should be noted that this photo was taken early on Sunday morning, after a hard-fought, booze-soaked night of Cranium at our friends’ house. In other words, I wasn’t looking my best (sadly, this also isn’t my worst). But telling me that I only looked 54% female? That’s just rude.
Based on my fug photo, the Serb thought the results were pretty accurate. I suspected the smarty-pants website was malfunctioning, so I uploaded a photo of Halle Berry to see if she would match herself. I figured that with such short hair she was bound to get a fella or two in her results.
You see? Busted website! Halle Berry wasn’t even her own first choice! The Serb pointed out that at least all of her choices were female and went back to giggling at me and John Candy (once again, I’m a big fan, but come on…).
I wasn’t about to let the Serb stupid website win. It was time to pull out the big (photoshopped) guns. I uploaded a professional portrait that was taken years ago. Soft lighting, professional make-up and copious amounts of airbrushing ensured that all blemishes, wrinkles, pores and any other unsightly signs of being human were absent in the resulting photo:
This is a clear example of being careful what you wish for because I’ve always thought Jessica Biel looks like a drag queen. Between her, the two ladies of another race and the dude from Twin Peaks, there is only one possible conclusion: my Internet is broken.
Make me feel better – upload your own picture on myheritage.com and tell me who you look like. Unless all of your matches are supermodels, in which case you suck.
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