Fifty (thousand) Shades of Grey
Published April 18, 2012 | This year I will spend hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars in an attempt to camouflage this:
I'm too sexy for my roots.
Lately the Serb has been trying to convince me to let my grey freak flag fly and go au naturel. I can’t decide if it’s unconditional love or unmitigated frugality that’s behind his suggestion. He seems to think I would look incredibly stylish and chic, a la Helen Mirren:
Hot, right?
Helen Mirren is a smoking hot Dame, but she’s also 25 years older than me and my husband. If she sashayed down the street on the Serb’s arm, I’m sure a chorus of “You Go Girl!” would follow.
My sidewalk-grey hair would look wiry and ashen and gross, and strolling with the Serb in all my grey glory would surely elicit comments more along the lines of “Check out the grown man taking his mother to a movie…” because I would look like this:
Switch out the pipe for a Slurpee straw and it's like looking in a mirror.
After he brought it up again last weekend, I was determined to show the Serb how ludicrous grey hair would look on me. I found a website that allowed me to upload my picture and superimpose hair of varying cuts and colours on my head. My particular shade of crematorium-residue grey was not available, so I chose a brassy silver hue. The results were…off-putting:
Would you like a hot tea with your lap dance, gramps?
I looked a bit too much like a stripper and there was a good chance the Serb would demand I go grey immediately. Instead I assured him that this was a more accurate representation of me with grey hair:
There was an old lady who lived in the 'burbs...
The Serb remains unconvinced.
The Nightmare Before Easter
Published April 11, 2012 | Last week my four-year-old daughter demanded to know our plans for the night before Easter. She assumed that, similar to opening a present on Christmas Eve, there would be some kind of amuse-bouche to prepare her palate for the truckload of chocolate coming her way.
She was not impressed with my answer (“I’m very disappointed in your words!”) but took it down a notch after I reminded her—as I’ve done since December 26th—that the Easter Bunny was always watching to ensure she behaved herself.
Then we found him in our garden with his throat slit.
We regularly get bunnies in our backyard—I suspect that our garden is like their Club Med, since the greatest danger they’ll encounter is getting clunked on the head by a carrot thrown by my kid—and she was convinced the rabbits were doing reconnaissance in our yard for the Easter Bunny, casing the joint for candy-hiding opportunities.
My daughter was on our swing as I picked weeds on Saturday afternoon. I reached down and almost peed myself (no joke) when I saw a dead bunny poking out from under a shrub. The kid was hustled inside and the Serb dispatched outside to deal with the carnage.
I was unsettled. Had the dead bunny been an Easter omen? An homage to Fatal Attraction? Either way, I was slightly freaked out. The Serb didn’t help matters by setting up this little vignette when we hid candy later that night:
The Easter Bunny says "hi"
Rather than going to church on Easter Sunday (we all know how that would turn out), my family spent the day in jammies, trying desperately to stave off diabetic comas. My son was looking through some photos and found one from my acting days; specifically, Rocky Horror.
The Serb and I didn’t see the harm in letting him watch some YouTube clips from the movie, which led to a Time Warp tutorial, followed by an hour-long discussion covering such topics as pelvic thrusting and cross-dressing, and culminating in an old-fashioned-family-sing-along of Sweet Transvestite. All of this on one of the holiest days of the year.
The moral of the story? Without the church part, Easter is a weird holiday.
I See Dead People. And Wiener Dogs.*
Published April 4, 2012 | On the last Friday of every month, my favourite woo woo place (yes, I have more than one) holds a Practical Intuition Workshop that anyone with fifteen dollars and an open mind can join. The purpose is to offer different techniques and exercises to help evolve one’s intuitive abilities.
What I love about this woo woo place is that the woman who runs it is a typical mom and she looks it (everyone else is surprisingly normal-looking, too). I get my supernatural fix without feeling like I’m going to end up cavorting naked under a full moon (note: never say never).
As a lover of Tarot and all things woo woo, I adore these events and usually I can talk someone into accompanying me. Last week I was on my own and the topic was a doozy: connecting to loved ones who have crossed over in order to receive guidance and messages.
Over 40 people gathered at a local yoga studio and formed a circle around the perimeter of the room. We were led through a guided meditation meant to prepare us for the session. She gave us some basic instructions about what to expect—physical sensations, seemingly random thoughts/images coming to mind. More importantly, she also explained what likely would not occur—i.e. Great Aunt Sally who died in ’56 plopping down to have a chat.
Nothing of interest happened for me during the meditation except a tingling on my arms, near my biceps. Before I could explore this feeling further some dude started snoring, which completely disrupted my mystical mojo.
When the meditation was over we split into pairs to try and “read” each other. My partner was a lovely woman in her 30s who had done energy work in the past. She immediately picked up a male energy on my dad’s side and my biceps started tingling again.
“Your father’s father,” she stated. “He’s comforting you, proud of you. And he’s always around you, looking out for you. That’s what I’m sensing.” I had been the apple of my grandpa’s eye before he passed 20 years ago, and he’s the only person I’ve been very close to who’s died, so I thought it was interesting that he was the one who showed up.
Now it was my turn. I closed my eyes and waited, hoping something would come to me but definitely not holding my breath. I’m pretty intuitive, but this Whoopi Goldberg a la “Ghost” thing seemed a bit out of my league.
“An image of a really old lady just popped into my head,” I said. “She looks like one of those shrivelled up apple head ladies…but in Old World clothes…Eastern European or Italian.” My partner wasn’t saying anything, so I kept going. “She’s laughing, but all shrivelled up in her mouth…she seems really full of joy and is almost like a little imp.”
I opened my eyes and saw my partner had tears threatening to spill over. “My grandma died when I was only eleven and she was from Italy…she totally dressed in the Old Country clothes,” she began. “She used to take her dentures out to make me laugh.”
Grandma
I decided to keep going. Closing my eyes again, the image of Gargamel from the Smurfs came to me. Keeping in mind the instructions to not hold back on sharing information, no matter how stupid it seemed, I let my partner know.
“He’s leaning on a long wooden slab, almost like an old-timey bar…kind of looking down over everyone, surveying the situation,” I told her. “He’s not mean, but he’s very serious and kind of stoic, just checking everyone out.”
Again with the watery eyes from my partner. “That’s my Uncle Phil,” she explained. “He was a judge, and he was the closest person to my grandma.”
Uncle Phil
Our session was interrupted with the news that time was almost up. Everyone was asked to stand in two circles, facing each other. The outer circle would be giving messages for 30 seconds and then taking a step to the right, until everyone had been read. It was speed dating for dead people.
Apparently my supernatural savoir-faire cannot be rushed, because there was only one clear image that came to me. I told this guy that I saw a dog weaving through his legs and that he wasn’t small as much as he was low to the ground, like a Dachshund. The guy’s eyes widened and he told me his beloved Bulldog had passed away last year. He was always tripping over her because she would constantly be underfoot.
Not bad for a clairvoyant virgin.
*I mistyped this as “wiener dongs” which is equally awesome, but also kinda superfluous.
26 CommentsKarmic 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.
A Peek Into My Psyche. You’ve Been Warned.
Published January 23, 2012 | I’m constantly amazed at the wackadoo Google searches that bring people to my blog (today’s gems include Feet Fetish, Voodoo and Big Long Noses). What kind of nutbar Googles “orange cat lands on stomach” or “slutty cabin crew” and, more importantly, why are they brought to loridyan.com?
It got me wondering about my own Google searches. I work from home and spend a good deal of time waiting in line at grocery stores or the parking lot at my kids’ school, and I often Google random crap that pops in my head. I had a look at my recent searches and it turns out that, at first glance, I am queen of the wackadoo nutbars:
1) “oprah interview woman shot husband for cash”
Did you know Oprah has a radio station? Our new car comes with satellite radio and I obsessively sometimes listen to the rebroadcasts of her old TV shows. I find it fascinating to Google past guests to see how they’re doing today. Fun fact: I’ve been known to sit in the car in my driveway after buying groceries, listening to an entire show while the Serb folds laundry in the house.
2) “gregory brothers”
One of my online sisters-from-another-mister, the fabulous Colie, gave a shout out to this group on her blog. They’re pretty awesome.
3) “dip fish in milk”
Could this be a clue as to why my family won’t eat the dinners I cook them? #niceonenancydrew
4) “cpcrake botiquel”
I forgot to include a piece of my son’s favourite dessert in his lunch and wanted to make amends with an afterschool treat. Thankfully, my pal Google didn’t let my stubby typing fingers prevent me from finding a proper cupcake boutique.
Gratuitous cupcake porn.
5) “mama tooted”
The satellite radio also comes with a station for kids and this song is always playing. My daughter wanted to know the exact lyrics (which she has since taken to repeating at the top of her lungs to strangers while I sheepishly explain that it’s a song, not a play-by-play of my inner workings). Listen to the whole thing. I dare you not to giggle.
Keller Williams – Mama Tooted by spencer4linn
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.
Google Is My Co-Pilot
Published December 29, 2011 | The Serb and I aren’t particularly religious—he was raised a commie and I’ve been known to put “Wiccan” on forms requiring me to declare my religion—but we do consider ourselves to be very spiritual.
We hang out with Jews, Muslims, Catholics and Buddhists, and the guy who married us is Mormon (sidebar: does that make us Mormon? Twelve years later, I still haven’t received a firm answer on that one). My point being, we aren’t anti-religion…it’s just never been our thing to seek out organized religion.
One reason we adore our kids’ hippie school is that they explore all forms of spirituality. My eight-year-old son is the proud owner of a dreidel and read Old Testament stories this year. The year before it was saints from the New Testament. Next year it will be Norse gods, followed by Hinduism and other faiths.
Here is where the irony kicks in: as a result of his exposure to different beliefs, my son is becoming quite religious (i.e. last year he chose to be Saint Jerome for Halloween). I’m cool with him sampling from the spiritual buffet, but the Serb and I are heading into uncharted waters—it’s like a couple of pacifists who unintentionally raise a marine.
A week before Christmas, my son announced that he wanted to attend church on Christmas Eve. Our traditions normally include gorging on sushi at a restaurant topped off with a Toblerone fondue at home, but we agreed to check out a house of the Lord after our customary feast of raw fish.
Since I didn’t know where to begin finding an appropriate church, I turned to my source of all sacred knowledge: Google. My search term was simple and to the point: “gay friendly church Ontario.” If we could find a local place of worship that allowed a dude to marry another dude, chances are they wouldn’t mind a group of heathens like us showing up.
It turns out that Ontario churches (the United ones, anyway) love the gays as much as I do, and we were welcomed with open arms. My son declared that we would be sitting in the second row (pew?) and he sat back to study a song (hymn?) book as people filed into the church (did I mention we were 40 minutes early?).
I leaned over to the Serb. “He could end up being a minister or pastor or whatever they’re called,” I whispered. “He’s really into this.”
My husband eyed his pious son, happily poring over the hymns, and agreed.
I was surprised by how much I enjoyed being at church—everyone was very friendly, kids were running around playing and the atmosphere was one of kindness and camaraderie. If my kid wanted to make church a regular thing, I would gladly accompany him.
As the service began I had visions of our sweet boy ministering to the sick and the poor, dedicating his life to a higher calling. My reverie was interrupted by my son.
“Mommmeeee—when is this over? I’m thiiiirsteeee.” We were exactly three minutes into the programme.
“It just started,” I murmured.
“But it’s soooo boring,” he whined.
“You wanted to come here,” I reminded him. “What did you expect?”
“Something different than this. When is it oooooverrrrr?”
I turned to the Serb, but he was already halfway up the aisle with our four-year-old daughter, who was gesturing her need to pee. I didn’t see them again until the service was over.
I spent the next forty-five minutes threatening to withhold presents from my son if he didn’t sit still and we left with my son declaring that the church I chose was “the wrong kind.” Since our adventure, my son has reaffirmed his desire to be a wizard when he grows up. It turns out his religious calling was more of a whisper. But he still kicks my ass at dreidel.
24 CommentsChristmas Carols on Crack: Parental Edition
Published December 15, 2011 | Tune your bazookas (totally a euphemism) and sing along!
On the first day of Christmas, my family gave to me
No toilet paper that I could see
On the second day of Christmas, my family gave to me
Two cranky kids
And no toilet paper that I could see
On the third day of Christmas, my family gave to me
Three grey hairs
Two cranky kids
And no toilet paper that I could see
On the fourth day of Christmas, my family gave to me
Four soggy boots
Three grey hairs
Two cranky kids
And no toilet paper that I could see
On the fifth day of Christmas, my family gave to me
Five golden rings (around the toilet)
Four soggy boots
Three grey hairs
Two cranky kids
And no toilet paper that I could see
On the sixth day of Christmas, my family gave to me
Six crusty Kleenex
Five golden rings (around the toilet)
Four soggy boots
Three grey hairs
Two cranky kids
And no toilet paper that I could see
On the seventh day of Christmas, my family gave to me
Seven loads of laundry
Six crusty Kleenex
Five golden rings (around the toilet)
Four soggy boots
Three grey hairs
Two cranky kids
And no toilet paper that I could see
On the eighth day of Christmas, my family gave to me
Eight hours of whining
Seven loads of laundry
Six crusty Kleenex
Five golden rings (around the toilet)
Four soggy boots
Three grey hairs
Two cranky kids
And no toilet paper that I could see
On the ninth day of Christmas, my family gave to me
Nine broken crayons
Eight hours of whining
Seven loads of laundry
Six crusty Kleenex
Five golden rings (around the toilet)
Four soggy boots
Three grey hairs
Two cranky kids
And no toilet paper that I could see
On the tenth day of Christmas, my family gave to me
Ten stupid fart jokes
Nine broken crayons
Eight hours of whining
Seven loads of laundry
Six crusty Kleenex
Five golden rings (around the toilet)
Four soggy boots
Three grey hairs
Two cranky kids
And no toilet paper that I could see
On the eleventh day of Christmas, my family gave to me
Eleven closed-eye photos
Ten stupid fart jokes
Nine broken crayons
Eight hours of whining
Seven loads of laundry
Six crusty Kleenex
Five golden rings (around the toilet)
Four soggy boots
Three grey hairs
Two cranky kids
And no toilet paper that I could see
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my family gave to me
Twelve headless Barbies
Eleven closed-eye photos
Ten stupid fart jokes
Nine broken crayons
Eight hours of whining
Seven loads of laundry
Six crusty Kleenex
Five golden rings (around the toilet)
Four soggy boots
Three grey hairs
Two cranky kids
And no toilet paper that I could see
If Muppet Love is Wrong, I Don’t Wanna be Right
Published December 5, 2011 | My son had his self-proclaimed BruthaFromAnothaMutha over for a play date yesterday. They had wand fights a la Harry Potter, defiled my daughter’s Barbies, made potions out of dish soap and recreated the Death Star out of Legos—all within an hour of his arrival.
The Serb has been battling a cold that would, according to him, kill a lesser man, so I decided to take the boys to the movies. My reasons were completely selfish: I love the Muppets and was itching for an excuse to see their new movie.
I’ve recently showed my kids Swedish Chef videos online and “Mahna Mahna” has become a weird call-and-response theme song for my family:
Me (in the kitchen, under my breath): “Mahna Mahna.” My four-year-old daughter (yelling from her bedroom): “Do Dooo Do Do Do.”
Luckily, the mom of my son’s friend is a SistahFromAnothaMistah and she joined us at the theatre. Armed with twenty dollars’ worth of confectionary goodness, my friend and I settled into seats behind our sons (this is as close as eight-years-old boys will get to their mommies in public…until it’s time to go pee).
The movie was as delightful as expected—most of the jokes flew right over the kids’ heads and had the parents giggling like fools. We came home and my son begged me to show him “Mahna Mahna” on YouTube, so I Googled the song without the “Muppets” qualifier.
The result? Porn.
“Mahna Mahna” was written by some Italian dude in the 60s for a soft-core porn movie that takes place in Sweden. It’s more “Benny Hill” than “Debbie Does Dallas”, but I’m still bummed that my favourite Muppets’ song is now as defiled as my daughter’s Barbie.
I blame the Swedish Chef: those fingers are too pervy for PBS.
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