Tales from a Swim Meet: aka Where Civility Goes to Die
Published November 24, 2011 | Our family is not one for competitive sports. We don’t do hockey, soccer or baseball, preferring more solitary activities such as rock climbing, horseback riding or water-sliding.
My eight-year-old son recently joined a swim club and on the weekend he attended his first meet. I believe that our expectations for our kid—remembering to put on goggles before his race, staying in his lane and making it out alive—were realistic. We were in the minority.
To say some of these parents were intensely enthusiastic is an understatement. To say more than a few were bona fide nut jobs is getting closer. One woman, who was the size of a Hobbit, spent two hours yelling “FAAASSSSSTAAAAR!!!!!” every time her petrified tween entered the water. She sounded kind of like this (times a thousand):
There was a young boy competing who had an eight-pack. He was no more than ten-years-old and from the viewing stands I could see his muscle definition. The Serb and I were equal parts mesmerized and horrified. This kid was out of the pool collecting his ribbon before most kids reached the half-way mark. Between races, he simply stood by himself, flexing. He was in dire need of a cookie.
“See how that kid is standing?” asked the Serb. The boy was gripping his arms behind his back, flexing his abs and delts. “He’s posing. Someone taught him how to do that.”
The Serb played water polo in his homeland at a very high level and was familiar with posturing tactics. (There’s only so much intimidating one can do in a Speedo.) I couldn’t tell if the boy was posing, but I was certain he got a power bar or similar in lieu of Halloween candy.
Like this, but in a Speedo.
As I waited for the Serb and my son outside the locker room, one of the fathers approached me.
“How did your boy do?” he asked.
“OmigodIwasincrediblyproudofhimhedidsogreat!” I gushed. I really was bursting with pride. My son is a sensitive, quirky kid who has never been a fan of crowds nor competition. The fact that he was with a hundred kids he didn’t know and then stood on those starting blocks in front of all of them and their parents and dove into the water and swam as hard as he could to the other end without drowning? That. Was. Amazing.
“That’s nice,” said the father. “Mine didn’t do so good—he didn’t get better than fourth in any of his heats.”
“Oh, I have no idea how he placed in any of the races,” I answered. I only knew he wasn’t first, nor was he last. I was too busy trying not to barf from the stress to worry about placings. “But that was such a scary thing for them to do, right?”
“Right. Of course,” he said, totally not getting it.
Mercifully, the fellas appeared just then, allowing me to ditch Debbie Downer and go smother my boy with kisses.
Another parent cornered the Serb and started spewing f-bombs about the disorganization and sub-par coaching, furious that his kid didn’t swim in every heat (it should be noted that his child could’ve used water wings for the races he did manage to finish).
The Serb and I gave each other our patented “get me the F*** outta here” look and we headed for the restaurant of my son’s choice to celebrate his stellar efforts with some—what else?—seafood.
That's a Nova Scotia lobster, baby. (Mounting a baked potato, apparently.)
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.
For Sale: House from Hell
Published October 27, 2011 | I found a home listing that looked great on paper: four bedrooms, a pool and hot tub, finished basement, modern décor, a fantastic neighbourhood…what could possibly be wrong with it? <Cue evil cackle>
The exterior was completely normal looking, although when you got closer there was an homage to the Jetsons going on, with lots of stainless steel curves and a futuristic feel.
The interior was a fusion of suburban Blair Witch Project meets American Psycho.
The house felt cold and clinical. It wasn’t just vacant in terms of people; this place lacked a soul. I’m all about the woo woo so obviously I was freaking out, but my logical Serb could feel the nasty mojo seeping through the floors, too. Even the realtor was freaked out.
The metal staircase leading to some barbed-wire "art."
The home was in disarray: bedding was hanging off the beds askew; litter was scattered throughout the rooms; and the pool area looked like it needed to be hosed down.
Although there was an absence of photographs or other signs of lives being lived, we did find this:
A centrepiece of safety pins.
And the counters—even those in the bathrooms—were made of poured concrete and looked like sidewalks:
Photos do not do the weirdness justice.
At first I tried to give the owners the benefit of the doubt: sure, a metallic sidewalk house wasn’t my cup of tea, but I could appreciate their strong sense of aesthetic vision. Then we went downstairs and things got real.
This dude met us at the bottom of the stairs.
The basement was empty aside from a vanity table and chair plunked in the middle of the barren space. The mirror was cracked as though something had been thrown at it. This sparse display was the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen. We (okay…I) almost ran up the stairs screaming, but not before I took a picture.
Hello, my pretty...
As we left, I noticed a scale set at the front door. Was it to weigh the porn stars as they arrived for a day of shooting in the pool area? Maybe making sure victims would provide an ample enough skin suit? Perhaps the swingers have weight restrictions? Or would the owner simply not leave the house if s/he didn’t hit a certain number? Whatever the case, it didn’t help with the freak factor.
Needless to say, no offers were made that day.
In the Serb’s words: "Leave real estate to the professionals and don’t quit your semi-part-time day job." Noted.
When Being Bendy is a Bad Thing
Published October 24, 2011 | I’ve been a klutz my entire life. The Serb is constantly amazed by my ability to fall on my face while standing perfectly still (and relatively sober). I also have a tendency to throw my back out while performing random tasks, such as reaching across the counter for a paper towel.
During a recent chiropractic appointment, I casually mentioned that my hip makes a weird popping sound and can click out of its socket. My chiropractor asked if I possessed any other peculiar skills, so I showed her the following party tricks:
Handsy in a weird way.
This could be why it took almost 30 years to find a husband.
And why I had to go foreign.
I always knew I was double-jointed, but that day the chiropractor gave my uber-dexterity a proper designation: Benign Joint Hypermobility Syndrome. In other words, I’m double-jointed everywhere. According to her, my ligaments make Gumby look like the Tin Man and I totally missed my calling as an Olympic gymnast.
If I were in porn or Cirque du Soleil, being this flexible would be a huge bonus. As a mom in the ‘burbs, it’s a total drag. There’s the aforementioned clumsiness due to loose ankle ligaments. Ditto the back spasms, thanks to a overly supple spine (not as sexy as it sounds). My favourite workouts include running, swimming and yoga, yet I’m easily sidelined with wonky knees, shoulders and wrists.
Fortunately, my chiropractor treats a lot of dancers and other athletes with injuries, and she has a plan to rebuild me. Just like the Bionic Woman, only bendier.
Crap In My Pocket
Published October 13, 2011 | Last year I wrote about crap in my bag after I pulled a mason jar from my purse. I recently had a similar experience when I reached into the pocket of my fleece jacket and whipped out a sea shell (note: we do not live near the sea).
Further investigation revealed a treasure trove of non sequiturs:
1. Pirate eye patch. So I can role play with the Serb prepare for Halloween.
2. Angel card from the woo woo place, offering me a meditation on “truth,” which is timely considering that I’m the mother of a pathological liar.
3. The aforementioned sea shell. Did I mention we live in the middle of Canada?
4. The lid of my son’s ant farm. Yes, that’s right: the lid.
5. Miniature cupcake wrapper from the cupcake boutique that opened across the street from my gym.
6. Dental floss to erase all evidence of said cupcake from my teeth (erasing it from my ass is what the gym is for…it’s a vicious circle, really…).
7. Luigi from Cars, because my pink-dress-wearing, fart-joke-telling, car-and-train-obsessed daughter is an enigma.
8. A game piece, because you never know when a Snakes & Ladders’ death match will break out.
9. A rock that my son promised not to use as a weapon.
10. Halloween candy wrapper, to help me get in the spirit of the season (or something).
11. Band-Aid wrapper, because my son lies more than my daughter (see #9).
12. Nail clippers, ‘cuz nothing says “classy broad” like clipping your nails in public.
13. Proof that I am a mother: tissues in various stages of decomposition.
14. An almond, to counteract the guilt effects of #5 and #10.
15. A two dollar Euro coin, because I’m an international woman of mystery.
16. Barrettes for my daughter, who is currently running around school looking feral with her semi-dreadlocks.
17. Mitten clip, because it’s like summer outside and I don’t need it. In two months I will find sunscreen in my pocket during a blizzard.
18. Dora, to placate my daughter when she smells chocolate and cupcake on my breath after I pick her up from school (note: it never works).
The scariest part? This all came from one pocket.
27 CommentsHow Not to Kill Your Husband for the Insurance
Published October 10, 2011 | The Serb was nervous. He was flying to Europe for a week and had it in his mind that the trip would end in a fiery mass of twisted steel if he didn’t get some life insurance, pronto. It fell to me (his de facto secretary) to arrange it.
I spent an hour on the phone with an agent, answering questions and crunching numbers. It was quickly determined that I, the unemployed one, am not worth much if I kick the bucket prematurely.
My husband is another story—if he went to the big schnitzel house in the sky, I would be loaded. When the insurance dude brought up the amount, my inherent elegance and class came shining through. Below is a transcript of our conversation that is, I swear, verbatim.
Me: Let’s look at insurance just for my husband, since my numbers are so puny.
Dude: Of course. The quote for your husband is [REDACTED] dollars.
Me: HOLY SH*T!
Dude: Erm…do you have any questions about the policy?
Me: You’re telling me that, if my husband dies, I get all that money?
Dude: Well, yes, with some exceptions…
Me: Sure—if he’s committing a crime that results in his death or if he kills himself, I get nothing. But otherwise I get it all, right?
Dude: That’s right.
Me: Even if he gets five different diseases, the money is mine?
Dude: Correct.
Me: So it doesn’t matter if he has a heart attack, gets hit by a bus, or someone kills him in his sleep…I’d still get that money?
Dude: Err…
Me: Is it possible for me to qualify for an even bigger payout?
Dude: I’ll need to speak with your husband before we go any further with this process.
When I giddily recounted this conversation to my husband, he replied, “You realize that it’s not like winning the lottery, right? I’d be dead.”
Needless to say, the Serb flew to Europe secure in the knowledge that we’d be okay if he had a heart attack after being hit by a bus following a stabbing. If he feels safe sleeping in his own bed at night is another matter entirely.
I may leave this on my night stand for kicks...
How to Avoid a Speeding Ticket Without Throwing Your Panties
Published September 29, 2011 | You know how some women complain of Dummy Mummy syndrome when they’re pregnant? When they can’t remember/find/accomplish much of anything because most of their brain power is being siphoned by a 3-ounce fetus? I suffer from a particularly virulent strain of Dummy Mummy that has lasted well past gestation, through toddlerhood, and appears to be settling in for my children’s tween years.
I can lose my keys when I’m holding them in my hand. I once put a package of mushrooms away in the dryer. My kids play Let’s Find Mommy’s Glasses on a daily basis and, more often than not, they are found on my head. My point being, I’m often operating at a level that would suggest I not operate heavy machinery.
A few years ago I was driving my son to school—stuck behind a school bus going the speed limit—and we passed a speed trap. I slapped on a mental post-it to slow down on the way home and promptly forgot all about it. Ten minutes later I blew past the police car going 45 kilometres per hour over the speed limit (29 miles per hour for you non-metric types).
The officer who pulled me over was not impressed with my Daisy Duke driving demonstration. He was even less amused when I couldn’t find my registration. After spending ten minutes in his cruiser, the officer came back and informed me that not only was I speeding and lacking proper registration, but my driver’s license had also expired. Sixteen months earlier.
At that moment I did what women (and more than a few men) have done in my situation since the first Model A Ford rolled off the assembly line: I cried.
Through my tears I explained that when the license had expired I was pregnant and on sick leave with pneumonia, impetigo (!), pink eye, strep throat and a host of other maladies, leaving me barely able to stand, let alone take notice of a renewal notice.
The policeman told me that by law he should confiscate my car on the spot and release it only when my paperwork was in order. Then he glanced in the backseat at my sleeping nine-month-old daughter, and at me with my uncombed hair and stained pajama top, and he took pity on me.
The speeding ticket was reduced from $250 and four demerit points to $70 and no demerits. Driving without registration was going to cost me a whopping $600, but he advised me to fight the fine with my medical records in court. Since I’d been stopped only a few blocks from where I lived, the officer followed me home (rather than impounding my car) after I promised to get new registration that day.
A few weeks later I showed up in court and faced the judge. With one smack of the gavel my charges were dropped. Lesson learned: if you get stopped by a cop, try crying. If that doesn’t work, blame your spawn. If all else fails, throw your undies. As a last resort, put the three together. Game, set and match.
Now this is my kind of speed trap.
33 CommentsThe Art of War (aka Marriage)
Published September 8, 2011 | My friend is married to the king of all douche canoes.* She was recently venting to me about him over drinks and I could tell there was an expectation for me to join in with some bitching about my own husband. I couldn’t really think of anything and kept my trap shut while nodding my head in sympathy. I drove home thinking how lucky I was to have the Serb. Then I decided there was room for improvement, after going for a midnight tinkle and being greeted with this:
My worst middle-of-the-night nightmare.
Don’t get me wrong, the Serb is nowhere near douche canoe territory; however, when I put my mind to it I was able to come up with a few areas of improvement:
Toilet Paper Trauma
While on the subject of toilet paper, it should be noted that the Serb will retrieve a new roll when it suits his needs, and yet it never seems to make it onto the roll holder thingy. If I don’t change the roll it will remain on the sink ledge until it’s also empty, only to be replaced with a new roll…on the ledge. One time I let the empty toilet paper rolls sit on the ledge to see how many would pile up before he replaced them. We ended up with a team of cardboard foosball players.
The proof is in the paper.
Booze Wars
We are fans of red wine; so much so that we bought wine glasses that resemble fish bowls. We can never agree on who is guzzling the most hooch. He insists that I’m matching him glass for glass, but it’s our perception of what constitutes “a glass” of wine that seems to differ:
Guess which one Boozy McDrunkerson poured?
Laundry Litter
Although the NBA won’t be scouting the Serb any time soon, when it comes to his aim, the dude’s got game. He was once a very highly regarded water polo player back in the old country, and water polo is basically basketball played in a pool. This is why it boggles my mind that a man who can throw a ball into a net while wearing a Speedo and treading water can’t manage to hit the laundry basket with his ginch as he walks into the bathroom.
So close, yet...not really.
Recycling as Art
The Serb and I are engaged in an epic battle of balance. Rather than walking to the garage to empty our recycling into the bigger bin, we pile up our containers and cans until our recycling bin looks like something from Tetris.
Saturday.
Tuesday.
Friday. (Don't judge my Coolwhip...the soup underneath was organic so it all evens out.)
Fridge Blindness/Deafness
The Serb loves asking me to find him things in the fridge after insisting he’s already looked, without success. This, my friends, is bullsh*t. Usually, he hasn’t even set foot in the kitchen, or else he’s opened the fridge, glanced briefly at the top shelf, and then given up. Either way, it drives me bonkers because he often interrupts me when I’m doing something important. Like Tweeting.
"Where's that leftover Spanikopita? I don't see it."
"Yes, I checked behind the hummus! It's not there!"
"Whatever. It must've been way in the back."
"Really?"
Another classic is when he leaves empty milk in the fridge. Our milk comes in clear plastic bags, so there’s no excuse for not seeing that only 2 tablespoons of milk remain (yes, I measured and yes, I realize that this entire thing says more about me than him).
*Don’t worry, [insert every friend’s name here], I didn’t mean you.
39 CommentsRu Paul is My Co-Pilot
Published August 29, 2011 | As a teenager I was told that makeup, like youth, was wasted on the young. I took that advice and stuck with my Bonne Bell Lip Smacker throughout high school, eventually stepping up my game in university to incorporate mascara. As a result, I’ve never learned how to properly apply makeup. This is fine if you’re a teenager, or Amish. For a suburban woman in her forties, however, it’s a bit of a disaster.
I’m now at that age where makeup is more of a help than a hindrance, yet every time I apply more than the bare minimum* I end up looking like a drag queen on a budget. I’ve sat in countless department store makeup chairs over the years—taking copious notes and buying mountains of crap—as the Monets of MAC treat my face like their canvas. When I attempt to replicate the process, what should look like this…
…invariably ends up looking more like this:
I was married on a beach wearing only lip gloss for makeup, yet this fact isn’t as noticeable when juxtaposed against the stunning scenery and (once the rain came) my transparent dress.
Did I mention that youth is wasted on the young?
Since then the only opportunities I’ve had to get my glam on have been acting-related. Community theatre requires actors to do their own makeup, the heavier the better, and this is where I both excel and fail in equal measure. While everything may appear fine under harsh lighting, it’s a different story offstage—which is where I can usually be found, looking like this:
Is it a play or a Christmas party? Even the Serb couldn’t remember…
I have a couple of friends who can’t wait to sit me down for a makeup lesson and I’ve decided to go for it—learning about eye shadow can’t be harder than my recent garden makeover, especially since I’m currently using a trowel to do both.
OMG: did you totally start humming
*In addition to loose powder and mascara, I slap on some lipstick (and there is a direct correlation between the brightness of shade and fanciness of occasion).
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