Diary of a Working Girl
Published May 2, 2012 | It’s been five years since I last ventured out of my home office in the basement (aka The Bunker) to work for The Man. In order to fully realize my dreams (aka Mama needs laser eye surgery) I sucked it up and got myself a bona fide office job. Here’s how the first 24 hours went down:
The Day Before First Day
10:00 am-3:00 pm
Drag self all over town stocking up on provisions. The Serb works from home and will be taking over school runs, lunch making and dinner prep. He likens his new role to being “a vacation.” I fear he is being a tad optimistic and buy extra frozen lasagnas.
3:30 pm
When I tell The Serb I choked up while picking son up from school, he reminds me that I am not going on a tour of duty to Kabul.
3:35 pm
Hide lasagnas.
First Day Eve
5:00 pm
Daughter is feverish and refuses offer of ice cream—she is officially sick.
10:00 pm
I decide to let The Serb deal with the kid, lest she barfs on me in the night, and I retire to her twin loft bed.
First Day Morning
4:00 am
Wake up with seized hips. Realize daughter’s mattress is so uncomfortable that making her sleep on it is tantamount to child abuse.
6:00 am
Get up and work out kinks from poor sleep with some yoga. Congratulate self for exemplary planning and preparation in anticipation of my First Day.
7:00 am
Take a shower (four hours than I usually do).
7:15 am
Frantically search for make-up bag that hasn’t been in service since last New Year’s Eve.
7:20 am
Stab self in eye with contact lens. Vow to host Opti Free bonfire once newly-lasered eyeballs are in place.
7:25 am
Rummage through Tupperware drawer for water bottle and matching lid.
7:27 am
Pour bowl of cereal.
7:28 am
Glance at clock, realize bus comes in 10 minutes and bus stop is an 8-minute walk. Dump cereal in the sink and curse the day The Serb and I decided to ditch our second car.*
7:29 am
Panic that I forgot to make lunch. Throw mango, bag of almonds and brick of cheese in purse and sprint out the door.
7:31-7:36 am
Sweat off every speck of painstakingly-applied make-up.
7:40-8:10 am
Bang out a blog in new mobile writing office. Decide I love public transit.
8:15 am
Step through the front door.
8:16 am
And so it begins.
*RIP Stinky
Let the river run, baby…
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.
Bikini Boot Camp Blues
Published February 20, 2012 | I recently joined an exercise studio that offers holistic therapies, organic cooking lessons and a variety of classes, including Pilates, meditation, twelve kinds of yoga, spinning and strength training. I’ve been sticking with hot yoga (literally and figuratively…booyah!), mainly because I’ll never understand the point of Pilates, meditation always turns into a nap and my lady parts are still recovering from the one spin class I did in January.
When my friend, M, suggested we check out their boot camp class, I figured it would be kind of like the studio—peaceful, encouraging and almost spiritual. I was very, very wrong. (Very.)
Our first mistake was not reading the warning description of the class:
This high-intensity workout combines plyometric interval training and strength training. Everyone should bring a towel, water, workout gloves and a mat for abs. Also, it is not a workout that should be done on an empty stomach. A small healthy meal (like Greek yogurt and berries or a protein shake) should be eaten 1 hour before this workout.
I once read that plyometrics (“explosive” exercises like jump squats) shouldn’t be attempted by women who’ve had babies because their pelvic floors might not be strong enough and, long story short, they could pee themselves on impact.
Let me be clear: I have birthed a ten-pounder. My pelvic floor ain’t what it used to be. Thankfully there were no impact issues in the class, but if I’d known that what I was doing was plyometrics, and that the impact risk was there, I totally would’ve faked incontinence and bailed from the class.
Our second blunder was not bolting from the class as soon as we saw our instructor:
Her name is Magda. She is a former Miss Universe. Her goal is to make you feel pain. And nausea.
There were only three of us in the class. I had nowhere to hide. We did lunges, sit-ups, burpees, push-ups and planks. That was our warm-up. The rest of the class was a gasping, sweaty blur and I can’t remember most of the exercises. I suspect the experience was repressed, similar to childbirth or bikini waxes.
For three days after the class I was constantly reminded of Magda’s boot camp, mostly because I couldn’t stand up from a chair (or toilet) without assistance.
I’ve determined that if my exercise regime requires digestive preparation and more than two pieces of workout gear, it is not the class for me. Also, I shall no longer exercise if I cannot do it barefoot.
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...
Lori Dyan. Code Name: Crap.
Published January 30, 2012 | You know those irritating families that have cloying nicknames for each other? I am the matriarch of such a family.
If you come by our house on a Saturday afternoon, you might hear me holler declare the following: “Coci—get Pootch and Matsie in Stinky or we’ll be late!” which roughly translates to: “Darling husband—please gather the children and deposit them in the car so that we might keep to our schedule.”
I wasn’t always this way; no one laughed harder (or more scornfully) than I when Seinfeld got all Shmoopy with his girlfriend to the annoyance of everyone they knew. Years later I met the Serb, who’s from a much more—let’s call it demonstrative—culture, and before I knew it, we had pet names for all sorts of things (minds out of the gutter, people…my granny reads this blog).
For twelve years, the Serb has lovingly referred to me as the following:
Loci (pron. Low-tsee, a take on Lori that sounds cute with his accent)
Lorika (pron. Lor-ee-ka, also: see above)
Govno (pron. Gove-no, for years I thought it meant “adorable scamp” but I recently learned that it roughly translates to “crap”)
Picka (pron. Pich-ka, a very bad word; in English it rhymes with “kunt”)
Mofo (pron. Moh-Foh, short for mother f*cker—a nickname within a nickname!—we call each other mofo regularly and last month my 4-year-old started using it on her doll)
In turn, I have taken to tenderly calling my husband by these pet names:
Coco (pron. Tso-tso, his childhood nickname also the name of a piglet he knew as a kid)
Coci (pron. Tso-tsee, a variation of the above. I know, Serbs are bonkers with pronunciation)
Sine (pron. See-nay, means “son” in Serbian. I say it with his mother’s accent to freak him out.)
Stole (pron. Stoh-lay, his Serbian nickname, the spelling of which just confuses the Canadian people)
Kucka (pron. Kooch-kah, loosely translates to “bitch” and always gets his attention)
Bitch (pron. Biiiitch, used when I’m feeling sassy or I’ve had a few glasses of red wine)
The Serb (pron. Hot Stuff, used here to retain a semblance of anonymity)
Our eight-year-old son is known as Pootchie—a name I made up in the hospital while nursing him for the 39th hour straight—and our daughter goes by Matsie, which means “kitten” in Serbian. We call our cars Stinky (the interior reeks of smoke) and Tiny (because it’s a huge SUV and we are being ironic). My kids go to The Hippie School and when we had a cat everything was known as Pussy (because we are as immature as we are shmoopy).
At this rate, I expect to be off the grid, language-wise, before the kids hit puberty. Then the shmoop will really hit the fan.
24 CommentsA 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
The Fancy Pants Restaurant Rebuttal
Published January 16, 2012 | After sharing my disastrous dining experience with you last week, many people urged me to immediately reveal the name of the Fancy Pants Restaurant that done me wrong. I resisted—not because I’m a classy dame who takes the high road, but because I was hoping for some restitution in the form of a free meal.
The day after I sent that letter (minus the subtext), I received the following reply:
Hi Lori,
This email just came to my attention. I apologize sincerely for the unsatisfactory dinner experience you had at my restaurant. Please provide me with detail as to the date you had dined here, who your waiter was (if you do not know the name, please describe him or her), and also who had paid for the dinner. I will get the situation straightened out and follow up with you with a personal phone call!
Best,
Ms. Fancy Pants Restaurant Owner
Obviously I was thrilled with such a prompt and promising response. Then I realized I would have to speak to her, which I wasn’t so keen to do. My best work is done with a laptop as my buffer. Talking often leads to inadvertent Canadian politeness that could diminish the impact of my grievances.
Thankfully the Serb saved the day by pissing me off (who needs 9 jackets in the hall closet?!?) right before the owner called me and I had an appropriate edge to my voice. The owner kindly offered a complimentary meal for me and a guest on a night of my choosing—all I would need to do is phone in advance and speak to the manager.
I hung up quite pleased with myself; a feeling that lasted for all of three minutes, until I began imagining how it would feel to show up at the Fancy Pants Restaurant with every employee knowing that I had complained. What if someone spits in my soup? Or wipes my fork in their armpit? Or worse?*
Herein lies my conundrum: do I risk the wrath of wait staff for a free meal? What do you think? Should I walk in there with my head held high and demand some decent food without the attitude, or should I take the apology as my prize and forget about the meal? I know I’ve done a lot more for a lot less in my time…
*The Serb has worked at FPRs all over the world and he assures me that yes, worse things could easily happen.
Sweet Jeezuz, I am screwed.
43 CommentsA Letter of Complaint, Complete with Subtext
Published January 9, 2012 | Dear Fancy-Pants Restaurant Owner,
I recently dined at Fancy-Pants Restaurant with two friends and feel compelled to share our experience with you. I was looking forward to sampling the best of Toronto at your Fancy Pants Restaurant Location, but unfortunately, not even our most basic expectations were met.
[I decided to get a second mortgage and have dinner at your crazy-expensive restaurant so I could see what all the fuss is about. Judging from the braggy wall photos, Oprah and her Hollywood friends seem to love it. I'm now thinking you accosted them at a Starbucks or Whole Foods to snap those pictures.]
From the moment we arrived, your employees were incredibly rude and condescending. The hostess appeared to be greatly inconvenienced when taking our coats and she proceeded to seat us at the most remote table in the farthest corner of the near-empty restaurant.
[Listen, I can bring out my inner bitch with the best of them; however, this cranky cow took the cake. She made Mad Men's Betty Draper look like Betty White.]
Our waiter was not much better: his overall demeanour—sneering at our questions, rushing us through our courses and apparent relief when we left—was that of someone wishing he (or rather, we) were somewhere else.
[Oh, to be a douche-nugget aspiring actor in Da Big Smoke. Speaking of smoke, we kept waiting for him to offer us a spliff.]
While my meal was excellent, my friend’s rice pasta verged from al dente to crunchy. Instead of ordering a new dish, she waited for our server to enquire about her meal to inform him of her discontent. He never did.
[You think I'm cranky when I don't eat? My friend would have written you a note so bitter as to render you speechless, but I think she ate her pen. FYI, it tasted better than the pasta.]
I was ready to chalk up his contemptuous service to having a bad day until witnessing his transformation when dealing with other guests. In particular, two ladies at the table beside us had our waiter and another employee doting on them throughout their meal while we were virtually ignored. Such blatant and clumsy genuflecting was not only excessive, but also quite embarrassing to witness.
[These lucky bitches were given complimentary cocktails and wine pairings with each elaborate course. It was at this point that I contemplated setting my hair on fire so as to draw attention to our empty wine glasses, but Douche Nugget and his cohort were too busy wedging their hipster-doofus craniums up the other diners' butts to have noticed.]
My companions were visiting from New York and are accustomed to a certain level of service when dining at a restaurant of Fancy Pants Restaurant’s reputed calibre (and frankly, so am I). They could not believe how deplorable your service was. With so many amazing culinary options in Toronto, I was extremely embarrassed and disappointed with our choice.
[We passed an awesome-smelling Shawarma place that would've not only hit the spot, but also left us enough cash for a spa day. On Rodeo Drive.]
I sincerely hope that you will encourage your staff to make more of an effort to ensure that all customers receive an extraordinary dining experience. My meal was wonderful and if we had been treated with a modicum of respect and graciousness, I would have left confident of my return to Fancy Pants Restaurant. As it is, I now feel obligated to warn people of our unsatisfying experience.
[You were like the gorgeous jock in grade twelve who I finally got to make out with, only to realize he kissed like an epileptic St. Bernard. #epicdiningfail]
Best regards,
[You suck,]
Lori Dyan
[I'm still hungry]
This place is like the nerdy drama geek you should've made out with who grew up to be Ryan Gosling (or Reynolds, depending on your tastes).
Merry Christmas to All…
Published December 22, 2011 | 
And to all, a good night…
(all I want for Christmas is a nap)
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