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)
Finger Lickin’ Fail
Published December 19, 2011 | I’ve been having what could be described as a run of bad luck in the kitchen department (unless you’re the Serb, who describes it as a run of trying to kill him with my cooking).
As with many things in my life, I blame the internet: it’s full of websites purporting so-easy-a-monkey-could-make-it recipes, all of them accompanied by saliva-inducing photographs that look so yummy they might as well be scratch and sniff.
These websites make a sucker out of people like me.
Thursday was Easy Bake Chicken Parmesan. The picture, ingredient list and number of steps made it seem like a no-brainer:
Chicken, sauce, cheese and croutons...what could possibly go wrong?
The results looked somewhat like this:
That red stuff ain't sauce, y'all....
The notable exception? While the cheesy-crouton topping was crispy verging on burnt, the chicken underneath was raw. While the Serb was upstairs with the kids I scrambled to fix my fiasco, but alas, the microwave was no match for my culinary catastrophe and promptly overheated, leaving me to haul ass to Dominos for some restitution with extra pepperoni.
The following night I was heading out with the Restless Writers for dinner so I planned a delicious-looking sweet-and-spicy chicken crockpot recipe for my family:
Five ingredients in a crockpot...how hard can that be?
An hour before I was due to leave, the Serb had gone to pick up the kids from school and I sent the following tweet:
Forgive me Twitter, for I have sinned...
I attempted to salvage the meal by dousing the chicken in sweet-and-sour sauce and throwing it in the oven. The results were, to put it mildly, revolting:
This looks like what you pull out of a chicken before you roast it.
The Serb walked in the door, inhaled once and asked, “Are you improvising dinner again?”
My kids were less restrained.
“What’s that disgusting smell?” asked one.
“It smells like toilet,” said the other.
“What’s plan B?” asked the Serb, mouth-breathing like his life depended on it.
Plan B (aka my third attempt at dinner that day) was frozen fish sticks along with the wilted broccoli and mushy rice I reclaimed from the chicken disaster. My family gobbled their meal and even asked for seconds. You might think I’d recaptured my cooking mojo. You would be wrong. It was the ketchup, and a lot of it.
The Joke is (on) Me
Published November 28, 2011 | 4yo daughter: I wanna have a baby brother.
The Serb: Sounds good to me.
8yo son: Looks like it’s time for you to get sexy again, mommy.
8yo son: Mommy! Why are that teenager’s pants so low? You can see his underwear!
Me: Because he’s a goofball.
Him: But that lady is following him and she can see everything!
Me: She’s more than a block behind him.
Him: I hope she’s carrying pepper spray.
4yo daughter: Mommy, did you marry daddy because you fell in love?
Me: Yes.
Her: What about your other husbands? Did you love them too?
Me: I wasn’t married before daddy.
Her (with a frustrated exhale): Fine. Whatever. Your next husbands after daddy. Will you love them?
Me: Erm…
The Serb: Aren’t you done that book yet?
Me: Not yet. Let me read in peace.
The Serb: Do you realize that you’re an over-reader? [NOTE: say that last word out loud a few times.]
Me: Not cool, Serb. Not cool.
4yo daughter: Mommy! You look so beautiful in that red coat!
Me: Thank you, sweetie. It’s new.
Her: Yes, just like a big, red tomato.
Me (muttering): Where’s that #*&% receipt?
Me: It’s too quiet up there—what are you two doing?
Them: Getting married!
Me: What does that mean?
Her: I put on a fancy dress…
Him: We do some dancing…
Her: Then I smack him in the head with my doll…
4yo daughter (dropping her doll): Oh sh*t.
Me: You’re saying that wrong, sweetie. It’s pronounced shoot.
Her: Okay, mommy. Oh sh*t shoot.
Me: When L comes to visit, you’ll sleep with me and daddy so she can sleep in your bed.
8yo son: No way. She can sleep with you and daddy.
Me: That would be crowded. And weird. Can you imagine if I went to Calgary and had to sleep with L and her husband?
Him: What’s the problem? Will they be having…sexy moments?
Family Portrait.
To Catch a Pervert: The Trial
Published November 17, 2011 | Despite having polished off three (Serb-sized) glasses of wine at dinner, my husband insisted on accompanying me to the police station where I would complete my statement against Mr. Creep.
I think the Serb was expecting a gritty building that overflowed with drug dealers, hookers and Detective Sipowicz doppelgangers. In reality, it looked more like a library. Unimpressed, the Serb settled into a club chair to read pamphlets covering such hot topics as littering and reducing the cost of home heating.
Two burly, football-player-looking detectives interviewed me for over an hour. I wasn’t told much about the incident, except that it had been thwarted by quick-thinking lifeguards (#yayteenagers).
We went over my statement from the pool, which I realized was erring on the side of hyperbole (i.e. THIS MAN IS OBVIOUSLY A PEDOPHILE AND SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED NEAR CHILDREN!!!!!) but I reminded them that I was trying to persuade the pool manager at the time, not prosecute a pedophile.
Afterwards, one of the detectives walked me back to the lobby, where my husband was passed out dozing in a chair. The Serb stood up, approached the detective and shook his hand.
“I just want to thank you for everything you do,” my husband said. “And I hope you get this guy and—” The Serb leaned towards the detective. I expected a platitude along the lines of “put him away for good” or similar.
“I hope you beat the shit outta him.”
The detective’s eyes widened and I wondered briefly if I’d need bail money. Then he burst out laughing. “Unfortunately, we can’t do that, sir, but it doesn’t mean we don’t want to.”
It took six months for the case to go to trial. Six months of nightmares featuring Mr. Creep’s vile face leering at children. Six months of Google searches looking for his name. Six months of contemplating if I could blitz his neighbourhood with “This Man is a Pedophile” posters without getting caught.
During the 90-minute drive to the courthouse I was on the verge of tears and nausea. I was met by the prosecutor—she was the Doogie Howser of D.A.s and didn’t look old enough to babysit, let alone battle pedophiles—who did a wonderful job putting me at ease and walking me through the process.
She encouraged me to answer honestly and not worry if I couldn’t remember something. I was also warned that Mr. Creepy would be in the room, and it would be a small room, likely with some friends or family, but she would also do her best to block him from my view so as not to distract me from the questioning.
The detectives who took my statement were also there and they mentioned that Mr. Creep would look different without his pompadour toupee (he’d obviously realized it made him memorable), and that witnesses had given varying estimates as to his age (I suspected he was in his early 40s).
I was asked to wait in the courthouse coffee shop until I was called to the stand. I didn’t open my book or laptop. I simply stared at nothing, willing myself not to puke when faced with the monster that had been haunting my dreams.
Finally, it was my turn. The detective brought me to the room and again cautioned me that it would be cramped and Mr. Creep was there with his supporters. I entered a space no bigger than my garage (note: I have a single-car garage). I stepped up to the witness box—it really was just like TV, only more cramped and more real—and swore to tell the truth on a bible. I sat down and focused solely on the prosecutor, convinced that I would start bawling if I saw Mr. Creep.
The prosecutor calmly and efficiently walked me through the events of six months prior. I read my statement aloud. She thanked me for my time and sat down as the defence attorney prepared to cross-examine me.
And that’s when I saw him.
He was sitting on a bench with family members surrounding him. He did not look like Chris Isaak at all. He looked like a balding, pathetic Steve Buscemi in a twenty-dollar suit. Was this the same man? Could this frail, little old man be the same monster I’d lived with for half a year?
The defence attorney was at a podium that did not block my view of Mr. Creep. My heart was beating in my throat as I tried to focus on the attorney’s questions.
Was I an expert in identifying sexual deviance? What made me so sure his client was allegedly looking at children? How could I state that a stranger was “obviously a pedophile?” Where was I positioned in relation to his client? What colour was the pool flotation device that his client allegedly had in his possession? Was I not distracted by the waves or my own child? Did I wear contact lenses? Was my prescription current?
I might have loathed the attorney more than I did Mr. Creep. “How can you defend people like this?” I wanted to scream. Instead I answered his questions with a shaky voice, trying desperately not to cry, furious that he was making me doubt myself.
Near the end I managed to say that in certain cases a parent’s intuition is more accurate than any psychology degree (“so suck it” was my subtext), but I still felt that I had failed. I left the stand in tatters. The detective walked me out and assured me that I’d done my job perfectly and not to worry about having compromised the case. Then he filled me in on some details he couldn’t share prior to my testimony.
Mr. Creep was in his mid-60s and lived at home with his parents. Police had confiscated his computer, which was filled with child pornography. He was currently on probation, prohibited from owning a computer or going near children, and they were watching him closely. With or without the ridiculous hair, Mr. Creep was a monster.
Sitting in my car, I finally let myself have a good, long cry. I drove home and hugged my babies a little tighter. I tried to put the case out of my mind, but obviously I could not.
A month later I received a call from the detective. There would be no trial (did I mention this was only a pre-trial and I’d been expecting to repeat the entire mess?!?). Mr. Creep had been caught in a Wal-mart parking lot downloading child pornography onto his new computer. He was immediately arrested and given a sentence of 18 months without parole. His name was entered in a database of registered sex offenders. It was over.
But as we all know, especially this week, it’s never really over.
**The ha ha will resume next Monday—mama’s having a hard time with the news this week**
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