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
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.
Fun Daddy is in Charge. What Could Possibly Go Wrong?
Published November 3, 2011 | Many years ago (2000 B.C. – aka Before Children) I had a job that involved a few business trips. Although they never lasted more than a week, preparing the Serb for my absence often took that long (highlighting takeout menus and stocking up on cereal, for example).
Now that we have kids, the Serb is infinitely more capable in the domestic arts; however he’s never been with both kids for more than one night while they’re in school and he’s working.* Until this week.
I’m currently in New York at a writer’s conference for three days and you’d think I’ve been deployed overseas for a year by the way my family is reacting, which can be summed up thusly:
Four-year-old daughter: “Mommy I will miss you so much. Please don’t go. Will you come back? Do you promise?”
Eight-year-old son: “How many presents will you bring me?”
Forty-year-old Serb: “I won’t see you for a week! What are we gonna eat?!?!”
Granted, this does make me feel somewhat appreciated (FYI, the son is getting socks), but the effort I’ve put into getting them ready has been monumental. Every moment of every day has been accounted for with directions, instructions and ministrations.
It should be noted that the Serb has a Tupperware phobia.
Does this make me a hyper, anal-retentive narcissist for thinking the world stops when I’m not around, or simply an astute—not to mention clairvoyant—household organizer?
Stay tuned…
* I don’t mean to leave the impression that my husband is clueless about child rearing—he’s very involved with his kids, home from work by 4pm and always focused completely (sometimes annoyingly) on them. It’s the day-to-day minutia that he’s not familiar with. He’s Fun Daddy and I’m Get Sh*t Done Mommy.
Camping is for Suckers. And the Serb.
Published July 25, 2011 | When it comes to camping, my motto is, “5-star or No-star”—which essentially means I don’t camp. As a kid, my family and I camped our asses off. Every weekend from May through September we were parked in a trailer (or in a tent when I was really young, but I’ve repressed those memories).
Many of these trips were fantastic, especially if our campground had a pool or was near a beach. Unfortunately, this rarely happened. My parents were purists when it came to outdoor pursuits and we were often stuck in the sticks with nothing but dormant train tracks and a backgammon board to amuse us.*
As an adult I tried dating outdoorsy guys—I did live in the Rocky Mountains after all—but they inevitably wanted to go mountain biking or cross-country skiing or camping. It’s not that I can’t do these things; it’s that I would rather not. I can be a total Sporty Spice, as long as it involves water sports or intermittent snacking (thus, windsurfing+slurpee=heaven).
Part of what drew me to the Serb was our shared disdain for outdoor adventures. One of our first dates involved watching The Amazing Race while scarfing DQ Blizzards and yelling at the slow competitors.
In recent years my husband has discovered a heretofore unknown appreciation for camping. I blame Survivor Man and Bear Grylls (also Mountain Equipment Co-op, the coolest outdoor gear store ever).
After one tenting trip as a family, I made a crucial discovery: moms do all of the work. It’s like being a pioneer woman, what with the cooking and the cleaning and the washing and the lack of flush toilets. This didn’t matter when I was the kid camping with my mom. But now that I’m the mom? It kinda sucks balls.
Thankfully, the Serb’s fascination with the great outdoors can be foisted upon shared with our eight-year-old son. This past weekend they went camping while the girl and I stayed home. I left the planning and packing up to the Serb because he waits too long to do it and if I followed his lead, we would be divorced by Monday.
The night before they left he dropped a hundred bucks on gear. The morning they left he spent two hundred more on food and “a bit of beer.”
Here are the results…
This is for two nights, people.
He assured me that other stuff was in there. I’m not convinced.
Suitcase, complete with fancy ribbon to distinguish it from all the other suitcases at the campground.
Cookies? Check. Wine? Check. Marshmallows? Check. Chips? Check. High probability of barfing? Check and check.
I'm assuming a park ranger will be maced at some point.
The gear included (but was not limited to): battery-operated fan, 3 flashlights, flint, matches, lighter, portable DVD player, walkie talkies, mini stove, mini bbq, 4 tarps, 3 jugs of water, frying pan, frying pan with grill markings, electric pump (for the air mattress), pillows(!), and 87 bungee cords. If I hadn’t put my foot down on buying the solar-powered shower, they would have needed a U-Haul.
If Survivor Man went to Club Med, he would be my husband.
*My folks eventually saw the light, ditched the camper and bought a timeshare. Just in time for my sister and I to move out of the house.
Secrets of a Serbian Party Ninja
Published June 23, 2011 | I’ve been married to the Serb for eleven years and in that time we’ve been lucky enough to attend a few cultural shindigs. The recent wedding of his cousin, with over 600 people at the reception, was the pinnacle of my training.
It could be my giving nature or that I watched Karate Kid II yesterday, but I’ve decided to impart you with some wisdom from the Rakija-soaked trenches. Here is a handy cheat sheet to help you survive—nay thrive—should you ever find yourself in a similar situation.
Get Yer Hooch On
I purchased my hoochie mama dress months ago, but chickened out when I realized the celebration would begin hours before the ceremony. Also, despite my lack of religious upbringing, it seemed wrong to have so much cleavage flopping around a house of worship. Fortunately, most of the other women had two outfits planned all along, so my girls had a chance to come out and play after all.
Me being demure. I don't know why I'm wearing sunglasses indoors.
Me doing my best Blake Lively impression.
Barfing and Car Crashes Aren’t Cool
Prepare hangover cures and designated driver arrangements in advance. The Serb swears by Ibuprofen and vitamin B before bed while I rely on a quarter pounder with cheese for breakfast the next day. As for the driving situation, I think it’s an unspoken Serbian marriage vow that the wife will be DD until death do they part.
Kako Si?
Like most people learning a language, the first Serbian phrases my husband taught me were the bad ones. As a result, I can make a sailor cry in ten words or less. Make sure you have some phrases in your back pocket that can be used in polite company (“moje ime je Lori” = “my name is Lori” “hvala” = “thank you” “Ja sam oženjen” = “I am married”).
Prepare for the Meat Sweats
A Serbian wedding reception without meat is like a politician without a sex scandal: it’s just not done. This reception was held at an Italian banquet hall and offered guests the standard soup, salad, pasta, chicken parmesan with veggies and tiramisu (*shudder*). What made our dining experience uniquely Serbian were the massive trays of lamb, pork and beef that supplemented the meal (the lamb and pig having been recently roasted on a spit). Any leftover meat was brought out at midnight along with the mountains of cookies and cakes.
This isn't from the actual reception, but you get the idea.
Embrace the Sweaty Palms of Others
A kolo is a folk dance that is part bunny hop, part line dance and all sorts of awesome. People hold hands and perform a grapevine-type move from side to side. The music usually gets faster and one song can last over five minutes with hundreds of people snaking across the dance floor, around the tables and maybe even through the kitchen. Dancing kolo is a wonderful metaphor for life: some take it very seriously while others smile the entire time; most parts are beautiful but it can also get a bit messy; and, just when you think you’ve got the hang of it, a new move is thrown your way. All you can do is hold on tight and try not to step on too many feet.
I can’t get this thing to embed, but here is a quick link of a kolo that began before the meal was even served, or the bride and groom even sat down: IMG_2341
How to Survive a Serbian Easter Extravaganza
Published April 25, 2011 | I don’t know much about a lot of things, but I have learned a few valuable lessons since marrying the Serb. More than a few of these lessons concern Serbian holidays: New Year’s, Slava and Easter are all unknown quantities for a semi-wiccan WASP from the prairies. Here are some essential guidelines for making it through the day:
Energy
My Easter morning began at five o’clock, when my family joined our daughter’s hippie nursery school class on the shore of Lake Ontario. Every year they hold an enchanting celebration that involves watching the sunrise, singing some songs and hunting for eggs (not the chocolate kind). It was an amazing start to the day, but the day felt like it should’ve been over by four o’clock that afternoon.
Lesson: Pacing is everything – stock up on Red Bull or nap in the car between visits.
One of those kids is mine. It was too early and dark to be sure exactly which one.
Slippers
Serbs love their slippers. When you remove your shoes in their home, you will immediately be handed a pair of slippers, regardless of your outfit. God help you if you refuse their slippers and you’re wearing nylons.
Lesson: Stick with basic black – it goes with everything.
As Mr. Gunn would say, "Make it work..."
Spare clothes
It’s a very long day, full of chocolate, juice boxes and other hazards. As anal vigilant as I am, accidents are unavoidable. Yesterday was a prime example: my three-year-old wet her pants and I was caught unprepared. Luckily, she fit into our cousin’s rolled-up leggings. Our twenty-something cousin with the perfect hair.
Lesson: Don’t stand next to skinny cousin for photos.
Why yes, that is an AK-47 she's holding...
Iron gut
Rakija (pron. rak-ee-ya) is a Balkan brandy that could remove rust from a bumper. Despite my protests, I’m always given an overflowing glass. In eleven years of marriage, I’ve probably had less than a full shot.
Lesson: Take a few fake sips, excuse yourself from the table, and immediately apply a soothing balm to your mouth.
Serbia’s version of the Caramilk secret.
Express yourself
Hauling a Serbian/English dictionary to family gatherings is uncouth and tiring, so I rely on key phrases to get me through the day: My husband is beautiful and I smell stinky farts are sure to get a laugh from the aunties.
Lesson: Do not utter any other words my husband has taught me – if I said them in Sarajevo, I’d be arrested.
Sweet tooth
I’ve been trying to convince one aunt to open a bakery because her cookies are like nothing I’ve ever tasted. But they’re just brought out to cut the sweetness of the cakes (yes, plural). Dessert is its own food group in the Serbian diet and if you refuse to partake – as I did yesterday – they look at you like Andrea Martin in My Big Fat Greek Wedding when she learns the fiancé is a vegetarian (“What you mean you no want no meat?”).
Lesson: Take some cookies on your plate and then wait for the three-year-old to come by and pilfer them.
Feel free to lick your screen.
Which brings us to the final lesson, perhaps the most important one of all:
Wear stretchy pants
Meat, cheese and bread are the staples of Serbian cuisine – combine these with homemade hooch and decadent desserts, and you’ve got yourself a recipe for splitting seams.
Lesson: Don’t eat for a few days before your visit, buy some TUMS and enjoy the ride.
32 CommentsMoments of Mommy Fail
Published April 11, 2011 | All parents suffer through moments of feeling they’ve failed their children, sometimes on a daily basis. Here are some of my worst, and by that I mean best (because they’ll make you feel better and that’s what I’m here for), examples:
1) Poisoned my kids
My children are highly suspicious of my cooking, with good reason. A few roast chickens have required extra cooking time (via the microwave) after my kid bit into a bloody drumstick. On occasion, my husband has caught me sniffing a bag of deli meat with a suspicious look on my face. His reaction is usually along the lines of, “Jeezuz – just throw it out before someone pukes!”
2) Torched the Serb
This probably falls under “marriage fail,” but it was definitely an omen of things to come. We were renting a house with a small backyard. After living in an apartment for years, we were eager to do some outdoor grilling. Our barbecue was a cheap piece of crap that was prone to flare-ups (cue ominous music).
One day, my husband lit the grill and a massive whoosh of fire leapt a few feet in the air. I was standing in the doorway talking to him when it happened. Was my first impulse to yank him safely inside? Shield his body from the flames with my own? Nope – I slammed the door in his face. And locked it. Between this and the butter overload, the Serb is convinced I’m trying to not-so-subtly end him.
3) Stole kids’ toys from under them (aka Grinched ‘Em)
I went to a ‘Simplifying for Your Kids’ workshop last year and came away inspired to donate, sell or throw out 90% of their toy inventory behind their backs. In truth, a stormtrooper helmet was the only item missed – and they have more fun playing with a shoebox, deck of cards and duct tape than anything else – so I don’t feel too badly. To the outside observer, however, I’m battling Joan Crawford for Mother of the Year.
4) Used threat of manners school with fake Skype
My seven-year-old son eats like a psychotic baboon. Food goes flying, fingers get slurped and utensils are just for show. During one particularly memorable pasta dinner, I threatened to send him to manners school (a boarding school version, no less) if he didn’t get his act together. I even grabbed the laptop and Googled “manners school” to show him they existed. My asinine threat was followed up with me pretending to dial his teacher up on Skype (one-way viewing, obviously) so she could monitor his eating habits during mealtime. The week that it lasted was a buffet of well-mannered bliss.
So c’mon, spill it – what’s your best fail?
Word.
29 CommentsMy Naturopath’s Gonna Kill Me
Published March 31, 2011 | Dear Dr. Lori,*
I know we made some compromises before my trip about things like no dairy/sugar for Tequila/corn chips, but I have to confess – I haven’t exactly lived up to my end of the bargain. Like, at all.
It started off great: I took rice cakes on the plane and put Splenda in my Mojito. I consumed gallons of water and did serious cardio every day. But here’s the thing: I’ve brought my family to Mexico to hang with my best pal from high school, Lori,* and her family. She lives thousands of miles from me and we’ve recently reconnected after a 15-year estrangement.
So basically, we think of each other (and ourselves, when we’re together) as 25-years-old. We asked ourselves, do we want to look back on this trip in 30 years and congratulate ourselves for eating gluten-free? Or do we want to remember getting so plastered on a homemade vat of Sangria that even my three-year-old was giving me the side-eye?
The ultimate side-eye.
You’re a cool, young (compared to me, anyway) gal, Dr. Lori. I figure you’ll understand. Plus, my kids are still on Eastern Standard Time, which means that they want dinner at 3 pm and breakfast at 4 am. Not many things would drive a woman to drink faster than that schedule (honestly, it’s a miracle that I’m not hoovering gelato by the gallon).
I’ll be home soon enough so you’ll be able to resume your masochistic ways with me. Until then, I have to go and eat my weight in guacamole.
Yours truly,
Lori
p.s. To answer the question I know you’re dying to ask: Not really, but I suspect one street taco will get me back on track.
What am I, made of stone?!?!
That would be fried cheese.
*Yes, her name is Lori, too
Dear Everyone: I’m Not Pregnant
Published March 14, 2011 | I went to a naturopath last month for a…let’s just call it a procedure…which resulted in the discovery that I am rife with Candida (aka yeast, aka omigodhowgross), and it can’t be dealt with in a pop-in-a-Monistat-and-be-done-with-it kinda way because this crap has overtaken my body. I’m now on week four of a Candida cleanse in an attempt to starve the yeast. In a nutshell, this means no sugar, dairy, wheat, vinegar, fruit, booze (!!), refined foods or happiness.
The timing is a disaster. Since starting my cleanse, I have: hosted four dinner parties; attended two others; gone to a writer’s group meeting at the home of a chef; been at a Serbian bridal shower (which is like a formal Italian wedding, only fancier and with more food); seen my husband cook a gourmet meal with appropriate wine pairings.
And I can’t enjoy any of it.
Perhaps not coincidentally, I’ve also become a raging bitch. As the yeast in my system dies off (omigodhowgross) it manifests as me losing my sh*t for no apparent reason. During these outbursts the Serb will enquire, “Is that you or the cleanse talking?” which is the equivalent of asking if I might be getting my period soon. There’s a strong possibility that I will punch him in the face before this is over.
Another side effect is people thinking I’m pregnant. When I decline a glass of wine by explaining that I’m doing a cleanse, I get the look: that side-eye you give newly knocked up women who refuse booze because they’re “on antibiotics.” I suppose it’s a testament to how much I drink.
I told my naturopath that I’d persevere on this joy-sucking purification process until my trip to Mexico at the end of March. I can forego flour tortillas for corn without a problem, but passing on the papayas, the salsas, and the Margaritas? No gracias.
Thankfully, my naturopath understands the absurdity of going to Mexico with a bag of brown rice. Not only has she assured me that I will be able to enjoy fruit and other forbidden foods in moderation, she also tested me for sensitivity to different alcohols and Tequila came out the big winner. Now that is a cleanse I can get behind.
- Hello, lover…
47 CommentsLearning to Cook at the Liquor Store
Published February 28, 2011 | My husband, the Serb, is not known for his cooking prowess: when we first met he was subsisting on sandwiches and cereal. Things didn’t change much after we were married – before leaving on business trips, I would go through various takeout menus and highlight the things he liked so that he wouldn’t starve (his friends were equal parts envious and mortified).
Despite these precautions, we would often have phone conversations during my trip that went something like this:
Me: How are you?
Him: Hungry.
Me: What did you have for breakfast?
Him: Cereal.
Me: Lunch?
Him: Cereal.
Me: Dare I ask…dinner?
Him: Ugh. Cereal. I feel kinda sick…
After having kids, he managed to learn a few pasta dishes and he’s a whiz on the barbecue, but the Serb often voices his wish to cook more. For his fortieth birthday my parents gave him a cooking lesson, which he attended this past weekend.
It was held at a liquor store that is set up like a cooking show and the menu – called Comforts of Home – consisted of tantalizing offerings like prosciutto-stuffed chicken breast and included wine pairings. Obviously these were ideal conditions with which to lure a Serb into the kitchen. Or so I thought. (Cue foreboding music)
My first clue that something was amiss came in the form of a text message. Some things you should know to fully appreciate this exchange:
(1) My daughter lost my husband’s wedding ring and I’m trying not to take it personally, but her admonishments that I’m not married to “her” daddy make it difficult.
(2) Before leaving, my husband removed the manicure my daughter had given him (OPI’s Pink-a-Doodle) that morning.
(3) The Serb and I express our love in ways that may seem…inappropriate…to the uninitiated.
This is a fairly typical textversation.
Afterwards, my iPhone was silent for two hours. I had visions of him being manhandled by some foxy forty-somethings or sitting alone in the corner while couples fed each other bison sliders. I feared that whatever he was enduring would put him off cooking entirely.
None of these things happened. As soon as he sat down, a couple of grandmas (Peggy and Penny) swooped in and took my Serb under their collective wing, doting on him for the entire class. Also, it was a cooking demonstration class and he wasn’t actually expected to cook – he simply sat back and enjoyed the show, with unlimited refills of Pinot Noir. Not only that, the dessert was a baked apple dish that his late grandma used to make in Serbia when he was a boy.
So to recap, my husband got babied by some sweet old ladies while a professional chef fed him and liquor store employees saturated him in pricey hootch. It was, in his words, the Best. Saturday. Ever.
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