Over the years I’ve let some pretty stellar entertainment pass me by, like: Breaking Bad, Weeds, Lost, Shameless, Game of Thrones, Homeland, Mad Men … due to this crazy thing called life. You know life, right? The whole raising a family, having a job, trying to maintain a certain age, weight, and level of sanity (though your body fights you on it) thing? Yeah, that.
I’ve heard how enthralling and addictive these shows are but life got in the way. Well, that’s over. I’ve pretty much given up my life lately to binge watch some of these shows, so that I can have more stimulating conversations with people five years ago.
That said, I’ve found a strange effect from binge watching shows, aside from the one that makes me appear comatose and unresponsive. I start to feel like a character in these shows. Like they’re actually affecting my personality. For instance …
After a lump scare in my late-20′s, I learned that all lumps are not the C-word and it’s totally okay to get to 2nd base with yourself!
Let me tell you a tale, a tale of two titties (oh, how that word makes me cringe, but it’s so much better for the pun)…
After finding a pea sized lump and getting a needle biopsy, I was told that like the several million other young women with fibrous breast tissue, I would be required to get a yearly mammogram and ultrasound.
I’d heard horrible tales of the mammogram and it’s crushing pain. I feared the impending torture and dreaded that, what little my child bearing and breastfeeding had left unscathed, would be permanently altered.
By the time my appointment had rolled around, the fear of having something less benign than a fibroid cyst had started to set in, as well. If I can produce one kind of growth with no knowledge of it, why can’t I produce another kind?
While contemplating in the waiting room, I saw a woman, not a day under 100. OK, if she can do this, so can I, I thought, resigned to get through this. Continue reading →
Who knew the highly anticipated camp phone calls could be such a blow to a relationship? Oh well, when my baby is 1500 miles away from home, and I get a few minutes to talk — It’s every man, ahem mom, for herself!
It’s sleepaway camp time and everyone is getting their calls from the kiddos. I’ve found a pattern, in that I desperately want to strangle my husband after each call. Luckily for me (and not so much my husband), I’m apparently not alone.
Look, us moms are ready. We’ve stayed up until the wee hours waiting for the pictures to download — sometimes hitting “refresh” every minute, (and by minute I mean second) as they download one at a time. We’ve studied them like highly trained CIA agents, analyzing their smiles, their friends, their body language. Continue reading →
I know, you’re like, bring on the water works. I mean with a title like that there’s bound to be a sentimental, emotionally charged poem to follow, right? Well, you’ll have to see, but (Spoiler Alert), probably not . Not all of us have perfect marriages. Frankly, most of us don’t and I kinda think that’s OK. There’s some value in being a sometimes sucky wife – just ask my hubby…
I’m like many of you – going at the last minute to buy some cheesy cards that cost $5 bucks a pop and do little more than add to deforestation. I avoid the overly-sweet ones with watercolor painting on the front because my marriage isn’t perfect and the sentiments in those cards don’t quite reflect my feelings. So, I go with humor.
In fact, I’ve noticed that my husband and I have this weird tendency to re-buy the same multi-fold-out cards for each other on our respective holidays year after year.
The Father’s day card has a cat couple and it goes something like this: Continue reading →
In honor of April fools I want to say something to you insolent chumps! For years I’ve been writing this blog, biding my time for this very moment: APRIL FOOLS!!!
Yes, all these years you’ve come here looking for my observations on the ironies of life … oh, I’ll give you irony. I’ve completely duped you into thinking I’m just like you — a parent who can’t remember where I left my keys, nay, my kids … a quasi desperate housewife who may or may not make eyes at the pool guy, who can’t stand the way her husband leaves dishes by the sink, and who has ridiculous conversations with people while their nipples are showing(that happened more than once, hence the plurals). Continue reading →
Nearly a decade ago, I moved to the suburbs from NYC (it’s the sole reason I started my blog). In that time I’ve learned some pretty important things to ensure my survival, nay, my sanity.
If my ‘burb sent out a handbook it would look something like this. Feel free to use it as a mini-survival guide. Good luck and in the words of that guy on Hill Street Blues, ‘Hey, let’s be careful out there.’
All children must be signed up for multiple sports and extracurricular activities, to ensure that no family can plan anything on a Saturday until their kids are too old to want to spend Saturday’s with their family.
Do NOT be alarmed if you try to enter the wrong minivan or SUV, this is common. Try to lessen the confusion by putting fun stickers on your back windshield representing each of your children performing their favorite activity.
You can paint your house one of 477 shades of tan. Other colors will be categorically denied, so don’t even try it!
If your child has strep or hand foot and mouth, be aware that the entire town will know about it before you get his/her prescription filled. PS this same urgency in passing news applies to affairs as well!
As a suburban mom you are expected to start some kind of craft business immediately. Your choices are: hair accessories, jewelry, embellished clothing, or things you can print on card stock — anything else must be cleared through the Chamber of Commerce.
If you already have a job, you are expected to purchase these crafted goods, in bulk, at the myriad of local holiday boutiques that celebrate everything from Ramadan to Flag Day. Like PTA meetings, being absent is frowned upon.
If you do not find a grocery store or Starbucks within one mile of your current position, you’re lost and have entered an inferior neighborhood! Please stay calm and return to your suburb immediately.
You are required to join a gym. There, you must take spin classes with disco lighting, pretzel yourself into a reformer, and learn the art-form that is Zumba.
You will be expected to pressure clean anything and everything from your sidewalk to your dog. Be prepared.
Make sure your dog is cute, as neighbors will constantly stop to pet it. Be warned, the same neighbors will turn you in to the association the first time Rufus barks after 9PM. (Don’t name your dog Rufus)
Make an immediate trip to lululemon/Athetica/GapBody/Target … and pick up workout/athletic/golf/tennis gear that’s trendier than simply wearing sweatpants. Wear these goods at least 50 -100% of the time; in the winter, simply wear your athletic gear with Uggs.
You will need to attend a mind-numbing amount of birthday lunches/dinners for ladies turning anywhere from 30-50. Get there early, as who you sit next to (or don’t sit next to) can make or break your day.
Cut back on sex ASAP, as you will find yourself in conversations where moms discuss their infrequent, and unsatisfying sex life regularly — at lunches, parties, dinners, play-dates.
And stop giving blow-jobs! People in the ‘burbs are only expected to give them on birthdays and anniversaries (it’s one of the perks).
Living in the ‘burbs is a little like reading Us Weekly: Everything is sensationalized. It’s fun to discuss “who wore it best,” but not as much fun as playing Fashion Police. You will find yourself looking for cellulite/wrinkles on young skinny moms. And gossip is treated as gospel.
I hope this helps you fit into the suburban life you’ve chosen. Maybe I’ll see you at the next boutique sale — I’ll be selling picture frames with random findings glued on to them!
I know, that was a stupid question (and frankly, “stupid questions” are number 1 on my list of pet peeves), but at this point in my marriage, I’m thinking it’s possible that most things my hubby does falls into the “annoying” category, which probably makes living with me and absolute pleasure!
So, I’ve decided to take action, well action — in the form of an experiment. We’re all told, “You can’t change people, you just have to accept them,” unfortunately I can’t accept that advice anymore than I can accept my hubby’s, ahem, little ticks.
But maybe if we try not to sweat the small stuff slowly, you know, one small thing at a time, we can change our outlook?! That said, each week, I will TRY to accept a different (most likely NOT) Earth shattering annoyance, until I have accepted them all … or I’m too old to notice them anymore, whichever comes first.
I would love for you to do this with me!!! Because, like running a marathon, it helps to have someone to train with and complain with and stretch with. Though, no stretching will be required for this experiment, unless you want to stretch, I mean, it’s not prohibited either and if that’s what you need from me I say let’s do some toe touches.
For MY first week I will attempt not to complain about my husband’s parking for an entire week! This will be extremely hard, as my husband likes to take the first available spot upon entering any lot, which is usually also the farthest. He clearly didn’t read The Secret, which explained that you CAN get the best spot everyday, if you believe. I am a believer and frankly, I’m also lazy, and willing to circle endlessly, which ensures I ALWAYS get an impressive spot. In fact, I wish we all compared spots when we entered a mall or other establishment, so that I could show off my parking prowess!
To add to my hub’s penchant for picking bad spots he likes to park between cars when there are corner spots available (hello, only one side of your car is exposed to damage!), and he doesn’t know to park slightly closer to the nicer car or to car on his side!
He NEVER, well, only after my constant whining, reparks to straighten out the car (we’ll add my insistent whining to his list of pet peeves). We could be hanging off a curb or parked on a diagonal, and it just isn’t worth going into reverse, because apparently that’s a major chore.
Lastly, he doesn’t consider the fact that I’m usually in super high-heeled shoes and wedges! How is not thinking of my foot attire at time like that, or all the time for that matter?
By the time I enter a store I’m tired from having walked a mile. I’m possibly limping from having twisted an ankle and I’m most certainly hoarse from saying, “there’s a spot, look there’s a spot” while pulling in and continuing to point out ALL the spots we could’ve parked in as we walk through the lot.
So, I imagine my barking and bitching could also be on his list of peeves. Yes, I know, we seem perfect ladies, but we have little miniscule tiny barely noticeable flaws (we’re only human).
So, I will bite my tongue all week and see if I can let it go … and if letting it go makes us less bitter by the time we hit our destination, we call it a score. If not, I will of course, go back to complaining and pointing and whining, duh.
You can obviously pick your own peeve for this week and let me know what it is so I may use it in a column and of course, dedicate it to you!
Next week, be ready for (forgetting trash day)!
PS- Go check out my new show – The first episode it up!!!