Design Envy

Did I ever tell you that I work from home? I do. It’s swell.

Last summer, when I decided to make the switch, my husband suggested we convert our guest room into a home office. We ripped up the old carpet, put down wood floors, got rid of our old futon, painted the room, bought a sofa bed, desk and chair and then…nothing. I haven’t done another thing to it.  I sit there staring at blank walls and no window coverings.  I did buy a cool rug – but it’s way too small for the room.

 

Blank space in our house is no surprise.  The walls in my living, dining room and family room were empty for a good 3 years after we moved in.  Even now people use the words “open” “uncluttered” and “low-key” to describe the house, when I think they really mean “undecorated” “unadorned” “sterile” and “boring”.  We do have pictures of our kids up – a LOT of pictures – but that doesn’t count.

I watch those HGTV shows and get mildly inspired to do something different. And then – nothing.

You know what doesn’t help? A husband who would live in a plain, white box if he could.  His idea of clutter is what normal people call living.

Sorry – displacing my anger. It’s not his fault. I just have decorating paralysis (except at Christmas – when I turn into Holly Holiday and it looks like the North Pole threw-up in my house).

One of my good friends in NYC knows how to do it. She’s got an amazing eye for all things beautiful.  When I had gone to see her a few weeks ago, I secretly snapped these photos. I’m sure she won’t mind me sharing them with the world (on that note, welcome to my blog Israel and the Netherlands, I’m glad to have you!).

A few years ago she went on a camping trip out west and took some amazing shots. She’s a great photog too – annoying right?

She simply enlarged the photo and had it printed on canvas. Perfect. Why can’t I do that? Well, I can. But will I? Probably not.

Try to ignore the stunning woodwork on the walls, the beautiful club chairs and country bench and focus on the canvas art.

 

She had it done through one of the many websites doing canvas printing. I love it. I hereby promise to do something creative and fun with my home! Maybe.

She also had a smaller one done for the entry hall – this is another one of her photographs.

You should see her kitchen. So great. I couldn’t take a secret picture of that because she was in there the whole time.

There’s always my next visit.

“lunch”

Some days I feed my kids fruits, vegetables, and whole grains.  They wake up to homemade pancakes, have a balanced lunch and go to bed after a healthy dinner.

Other days I have back to back work calls and they are left to their own devices. My girl will whip up some PB&J sandwiches for the boy, or he’ll have whatever assortment of fiber laden food he can find in the pantry (did I tell you about his obsession with raisins, oatmeal and apples. Good for his little body, not so good for our septic system. We have 3 bathrooms in our house and 4 plungers. Sorry. Had to go there. He’s cute, but he’s deadly).

Then there are total and complete fail days. Days when I start working at 6am and forget that I have to feed anyone until I’m dragging them through Target at lunch and they start foaming at the mouth for “beef” hot dogs and disgusting blue ice drinks.

Guess which day today was?

Love, Mother of the Year. Again.

1998

I need to do one more post about my baby starting high school.

It has to happen. Indulge me. I need it. Because I think I’m going to break down.

She was just born – yesterday. I remember it very clearly, and I have an awful memory, trust me – I don’t remember what happened this past weekend.

She was a week early. We were living in New York City in a one bedroom walk-up. My husband was on the couch – because we’d just had a great, big fight and i had kicked him out of bed. I don’t remember what the argument was about but I’m sure I was right. I went into labor at 5am.

We hopped a cab to the hospital – my water broke around 82nd street. I’m sure worse things have happened in a cab. We tipped him well.

Then it’s a blur – involving a revolving epidural and some really great nurses.

And at 9:00 on the dot – she was there.  Botoxed lips and all.  And then everything started on fast forward…

And today – she’s off to high school – 9th grade – 4 years away from college…gulp.  Maybe she won’t go to college, maybe she’ll stay with me forever? Pray for that.

I’m proud, I’m happy, I’m sad, I’m proud.

If I could will the universe to make things good for her I would – but she doesn’t need it. I need it. I need it bad.

Thank god I still have my 10 foot tall baby boy.

The Road to Hell?

So tomorrow, at 6:30am, my little girl starts high school.  Yes. I know. High School.

But….but…she was just born yesterday. How did this happen? Make it stop.

At the beginning of the summer, she started talking about getting her cartilage pierced. Then she talked about it for 90 days and 2,160 minutes non-stop.

Last week, mission accomplished. Finally.

What I forgot to tell her was to ease our family into it.  Most of her aunts, cousins, etc. love it. But some folks, aka MY MOTHER, were mortified. Why? Why? She asked. She didn’t say it – but I knew what she was thinking. This is an open door, this is the start of delinquency, what’s next – Crack? No. No. And No.

Between you, me and the world – I had no issues with it.  Dating, Facebook, the World Wide Web? I have issues with. A second earring? Not so much.  My two cents on this –  as long as she’s a good human being in the world and isn’t hurting herself or anyone else (and not a crack addict) – go for it.

Her Dad was a little more reluctant and unsure, but he knows she’s a good kid and went for it (ok, he didn’t go for it but he didn’t block the door).  We’ll take it.

Ode to Sunday

Keeping it real.

This is a clean laundry.

I am triumphant!

Sadly, these clothes will sit here for a few more days. Maybe more.

Soon we’ll start using this pile like a makeshift closet.

I’ll feel guilty for about 2 seconds a day.

Then, around Wednesday, I’ll make the kids put the clothes away.

That’s why I had them.

Ode to Saturday

Here’s what our Saturday morning sounds like…times 10…

jealous much?

I hope somebody gives me this much love and attention today.  The end.

Fish Tale

I found some old photos I thought I’d share. These are from early spring – when you still needed a sweatshirt, remember those days? I want them back. Now.

My son had really wanted to go fishing, begged us for weeks and weeks.  We finally gave in and met some family to enjoy a day on the water.

Shockingly, my girl wasn’t into it. Not shocking in an ironic way – shocking because she’s usually such a good sport about everything.

She tried to get out of it – but we made her go. Insert the eye rolling.

Last summer my boy had gone to a fishing camp for a week, so he had all his own equipment – his own bait, and his own tackle kit (is that what you call that box with all the disgusting stuff in it?).  He was ready.

I had planned on taking a couple of chairs and hanging out in the sun while the boys fished – I told my daughter she could join me – more eye rolling.

Here’s how it went down:

Here’s the boy, excited, dimpled, and ready to catch some fish!

Then the waiting game begins. This is normal, people tell me. “You have to be patient”, I tell him. “Give it time”, I say.

This is 40 minutes in.

This is 80 minutes in – he looks over at me in my chair, taking a million pictures and having coffee – I tell him to hang in there.

At this point my daughter is bored and decides to pick up one of the…tees, hooks, lines….what’s that thing called? Rod!

Two seconds later. Or maybe less. This happened.

She caught a fish.  This is the look that all sisters give their brothers to torture them.

This is the look he gave her back….I imagine him saying,”Son of a B*%#h!!!”

Here’s the first of FIVE fish she caught within 1/2 an hour. All with UGGs on.

True story.

Work

So the blog is called wife – mother – eventplanner. I’ve had some emails from my tens of readers asking about the end of that blog name. Why don’t I talk about it more? Can they have more details about the job? I’m a planner how? Can I explain? Yes. No. Maybe.

Although…technically am I really even an event planner anymore?  I’ve done the party/wedding planning – but that is not what I do anymore. I manage an event team in a big fat machine. I’m not exactly sure how much actual planning I do.  My fantastic, terrific team really carries that load.

Years ago, when people asked what I did – it was so cool to explain. I plan private events for ultra high net worth clients for a highly regarded firm..ohhhh. Sounds fancy. Then I’d talk about buying out Le Cirque in NYC or working with Kenny Loggins or Greg Norman….more oohs and ahhs. I’d talk about coming up with amazing room designs and invites and creative menus.  Even I was jealous of my job.

Now, when people ask what I do,  I just tell them my title. Which is nice. I never tell them the name of the company – because the firm that I joined, the one that I was proud of, was gobbled up by another company – ’08 was fun.  When I call this company The Machine – I’m not being sassy. Trust me, they’d think it was a compliment.  A machine means efficiency, progress, everything in its proper place and order.

I never talk about what I do – because what do I do? I spend all my time on calls or meetings – banging the drum, telling people how smart and capable we all are, providing air cover from the vultures so my team can actually do the work (or trying to).  I also have uncomfortable conversations. I’m really good at that. You need to tell a vendor they suck? I’m your gal. Your speaker is throwing a tantrum and not doing what you need? I’m on it. Once in a while I have an idea for something creative, which I pass on to my team because if left in my arms – the idea would die a slow, ignored death.

This post is whiny. Sorry. It sounds full of uptown problems and post bail-out bitching. There are still amazing things I get to do – and places I get to travel.  But technically my blog should be called wife-mother-defensive air traffic controller and official bad cop.

Please note that the below picture has nothing to do with this post…just a picture that makes me happy.

Virgo

My husband is a cat person.

If he was older, unmarried and a woman – he’d be a really good cat lady. He’s had cats all his life and loved them. Me? Not so much.

This is Virgo – he was with us for almost 12 years.  My husband had just graduated college, gotten a job in the big city and was about to move out of the Bronx – where he had been living for about a year.  As he was leaving, he went to the back of his old building to dump some garbage and a little, gray cat the size of a large rat ran over to him. It was love at first sight for both of them.

Virgo was not a gentle, loving, purring kitty. He was a Bronx born, garbage raised hooligan. He considered every touch a call to arms. He didn’t like to be pet. The irony. A pet that doesn’t like petting.  The only person in our family that even tried to love that cat was my husband – and he’s got the scars to show for it.

Virgo lived the good life. He went from eating garbage in the ‘hood to eating only Fancy Feast – my husband insisted. For most of his life he had a better healthcare plan than all of us combined and he was groomed way more than I was.

It was the first time I ever lived with a pet. I know, I know. Cats are easy. Cats aren’t dogs. Cats are low-key. Except this cat wasn’t low-key. This cat was wild, crazy and mean most of the time. And the liter box. Can we talk about the liter box? It’s box. Full of poop and pee that just lives with you. The horror.

That seat was his perch, his favorite spot in the house.  There is a permanent indent in the cushion where he sat – and where now, our new cat, also sits.  Yes, we got another cat. Lexi. The complete, polar opposite of Virgo. A loving, purring, soft, sweet little girl. You want her?

I don’t think I’ll ever be a cat person. Or a dog person. Or a fish….you get the point. But I’ve made my peace with cat living.

 

 

 

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