How to find true love

Find someone that gets the following text from you at 6:30am after you’ve watched an episode of The Good Wife (which they don’t know) and they still answer you seriously.

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The End.

Cupid is stupid

I’m just coming back from a week long work conference, physically and mentally just coming back.
I got home in time to see all the beautiful Valentine’s posts, read all the tweets of love and devotion, and see the Instagram shots of flowers and gifts. I love seeing all the love – but I could care less about the day. This got me thinking (in a Carrie Bradshaw kinda way)…
Am I dead inside because I don’t care about Valentine’s Day?
I know my husband doesn’t believe me, but I really don’t want to go to dinner tonight. Even after all these years he thinks it’s some sort of trap. I love flowers but I love them all the time. Not just today. And Forrest was right – life is like a box of chocolates – except you know exactly what you’re going to get today.
You know what I’d like for him to get me? Those bags from IKEA. The big blue ones that hold everything and cost 50 cents? I’d post pics of them all over the place.
Know what else he could do? Put the new shower liner on in the bathroom. If he did that I’d tweet a love sonnet to him (ok, a haiku).
Does that mean I don’t love romantic gestures? No. I just don’t want them or need them today – I’d like a rain check for a really crappy day in March if possible.
Cupid isn’t stupid. I’m sorry I said that. He’s just not my kinda guy.

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Green with envy

I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again. I hope someone or something out there loves you in the pure, joyful way that this boy loves this cat. Signed, jealous.

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checking in…

So whatcha been up to? Hope you’ve been having some Christmas fun.  Here’s what we’ve been doing – non sequitur.

  • Started my Christmas shopping in September hoping to get ahead of the game, but the game won. I am still not done and it’s 2 days after Christmas.
  • Went to the ER the day before Christmas Eve (long scary story with a happy ending, all is good).
  • Made 12 dozen cookies. 12. Dozen. 144 cookies. Know what I learned? Even after making 144 cookies I still want to eat cookies.
  • Headed to NYC on Christmas Eve and came home with tons of great gifts and happy memories (and saw a truly ugly sweater, thanks Aunt Stacy).
  • Hosted a neighborhood gathering at our house a day after finishing my first week at a new job. It sounds stressful but it was so much fun. It was the perfect way to kick off our holiday fun – and I learned how to make eggnog. And I also learned that you can only drink about 2 cups of eggnog before wanting to throw-up!
  • Had some killer Chinese food on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Fa ra ra ra ra, ra, ra,ra ra.
  • Decided to cave in and get the kids a trampoline for Christmas. Look for future posts titled, “Why did we buy a trampoline?” and “Were we nuts when we bought the kids a trampoline? Yes!”.
  • Dropping off my girl for a session of winter camp today, sniff…sniff. It’s only 4 days but I really don’t like it when she’s gone.
  • Went to see The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. Don’t listen to all those Rotten Tomatoes. It’s a sweet, visual, musical movie. Does it have anything to do with the short story? Nope. But it does make you want to visit Greenland and Iceland – so there’s that.
  • Only watched A Christmas Story 3 to 8 times, much less than last year.
  • Santa brought our son some more inappropriate Xbox games. What can you do, that Santa is a crazy mofo.
  • My girl wanted a saxophone for Christmas and we decided to go for it. Instead of buying it outright (incase she changes her mind like the guitar. or the ukulele. or the harmonica. or the…) we decided to rent it from a music and arts store. What happened next was a tragedy of errors that resulted in us going to that store 4 times. I have only one thing to say to the 8 dudes that work there,” dudes, wearing a skinny tie and having a hipster beard only makes you look smart if you aren’t completely incompetent and stupid. You morons.” Sorry. That is all.
  • After we drop off my daughter at camp, we head directly to my parents house for Christmas Part Deux. Time to push aside the figgy pudding and make room for the garam masala.

To go with the bullets that make no linear sense – here’s some random photos from the past few days! I’m sorry the boy has no shirt on – but that’s how he rolls in the house. Just keepin’ it real. xoxo

 

Here’s me wrapped up in a blanket reading my new cookbook (Pioneer Woman!) and my son looking like an angel playing a killing game. I have guilt. Can you tell?

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Can you guess which plate of food is mine? Hint: it’s the one that burns going down.

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Even in her “ugly” sweater she looks beautiful!

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Here’s my two favorite men. I think next year they can switch places in the picture :-).

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She loved her saxophone, no thanks to the dopes at the music store. Sorry.

 

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This is my kids exchanging gifts they bought for each other. Is there anything better than that?

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Best Decision Ever.

Ummm…can we just skip over my explanation of not writing during the last 15 days? Ok. Thanks. More importantly – I couldn’t wait to write this post. 

We got married in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout. Really we did. Swear on June and Johnny we did.  And when we made that decision it was filled with worry and anxiety. Are we doing the right thing? Yes. Are we too young? Yes. Will we make it? I sure hope so. But once we were married and living our little life in NYC – all that worry went away. We had a great first year of marriage. Lots of traveling for work and for pleasure. Lots of painting the town red. Not a care in the world. If we wanted to eat out at 2 AM, we could. If we wanted to leave at a moment’s notice to hop a plane to a tropical island, we could. But in reality we never did. We were pretty tame. But we were happy.

Right after the holidays we decided that this would be the year we had a baby. Unlike the wedding/marriage/decision to stay together forever thing- this was an easy one. I loved kids. He…didn’t hate kids. It was perfect. We talked it through. We made a 6 month plan. We’d get our finances locked down. We’d figure out if we could stay in the apartment. We’d figure out if we needed to buy a car. We’d take part of the year to really sort it out. But we forgot something important.

I am a fertile myrtle.  My body was made for baby bearing, and I’m not just talking about my hips. Just looking at babies could get me pregnant. And indeed, just thinking of having a baby was all it took. Well, not ALL it took. I’m not magic, but you get the point. I got pregnant quickly. Supersonic preggers. Look Ma, I got skills!

We were so excited. I won’t brag about how easy breezy the first months were. No morning sickness. No nothing. Just happy little butterfly flutters in my belly. We found out what we were having, because, well, you know. I’m nosy. I need to know things.

A girl!! Exactly what we wanted.

After that, instead of a Friday night movie – we’d head to Barnes and Noble and look up baby names. There must be an Irish/Ukrainian/Indian name right? Not so much. We knew the middle name would be Anne, because 1) Indians don’t really have middle names so I was open to anything and 2) My husband’s family has a long line of strong, beautiful women with that middle name. She could have no other middle name.

But there was an Indian first name that I loved. Asha. It means wish. Not just a small, penny-in-a-fountain wish – but a deep, burning, full-of-love wish. Asha Anne? It could work. I began working on my husband, trying to convince him that this was the name for our little one. He wasn’t loving it, but I think I would have talked him into it. Eventually.

2 months into my “Asha” obsession, my husband came home from work with a deeper than usual frown on his face. Then he proceeded to tell me about a woman who’d just started in his group that was making his life miserable. Anyone care to guess what her name was? Anyone? Bueller? No? It was ASHA. What? Come on!  In the words of Vizzini in The Princess Bride – inconceivable!

Long story short, we didn’t go with that name. But we found something even better. There are so many other details about that time that fill my head.

I could tell you about my doctor (I’d never met a Hasidic Jew before and the first time we were introduced he said,” you don’t ask me why I have curls and I won’t ask you why you don’t wear a dot, ok? Loved him). I could talk about the raging postpartum depression I had that lasted for months, and then one day, just turned off like a light. I could talk about how we painted a hallway yellow and called it a baby room (it was beautiful).

I went into labor at 5am. We hopped into a cab and my water broke. The driver didn’t act surprised, #cabsaredirty. I was in labor for a bit and then she was born. I remember my husband clearly saying to me, in the midst of my epidural haze, “we’re a family”. The next few hours, days, weeks, months were a blur.

I’m sure a lot of people assumed she was a “surprise” because we were so young. None of our friends were even married, let alone parents. We lived in a city where it was normal to see a twenty year old strolling around with a baby – because she was the nanny, not the mommy.

But we were unapologetic. She wasn’t Asha, but she was. Because she was a wish. A plan. A purpose.

That was 15 years ago. There’s a ton of words I could use to describe her. She’s funny, smart, beautiful, kind, thoughtful, stubborn, careful, sarcastic, passionate, loyal – I could go on and on.  Every time someone from the outside world tells me how amazing she is, I try not to do what I naturally want to do – which is to say,” I know right?”. I just say thank you and go cry in a corner.

Happiest Birthday to my first-born. Here’s what happens when you blink.  Your baby goes from this…

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To this…

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Nice Doggy…

We had a yard sale this morning.

Apparently this is the weekend for this type of thing. We got out there early – really early and had people all morning.

Our neighborhood has great walking paths – there’s always folks out with their babies or dogs or both.

Now…before I begin the rest of this post…let me be clear. There’s one thing that I usually don’t discuss with people. No, not religion or politics or money – I have no problem talking about that stuff (as long as you’re a grown-up and not secretly angry).

What I’m talking about is a subject near and dear to many people’s hearts. I’m talking about pets.  Pets. Specifically, my non-love for/of them. My complete un-need for pets. I know. I’m a monster.  I don’t stroke, coo, or otherwise touch them. Do I wish them harm? No! NO! I love that you love pets. Dogs, cats, birds, whatever. Good for you. It’s just not my thang.

My husband is a cat person. He’s had and loved cats his whole life. He’s made our children cat people too.  And we have one. Lexi, a very pretty Calico. Before her we had a very street smart, rat-turned-cat that my husband found behind a dumpster in the Bronx named Virgo.  I’ve posted pics before.  I offer this not as an excuse, but merely as part of my history.

Back to the yard sale.

As I said, we set up early for all the hardcore “buyers” who troll the neighborhood at 6am. During the course of the morning, we met many of our near and far neighbors. Some were curt and all business – nodding and forging ahead. But many were super friendly. Stopping to chat and look around.

Many of the awesome folks that stopped had dogs. And inevitably, I felt deep guilt when I didn’t acknowledge the dog. Because you see I know you love that dog. And I think that dog is awful cute. But here’s what happens, when I say something about the dog, like, “oh how cute” or “what a sweetie” or something – all of which I mean sincerely –  you immediately loosen the harness so the dog can come closer and I can pet said dog.

And then….nothing. You get nothing from me. I start stuffing my hands in my pockets. I start fixing my hair. I do anything but pet/stroke/touch the dog.

Awkward.

Because what you don’t know is that I don’t even pet the animals that live in my house.

I blame my parents. We never had pets – until I went away to school – then my family had a pet revolution. Everywhere you looked there was a big, fluffy dog. I missed out.

So you see I appreciate you and your love for the dog/cat/bird/fish – but I’d rather not touch it.

Is that ok?

Am I still a good person?

I’d rather kiss a 100 snotty babies than rub a dog’s belly. I’m a freak.

Not news.

Not your average Joe.

10 days into my life as a freshman in college, I walked over to my friend’s dorm room to see if she wanted to catch an early dinner. She couldn’t, she was helping an old neighborhood friend catch-up on some math notes. She introduced me to him and I gave her a look – sure you’re “studying”. Later that night she came over and I got the scoop. They really did just study. She had known him for years. She and her brother spent tons of time with his outgoing, friendly sister. Him, not so much. But he was cute. Super cute. And super intense.  I found out everything about the dude. This guy was not here to have a good time. He didn’t laugh easily and he was almost always working.  He was a bit of a loner. The few friends he had were loyal and protective – just like he was. This was the guy for me.

The next part of the story is up for debate. He says I stalked him until he gave in. I remember it differently. Same outcome. I was 19, he was 21.

College was a blur of happy memories. Summers in NYC, jobs on campus and off, friendships and drama and occasionally some classes. We broke up a few times, for a day or two. Then he apologized and I took him back (again, I’m sure he has a different version but this is my blog. There’s no fairness in blogging.)

He graduated before me and moved into an apartment down the block from the dorm. He had a roommate named JFK (seriously. and he was as quirky as his name.) By the time I graduated he got a better job and moved into his own place. I moved in quickly after.

He’s never said to me that “he needed space” or that “he’s not sure he wants to commit”. From the very first day he was all in.

What followed was the anti-NYC story. Marriage and babies in our late 20s and early 30s. It didn’t make sense to many – but it was so natural to us.

We are a bit of a mismatch.  We always have been. Different things make us tick. As you know, I like to get to know people. any people. I love a good chat. I’m all about a party. I love to laugh, I do it often and at really silly stuff. On paper, I’m the kind of person that drives him batty and he’s the type of person that I would keep away from. He has an encyclopedic knowledge of music. I only know what I like. He’s emotional, intuitive and can breathe fire in a nanosecond. I’m pragmatic, fickle and it takes a lot to get me angry. But we have a really good time together. I won’t say the yin/yang thing because it’s not all that zen. It’s volatile and passionate and I wouldn’t last with anyone else.

A couple of days ago, on his 43rd birthday, 22 years into knowing him – I told him that this would be our best year yet. And he looked at me and said,”it better be.”

When I named this blog he couldn’t figure out why the word “wife” came before the word “mother”. He thought my role as a mother is what defined me, the thing that mattered the most to me. He was wrong.

Happy Birthday baby.

This post will make him extremely uncomfortable and exposed – so why not go for it and add photos right?

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Wowie Wedding

This was a weekend full of very important things. My little sister’s birthday (even though I forgot how old she was turning, damn you math!). It was also Father’s Day weekend, and I happen to know and love some of the best fathers around.

And then there was this.

Saturday afternoon, in a magical garden tucked into a park, right smack in the middle of a big city – we went to one of the most beautiful weddings that I have ever had the pleasure of being invited to. It was full of emotion, love, and humor. We only knew a handful of people at the wedding – and yet, each and every one of us there was so connected to the couple – that we felt connected. The ceremony was full of tears and joy and Madonna (the lyrics to Express Yourself were read aloud). There was even a happy heckler (the groom’s father) – in other words, perfection. The happy couple were two guys who never thought they’d be able to celebrate love in this way – legally and recognized.

The past few weeks in the East Coast have felt like the Tropics. Wet, dark, damp, humid, and hot. But not yesterday. Yesterday was divine. Literally blessed. If you listen carefully when you look at the pictures, you can hear birds chirping and the angels singing. True.

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And here’s the handsome couple. The Brooms (coined by them not me!).

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What did you expect? Pink boas? Well, maybe later.

After the vows we all walked to the reception and spent the rest of the afternoon drink…errr…I mean….celebrating. Lots of food. Lots of laughs.

Weddings are always beautiful. They are always touching and emotional. But, let’s face it, they aren’t always fun. You don’t leave a wedding thinking that’s the best time you’ve had in a while. You usually want to wish the couple well and get out of dodge fast. Not this wedding – this was a blast. When can we do it again!?!

Here’s some more spectacular views from that afternoon/evening/night. These photos should be titled,”God loves the gays. Here’s proof. Get over it.”

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And here’s me with one of the Brooms…the one that busts my chops constantly, the one that never misses a chance to make fun of me, the one that took me on my most favorite date night of all time, the one that knows enough secrets about me to break up my marriage and get me fired all in one fell swoop….Ok – that’s it. I have to spend more time with the other one.

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Congrats to Howie (uncle wowie to some) and Luigi!

This is how I know I’m old aka Happy Friday!

Here’s the cycle of events that went down last night that forced me to confront my impending fall right into a nursing home. And how I’m actually looking forward to it.

  • My daughter records a show call Tosh.O – which is highly inappropriate but highly hilarious. After I’ve caught up on all my cooking shows, I sometimes(always) watch it.
  • During one of the commercials (sometimes I forget I’m watching a recorded show and can fast forward) Tosh announced the line-up for Bonnaroo. 
  • Bonnaroo is a cool, outdoor music festival in Tennessee. My sister and her man went, camped and loved it. She told me all about it. That’s how I know.
  • Anyhoo. Tosh announced the line-up. Paul McCartney. Tom Petty. Wilco. Wu-tang Clan.
  • 3 days of music, fun and revelry. I decided we were totally going.
  • After the show ended I immediately went online to get tickets, look up details etc. Maybe I’d surprise my hubby with the whole thing all planned out. A cool off-the-cuff weekend for just the two of us!
  • The website offers a lot of info. It’s very tongue-in-cheek. Lots of cute jokes sprinkled in with the directions and stuff.
  • Then I read that the festival is on a farm, on rolling hills. Most people camp there – which I didn’t want to do. So I googled hotels/motels in the area. Maybe a nice bed and breakfast, I thought. I did find a Days Inn about 30 miles away.
  • Then I read the “safety” section of the website. Heat exhaustion is a rampant problem. “Communal” was a word used often and generously, as in, whatever you bring to the festival is communal and you should share and share alike. hmmmm.
  • Then I read a section called “traffic” about the miles and miles and miles of jammed cars leading up the festival.
  • I decided to leave that site and go to the travel site for the town. Surely we could have a nice stay there and enjoy the festival by day no?
  • No. It’s too far and too complicated to leave the festival and come back. According to all the chatter on the web anyway. And there’s a lot of chatter.
  • And then there was the weather. Last year, around that time, it was about 101 degrees. No joke.
  • Heat. Crowds. Traffic. “Communal”. Ok then. I’m out.
  • I went through a few minutes of mourning. Was I so rigid? Couldn’t I have a good time? Crowds aren’t just for mobs – they could be fun. So it’s warm. So what. So what?? So EVERYTHING. Was I nuts. Not one thing about that time sounded good. I shut the computer off in disgust.
  • I was so mad at myself for even considering it. I’m a granny. I’ve been a granny since I was 22.
  • When my husband came home I told him about my tortured plan and took him step by step through my thinking. About me grappling with trying to make this plan work, and then finally, realizing it wasn’t for us. I was hoping he’d say something like,”let’s make it work! It’s worth it for the music!”.
  • He actually said,”I’d sweat the whole time. And I hate people.”

Atleast I won’t be alone in the nursing home.

Downer Abbey

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For all of those folks who haven’t caught up on this season’s episodes of Downton Abbey, please stop reading and go enjoy your short-lived happiness with the show. What I mean is…SPOILER ALERT. Meh.

Sorry, I’m pissed. I know it’s an English melodrama. I know it’s not real. But really? Really?

Must I be raked over the emotional coals on each character? The maid who has to give away her little Charlie…Edith and her endless basket of bad luck…and Cybil.  Oh lord do not even get me started on Cybil.  2 doctors in a room and she still dies while they look at each other by the fire. Even Thomas and his tortured, closeted life makes me sad.

And then last week they kill Matthew. No. Wait. They kill Matthew after he and Mary joyfully welcome a son. After Mary tells him over and over again that he is the only person who knows her. AFTER a speech from the Earl of Grantham about happiness finally coming to the abbey.  I know, I know. Contracts expire. Actors have to move on. Couldn’t they have done a switcheroo a la Darren on Bewitched? Or the older sister from Rosanne?

It’s really bad when you are praying for more time spent on O’Brien just to avoid the sadness.

I know I still have Bates and Anna. And maybe Mrs. Patmore will get lucky soon.

Sigh.

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