You can’t always get what you want…

You know what’s funny about this picture? If you guessed me in a T-shirt…. you win. If you guessed me in a rock band T-shirt… you win even more.

In our family, I’m odd man out – and not just because I live in a house full of water signs and I’m an air sign. No. I’m the weirdo in the family that doesn’t like music. I mean I LIKE music… I don’t LOVE music. I mean I love some music…and I love to dance… and I love Beyoncé…but I could do without it. Almost all the time. I’m big on silence. Or TV. Or talk radio. Basically minimal noise that can lull you into a deep sleep at any time. Groovy right??

Let me now introduce you to my husband. This is a man who will tell you that music defined his childhood. Music was a saving grace, a passion. He vividly remembers buying his first speaker. His first cassette tape. He remembers every concert he’s ever been to. Although he forgets how I take my coffee at Dunkin, he has an encyclopedic amount of info on decades of music.

This is him… have you ever seen anyone happier to be holding a foam tongue??

Music is everywhere in our lives and in our home. We have, per capita, more speakers in our average sized home than most hotels I’ve been to.

When we get into the car his first instinct is to turn the radio on. Mine is to turn the radio down.

Its no surprise, and I’ve talked about it before, that he passed this love of music on to our kids. They all love music. They share music. They talk about music. It’s exhausting!

I mean I passed stuff onto the kids too. Jack is slightly paranoid about germs and Kera loves spicy food – so it’s not like I got nothing, but it’s not as big as this collective love they have for music. The biggest thing to happen to our family was when they switched from iTunes to Spotify. They share playlists. They Shazam new songs from each other and talk about the next live band they want to see. I’ll never forget how proud my husband was when our daughter went to her first live concert. I was worried she’d be mugged and drugged. He was worried that she’d think the band was bad. These are true stories people.

Here’s a secret….I would pay good money to never go to another concert (did I say that out loud?). Don’t tell them. They already think I’m an alien.

Ok so you get it. Back to the picture. So why is the person who cares the least about going to see The Rolling Stones the only one wearing the tee?? Why is the person who loathes wearing clothing with words wearing giant red lips?? Because I’m a good mother… that’s why!

Actually it’s because that night wasn’t about the music at all. Let’s face it – while they were listening to the songs, I was thinking about the how much the large LED screens cost and how the tech set-up could have been a teeny bit neater.

That night was the first time in months that it was the 4 of us together. Alone. Alone together. You know what I mean.

I could have cared less about what Mick sounded like (good!) or how old Keith looked (super duper old!). We tailgated. They let me take pics. We wore silly ponchos when it rained. It was the best. I’d do it again tonight. Or like next month because it was a really late night last night.

It may not have been what I wanted – but it was exactly what I needed. Rock on party people.

My favorite night out…

Is in. Bed. Ya dig?

Aperol spritz+tv+bed= unbeatable evening of fun.

Where are you? At a club? A bar? Vegas? Good for you! Now don’t get me wrong, I love a good night out. I love being with friends and family. I’m all about it.

But a good night in is a beautiful thing. And when you’re in for the evening you have choices. What will you do? Where will you sit? The living room is a nice, solid choice. It’s got the biggest tv, it’s near snacks… it’s a no brainer. Maybe you watch in your den or basement, we have neither so that’s out. We do have a family room, but it’s near the laundry room and sitting in there sometimes reminds me of, you know, laundry. And other things I’m avoiding.

My go-to place is always the same – it’s my bed. And it’s not even a King. I still love it. I could rule the world from here.

So I’ll raise my glass, send you good wishes. Here’s to you, out in the world, in real clothes. I applaud you. Have one for me. I’ll have one for you too. If you need me, you know where to find me.

Doodle Me Crazy

I have a confession. When I’m on a long telephone conversation, or in a long meeting, or in any place that requires my attention for more than a hot second – I doodle. I’ve done it since I was little. I do it in meetings. I do it at home. I do it anywhere. I do it everywhere. Sometimes if I’m in a meeting with very senior people, I spend parts of that meeting reminding myself not to doodle. Scared yet?

I got into massive trouble in elementary school for it, the teachers said I was “making a mess of my papers”. True that.  By high school my grades were so good, they didn’t care what my notebook looked like. They would have let me doodle on tables. That’s the beauty of Catholic school. A few A’s and you run the joint.

Through the years I’ve come to terms with it. It doesn’t mean I’m not interested or paying attention. It just means that I had a sudden, unstobbale desire to scribble something down. It’s like a tick. On paper.

Yesterday, someone at work called me out on it. “Nice drawing” they smirked. Uh oh. Oh well. I couldn’t hide it forever. The first step is admitting you have a problem right?

So here’s a glimpse of my bad habit. Notice sometimes I go abstract, sometimes I go modern – other times I go graffati. I’m so diversified in my doodle. You can’t take that from me. Send help. Or atleast some clean paper.

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Product Ho

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Unlike my marriage and in my friendships. I’m bored with my beauty products quickly. I’m fickle. Unfaithful. I need change. I need excitement. I need to blow some money at Sephora – it makes me feel alive.

  • I’m always on the hunt for a good, peel-the-gook-out-your-face mask. And clay is all the rage right now. After reading all 2,113 reviews on Amazon, I decided it was the one for me. And I was right. It’s dries to a crisp and makes me feel squeaky clean. Try it. Or don’t.
  • Clinique has always made the best moisturizers – although they are boring as hell. This one is no different. It goes on like butta, soaks in quickly and disappears. After a summer full of coconut and lime and almond smelling products, it’s nice to put something on that smells like nothing.
  • One more from Clinique. This one is an oldie. But I’ve been too busy wearing a dark, chocolate stain and didn’t know everyone was addicted to this. This is an almost gloss/almost lipstick combo in their most “wearable” shade – Black Honey. When you see it in the tube, you’ll be horrified. It’s as dark and deep as a raisin, but it goes on sheer and light.  Some gloss is a little too…..glossy. Ya know? Not this. This is a little bit of sheen and color that doesn’t make me feel like Krystal Carrington (anyone? anyone?).
  • Now this last bottle is a little controversial. Many of my gal pals have voiced their confusion and anger about applying a straight on oil to their skin. This particular one by Josie Maran is oil for your face, hair and skin. An all over oil.  I bought the light version because the regular was out of stock and I needed it asap. Like an addict. It was worth it. Is it great for your nice, cotton pillow cases? Not so much. But you’ll be glowing in the morning.

So these are my new boyfriends. My new mistresses. My new loves. They’ll be doing the walk of shame come October but I love them today.

Eat in Chicken

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This is the Susquehanna River, in my hometown, Harrisburg, PA. We took a quick trip over the weekend to visit family and do a joint birthday celebration for my sister and me. Me and my sister. My sister and I. Pick one.

Fun, useless fact: Did you know that Girl, Interrupted was filmed here? This is the Market Bridge, featured many times in the flick.  The movie starred Angelina Jolie  – in her Oscar-winning performance – and Wynona Ryder before her shoplifting days.  And that poor gal Britney Murphy, before her dead days.  The title of the post is an homage to one of her lines in the movie (she’s one of the patients in a mental hospital and is obsessed with owning a home with an “eat in chicken…um..kitchen” She’s also obsessed with eating whole chickens. It was a great movie. This was not a major plot line but I think of this line whenever I see a whole, roasted chicken. Freakish but true).

We came home to the below monsoon.

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Friday Night Smackdown

This is what goes on in my house every Friday night thanks to my nine year old.
The obsession du jour. WWE.

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Gone are the days of Lego.
The days of Ninjago.
The days of super heroes and Star Wars (although he still geeks out to them at the movies).

Now. Every Friday night, we get to see the ultimate male soap opera.
You want over-the-top dramatics and bad acting? Well turn off your Spanish soap and come watch this! First the entrance. Each “wrestler” has a theme song that they play walking to the stage….I mean…ring.

At first I thought it was violent, but then I realized it’s a dance. A dance where no one really touches – you grunt, you scream, and then it’s over. These men are on a bouncy stage, in short, tight, clothes completely avoiding each other. And the incredibly big crowd loves it.
I know all the characters now, John Cena, The Rock….actually those are the only ones I remember.

I’m usually catching up on my US Weekly or People magazine while all this goes on.
So really, who am I to judge?

Gladiator in a Suit

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Hi. My name is wifemothereventplanner. And it’s been 7 days since I’ve written a post.

I’ve been distracted. Diverted. Absorbed. Engrossed.

Every minute that I’m not working or mothering or wife’ing has gone to one thing. One singular obsession (different from all my other obsessions).

SCANDAL.

I blame Netflix. I blame my sister-in-law and all my gal pals for pushing the show like crack. I blame all the articles I’ve been trying to ignore about how great the show is.  I thought I could ignore it. After all – I’m the only girl in the Northern Hemisphere who still hasn’t watched an episode of Grey’s Anatomy.  My idea of McDreamy is Don Draper or Walter White (name those shows).

A few weeks ago I found myself with an entire Sunday afternoon with nothing to clean, cook or buy and in a half trance I did it. I started the series. Episode after episode, I binged. Hard.

Ok. Everyone was right. It’s delicious. Just enough story line to keep up with the bedroom shots. It’s really fun. All the women on the show are written quirky and smart and perfectly balanced between batshit crazy and funny – just how I like it. A powerful black woman sleeping with the President while legally and illegally protecting her client’s reputations? Sign me up.

Watching a whole series at once is something I usually do with my husband – but I convinced him that this show wouldn’t be his thing. He should just leave me alone to watch the whole thing. Now.

I’m all caught up on Season 1 but it isn’t enough. I may have to buy Season 2, even though it’ll eventually air for free – but that would mean waiting. WAITING. Seriously? That’s for the birds. I need my fix now.

Like any good junkie, I’ll keep trying to act normal and pretend I’m not thinking about Olivia Pope or the hot President or how wickedly good the First Lady is.  I’ll just go on with my day. Like a normal person. Nothing to see here folks. Just killing time until my next hit.

 

 

 

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