...Just a Generalist...

A Valentine's Day Retrospective

2011-02-14T11:44:00.001-05:00

I've always been told that I walk to the beat of my own drum. So, you'd figure that when it comes to a holiday as cliche as Valentine's Day, I'd be the sort of girl who opts out of celebrating the one day of the second most boring month on the calendar that actually instills some hope and love and romance. I mean, let's face it, February 14 is a date on which you can be at your most pale, and have a stomach that is still just as flacid and gelatinous post-new-year's-resolution as it was pre-new-year's-resolution, and STILL be told just how much you're loved and how beautiful you and your pallid pasty skin really are...all because Hallmark told you so.

I liken myself to the kind of person who seeks out and appreciates those unique, artsy fartsy gifts that symbolize love and a lot of thinking outside the box (minus the cheese factor), such as:

A chia pet that's a grassy replica of a heart-thumping aorta, paired with a bottle of CoEnzyme Q10 (translation: "I wish you and I a long life together, filled with good health and prosperity, with a few double cheeseburgers and milkshakes in between")
An Etsy throw pillow embroidered with both our silhouettes (translation: "May I share my life - and pillow - with you my darling?", "Your profile is so impeccable, I chose to have it emblazened for all eternity on a pillow" and "I very much appreciate your fine love of throw pillow shopping at Homegoods and I too agree that yes, it very well could be both a practical hobby and an art form (despite the fact that we already have 12 throw pillows for one couch), and am VERY MUCH SO looking forward to each of your next 976 throw pillow purchases and would never, ever in a million light years calculate the grand total you've spent on them to date. Never.") BONUS: an accompanying Homegoods gift card will earn you a million gazillion extra brownie points here.
A knit-it-yourself "snood dog" neck scarf from hip underground knitting retailer Wool and the Gang. It not only minimizes both neck flubbage and age spots but also boosts confidence by teaching you how to knit. Yes, KNIT. I mean, this thing is like a neck Snuggie for the cool, emo art college set, and yet the best part is, you don't even need to be from New York OR have a retro glasses and half of a pseudo art degree to justify wearing it.
One of these ultra cool sound images that details the physical, audible design of my hubby's voice saying "I love you, sweetie", framed forever in canvas. (Hint: match the throw pillows and she'll be forever emotionally indebted to you for thinking all big-picture-like.)

With that said, you'd think I would gravitate to a fellow, romantic creative thinker who would at LEAST do something that falls in the cracks between 1 and 4 above. And I'm talking small cracks, like maybe a potted good-luck bamboo shoot, or a photo of the two of us in a wooden frame handmade from twigs found in the backyard.

But, alas. What did my husband do for Valentine's Day 2009?

Scratch tickets.

Ahem.

Yup. SCRATCH TICKETS.

And no, there was no accompanying card with a red heart-shaped mouth on the front singing off-key digitized cliche songs like Come on Baby Light My Fire.

Again, I like to think that I DON'T need to be handed a dozen red roses, nevermind anything even remotely close to the aforementioned unique romantic gift giver list, to feel good about the love in my life, but as one would expect, I, a woman who has a tendency to take 3 birth control pills in a day to make up for forgetfulnes, crumbled under the grave weight of the situation and started bawling.

And yes, I was secretly embarrassed not only for my own display of a birth-control-pill enhanced hormonal reaction but for the sheer lack of thoughlessness and last-minuteness of the gesture. I mean, did he just happen to be at the convenience store buying a diet coke and some Rolos when he saw the glimmering roll of scratch tickets and thought to himself, "My wife would LOVE if I got her these today for Valentine's Day." I mean, what gives? And this man, my loving, wonderful husband, is the kind of guy who's on the ball more often than not in this department.

So, what did I do? Well, like the rest of the 9 billion and one women in the world out there, I tried to summon the strength to avoid falling apart just because I didn't get a Hallmark card and red roses. I tried to avoid being all how-to-lose-a-guy-in-10-days-ish by smiling at first, trying to laugh it off. I'm strong, I'm confident. I don't need no stinkin' roses to feel good about myself.

But, then the tears came and I couldn't stop the faucet.

He felt so bad about it he had to remove himself from the situation and said he was going to "go take a shower". (Ahem: abandoning your emotionally fragile wife on Valentine's Day MID-bawl - after NOT giving said wife roses nor a card - to go "take a shower" is NOT a good idea.) I heard the shower running - but he later admitted he did NOT take a shower. Instead, he wrangled his 270 lb. body out the first floor window and booked it to the local (translation: exceptionally overpriced) florist around the corner. After "getting out of the shower", he found me blabbering and soaked in my own tears, still heated that he had the audacity and the nerve to give me scratchies (all losers, BTW) ...but to my surprise, he emerged not only with a big grin, but with a huge bouquet of the most bountiful red roses I've ever seen, and said, "Now did you REALLY think I'd just get you scratch tickets for Valentine's Day?"

I thought this was just the most wonderful thing in the world, until a year later he admitted to me what he really did - what had really gone down in the "shower" - and once he told me, I got mad at him and cried. AGAIN.

I know, I know. The poor guy. And my poor, soaring, helpless levels of irrational estrogen. Good thing we can now laugh about it. Always the optimist, here is how I view it: the remaining 65 Valentine's Days that I will come to experience in my lifetime will NEVER, ever have as good of an attempt at a love story as this, so I think this humorous moment, in and of itself - of a man succumbing to a the wrath of a woman's fierce expectations on Valentine's Day - is the best gift he could ever bestow on me. After all, this is the stuff of life, the moments we remember. It's not really about the romantic show on Valentine's Day, it's about the love you LIVE together every other day of the year: the experience, the memories, and the silly stuff that we can look back on and laugh at. When I'm 80, there's not a chance in hell that I'll have forgotten this story. I'd much rather be laughing about this with my decrepit husband by my side than, say, the way I felt wearing that stupid lingerie right before I got in the heart-shaped tub full of bubble bath. Not that that ever happened, but I'm sure that's how a gazillion other people out there are planning to celebrate tonight. Who wants to reminsce about that sort of thing when you're all Joan Rivers meets the nursing home, anyway? No thanks. I'd rather laugh about a ridiculous misstep at the expense of my husband - WITH my husband.
Valentine's Day, while it may seem like the pinnacle of public romance and affection with its braggart 1-800-Flowers deliveries strewn about in every cubicle from Maryland to Miami, is really just a convenient distraction, in a dull month that no one likes, that we've all been groomed to participate in, starting with the confectionary hearts and the Carebears Valentine's Day cards that circulated the classroom in first grade. And so when you actually find love, and this build up of 20+ years of expectation and anticipation is met with such blatant disappointment, it feels like defeat, like a big fat balloon exploded in your heart. But, what we all need to remember (now that we're adults) is that we really shouldn't be counting grand romantic gestures like this at all. We shouldn't be showing off, just for the sake of a silly little holiday. What's important is that we live every day like it's Valentine's Day, doing small favors for each other, helping out, giving little kisses, with lots of laughs, fist bumps and "I love yous". Right?

But, ironically, it really doesn't hurt to get a dozen roses and a card in the end, if you must...which is what I fully expect to come home to tonight, dear husband.

(These are what I like to call "Smart Roses".)

Porn Star or Surrogate? (The Perils of Ebay)

2009-11-03T16:05:00.000-05:00

First off, let me apologize for the past two weeks of utter ridiculousness. I realize I haven't written a blog post since 10/14, which is dispicable and unforgivable. Perhaps that's a dead giveaway that I need to get off my pregnant, burgeoning arse immediately and sign up for NaBloPoMo this month.

(BURGEONING BUM)

And, it's not even like I have a good excuse for not writing. Yes, I'm pregnant, so I'm a bit tired and out of sorts, but honestly, that excuse can only get you so far in your second trimester, which supposedly "brings welcome relief from the first."

I've actually been quite bored, and doing some of the most boring things I can think of. Such as, scouring google for an old shade of lipstick I used to wear, that I *loved*, which of course, was eventually discontinued (hence the countless hours of googling discontinued and overstock cosmetic sites.) I'm not sure if it's just "my luck" or what, but EVERY SINGLE cosmetic that I get attached to - mainly lipsticks, lip glosses - gets discontinued a few years later, after I've seriously honed my addiction. This, my friends, leads to impetuously and impulsively buying up shades and shades of lipsticks that are "close" in color - but that always fail the minute I glide it across my own lips.

This, I suppose, is just the way of the world.

I am entirely aware of how LAME this all really is, considering the fact that I do, actually, have WAY more important things I could be doing, such as working on my first novel and finishing my screen play script, or hell even going buck wild at Babies R Us and registering like it's my job. But no. I've been surfing facebook, baking a little too often and eating a few too many cookies/pumpkin whoopie pies, and shopping for discontinued shades of lipstick.

In my rudimentary searches, I came across a fantastic site, 3 Custom Color. Get this - if you mail them a sample - even but a smudge! - of an old lipstick, eye shadow, whatever, they can match it and recreate a brand new one for you. Okay, is that not AMAZING? (I think it is.)

Finally, I decided (a bit apprehensively) to hit up ebay. I had never "ebayed" before - my only experience with the site was thinking, "now why didn't I think of that?" while watching The 40 Year Old Virgin and realizing dammit, you could've started a "We can sell your stuff for you on ebay" store! What have you been doing the last 10 years?!

Right. Searching for lipsticks. Reading the dictionary. Facebooking. Procrastinating. Writing a blog post about discontinued lipstick and the perils of ebay. Important stuff. Evidently, I'm very busy.

Then again, I had never even used ebay before, so how, pray tell, would I open a "We can sell your stuff for you on ebay" store? Enough said, moving on.

So I did a little search on ebay for my lipstick shade. Sure enough, all these slighty cryptic descriptions popped up, misspelled words and all (a shame!). I picked the first one, saw that unlike the others, it promised to be "sealed". (BTW, how is it legal to sell unsealed lipstick, anyway? It's like asking, "And how would you like to get Herpes today?" Seriously.) Obviously, anything goes in the land of ebay.

I plugged my credit card info into the Pay Pal thing (which in and of itself was a relief). Next, I got an email confirmation. Which kind of sort of REALLY creeped me out. It read:

Dear Kerri,

This email confirms that you have paid leslie king (freebabytaxi69@xxx.com) $12.99 USD using PayPal. This credit card transaction will appear on your bill as "PAYPAL *MRSBRIGG".

Freebabytaxi69?
Um. Seriously?

Immediately, I thought "@#%&". I've been screwed. My credit card information AND my address to boot is now in the hands of an amateur porn star (who evidently gets even more cheap thrills by also moonlighting as an ebay thief), and she's coming to get me and is going to drag me and my pregnant arse into her "69 taxi" and sell me into a life of prostitution in the mean streets of downtown LA, left for dead on a street corner somewhere in the ghetto with nothing to my name but a size-too-small hot pink platform shoes, looking a lot like Courtney Love. Or, I've just allowed a crazed, wanna-be surrogate mother aka CRACKHEAD - who goes by the pseudonym "Mrs. Briggs" - into my life, and she's coming to find me.

@#%&.

I then go and look at her picture on her ebay store profile to see if that comforts me, or makes me feel worse about the current situation. Please, please, PLEASE have a soccer mom haircut and be 40 years old ('69, yeah!).

But no. She's got a leopard skin tight shirt on, trailer park, Aqua-netted hairspray hair (bottle blonde, aka orange), and bright bubble gum pink collagen-ized lips.

Great. Grrrrrreat.

So, I closed out of my browser, and just hoped for the best. I locked my doors and swore to myself that if I actually *did* get a package in the mail from "Mrs Briggs" aka Free Baby Taxi 69, I would open it very, very slowly and watch for any illegal powdery white substances that may or may not sprinkle out. Then, I resigned myself to the fact that my lipstick was a hoax, a terrible ebay scam that probably happened at least 333 times a day to innocent non-ebayers like myself.

I sighed, and thought about how I'd rather go another 55 years without my favorite lipstick than be stalked by Mrs Briggs and her wanton uterus and/or permiscuous cross-country-traveling vagina.

Sure enough, a few days later, A goes and checks the mail.

A: "You got a package. From a....MRS BRIGGS?"

Me [non chalantly, as if she were just a run-of-the-mill Avon lady]: Oh yeah, that's just a lipstick I ordered. [Secretly hoping a plastic dildo or something didn't drop out of the package.]

I waited for A to absorb into the living room couch, and I scurried with my package into the bathroom. I carefully opened the package, peeked inside, and saw the following:

Yup. My long lost, kissable lipstick was finally in my possession!! Score. It was even SEALED. Go figure. It seems that despite her private shenanigans, Mrs Briggs is a trustworthy lady when it comes to her ebaying principles.

I breathed a HUGE sigh of relief, and promised myself to remember that I shouldn't judge people by their names, no matter how porn star sounding they are, or by their photographs (I mean, hey, we've all made bad choices when it comes to hair and lipstick choices, right?)

Hump Day Photo: If you can't stand sharing a candy jar at work, get your own

2009-10-07T13:06:00.001-04:00

It's funny how tempting a (or, ahem, ten) mini candy bar(s) can be when it's Tuesday (or Monday, or Wednesday, or Thursday, or Friday) at 3pm. At that time, when you're at work, the world around you seems dead and gray - time is ticking so slowly, it seems like it's going backwards, you're beat from the day already, and all you can think about is what's on TV tonight/what's for dinner tonight/how many hours until the weekend arrives - and to boot, you're stuck like a caged animal inside your office or cubicle, the "outside world" nothing but a pretty framed window that you can steal glimpses at here and there (that is, if you're lucky enough to even HAVE a window. Luckily, I am.)

What cures this? Why, a handful of FREE chocolate, that's what. Eaten uncontrollably, no portion control taken into consideration.

We have this woman in our office who works until 3pm everyday, and around 3:03, there's always a rush to her cube, followed by a rustling / clinking sound. Some way or another, all us offfice mates end up bumping into each other either in her cube, or on the way to or from her cube. Why? Because she has an AWESOME candy jar (aka FREE CANDY) on her desk.

We raid it when she leaves. It's sad, really, but it gets us up and moving, injects us with much needed sugar, and gives us, I think, a general sense of office comaraderie. The worst is when you think she's left for the day already, and you take the turn into her cube, your grabbing handing reaching across the desk, and boom, you realize she's still there. You feel stupid, smile, acknowledge how lame you look because yes, she knows and you know you've been waiting, what, like ALL DAY, to raid her cube for its free candy. Luckily, she's a doll, a Mom doll, actually, so she just smiles at you sweetly, knowingly, and winks, and you dip in. Because what are you supposed to do, say, "Oh! Hi. I was just rushing over here to say hi, and bye, because it's 3 and I wanted to say bye before you left. At 3. Right. OK. So I'll just be going now..."

Because I'm pregnant and somehow turned into a chocolate cow aka whore overnight (not that I wasn't before, but now, it's ten fold) I decided I'd make my OWN candy jar. I mean, yeah, the reason it's great when OTHER people at work have candy jars on THEIR desks is because you're not constantly tempted by it, and you have to wait until a certain time of day to raid it. Also, you do it in moderation (the frequency of visits and the number of candies you grab) because you feel like a blatant cheap pig who is too cheap to buy her own candy.

Well, I decided to become one of "those" people. Except, I don't have a cute jar from Crate and Barrel or Homegoods on my desk. I just hit up CVS for their 2 for $5 bag-o-candy deals and then throw it all in a drawer in my desk (photo below).

And, I didn't even tell anybody that I'm doing this, out of fear of embarrassment - I mean, how lame is that? I have to secretly stow away 5 pound bags of candy in my desk drawer? Please.

So then of course it begs the challenge of opening up a candy bar wrapper very, very quietly, over and over and over again.

Three cheers for pregnancy jeans, and a good plot line.

2009-10-06T11:48:00.001-04:00

In honor of the good mood I'm in (it's because of the below), I figured I would put up a quick post detailing two great announcements:

1. I finally (FINALLY!) came up with a plotline for the Gen Y-ish slash chic lit novel that I've been *thinking* about writing for, oh, say 9 years now. Yes, I've been in a state of rampant writer's block for almost one decade. In that decade, I did manage to accomplish other important things (praise Jesus), such as securing a great marketing job, getting married, buying a house, making new friends and reconnecting with old best buddies, traveling around the world, living in another country, becoming a great chef, sort of akin to Giada (so what if it's only in my mind?), getting impregnated, owning two dogs, committing to an exercise regimen and actually sticking with it, eating healthy, riding a bike, taking a painting class, understanding the elderly, bonding with my in-laws, etc.

And now, NOW, I will finally get to start on my novel, because, as all you fellow writers and bloggers know, one of the hardest hurdles you have to get over is thinking of a workable, intriguing plot (and characters) that readers can identify with.

Perhaps it was my latest encounter with Candace Bushnell's novel, Trading Up. (BTW, thanks to my bog, Bella, who decided to chew off the VERY last page of the book the other day. I guess I can find out what happens at Barnes and Noble.)

2. Um, so perusing the wonderful world that is online shopping, I discovered here that 7 For All Mankind makes PREGNANCY jeans. Yes, pregnancy jeans.

So they're $210. Actually, $185, because they're on sale. Hey, my vagina and uterus and boobs are going to go to new heights (and er, widths) with this here pregnancy of mine. I think I AT LEAST deserve a pair of jeans that I can rock and feel sexy in...as opposed to looking like a beached whale from 1985 (tapered maternity jeans from Walmart, much?).

Besides, there's always another grateful pregnant person or friend that can inherit them at a later date. Call it the Sisterhood of the Traveling Fat Pants! (Note: that is not my future novel's name.)

My own contraption - if the button can't reach...just hook the latch in the button hole! (And hope your pants don't slide down while at work.)

***
Side note: Both #1 and #2 above will intersect. I can't share my plot line with you here (it's SO good, someone might google "plot line ideas", stumble upon my blog, and STEAL it! Yikes.) But, I'll be sure to keep you posted on my progress.

Introducing: Hump Day Photo Day

2009-09-30T15:45:00.000-04:00

Nobody likes a Wednesday. I mean, it's smack in the middle of the week. It's like being a middle child, or the lettuce in a burger. NO ONE LIKES YOU.

So, I figured to spice up my Hump Day a bit, today and all Wednesdays going forward, I'm going to add bit of "photo fun" to my blog (not to be confused with a good hearty belly laugh, a sarcastic snort or a "So THAT'S what you look like naked?!" reaction, this fun is more like a "Huh!" or an "Interesting!" type of funny. Sorry.)

Forget about Friday Link Love, this is my "thang".

Without further ado, here's my Hump Day photo - and in honor of it being the first Hump Day Photo, it's a series of photos (ooh! ahh!). I figured the subject matter was appropriate, being "hump day" and all...considering I, too, just like a camel, will have a hump to call my own, soon enough:

This is me, being overly dramatic after learning that a PLUS sign does, in fact mean, YES, you are pregnant. That symbol seems to make sense.

This is me pretending to be really elated with visions of baby cribs dancing in my head, but really, what I'm thinking is "OH SHITE."

This is me the next night, realizing why I've looked so bloated all week! My aha moment. Little did I know I was only 5-6 weeks pregnant at the time...far too soon to be "showing". Funny enough, the next week my stomach was flat. So really, all that bloat shown above is in fact not baby-related; more like Haagen Daas-aka-time-to-LAY-OFF-the-Wendy's-related.) Oh well. It seemed great at the time!

I hope you enjoyed these candid, stomach (ahem, SOUL!) baring photos. This has kind of sort of uplifted my feelings, being such a boring day and all. And, not to mention, my Wednesdays are typically (and reliably) uneventful. I am going to be brutally honest with you about my Wednesdays, and I won't be candy coating or embellishing anything (i.e. "I get home and I assemble model planes," or, "I try to finish the painting I started FIVE months ago". Nope. I'm gonna be real:

I work 9-5. I get home 15 minutes later, throw my keys on the counter, get pounced on by my two boxers (which is just grrrrrreat for a pregnant lady!), give my hubby a kiss, check the mail (hope for a magazine subscription to have arrived; disappointed when it's only bills), eat something bad (cookie from cookie jar, spoon in Brigham's oreo icecream, mini Reeses peanut butter cup and/or candy corn, which is currently in my kitchen candy dish), sigh, stare at my full bottles of wine, and then hop back in the car with my hubby to take the dogs to the park for an hour, kick around the crunchy leaves in the crisp fall air (love it!), chase the dogs when they decide to run 60 mph after a kid on a bike, make important decisions on the way home, like do we want Pizzeria Regina pizza or Wendy's or a BLT sub for dinner? And Wednesday night TV? Psshh. It's hopeless. So I usually read and/or go to bed early...anything to hurry up and get closer to Thursday! Which is that much closer to Saturday morning....which I absolutely am in love with. :)

I've always wanted to be a food snob...so now I unofficially am.

2009-09-28T13:15:00.000-04:00

My entire life, I've always had a not-so-secret desire to write passionately about food. I'd like to be one of those elusive, snarky, picky diners who gets to pig out (in a refined, nonchalant way -- i.e. in a beret and designer eyeglasses) at a smorgasbord of local restaurants, scribbling nouns like "crispy ravioli", "tangy orange duck" and "chocolate silk" in my leather vintagey looking notebook.

My family and I are, of course, self-professed "food snobs". Always having been a bit on the judgemental side when it came to food, we tend to leave poorly performing restaurants and dinner parties aghast, dying to share our coarse feedback once in the safety of the car (windows rolled up, of course), after only having been able to give each other the "silent look" from across the table with each ghastly bite.

Of course, if something was delicious, we'd explode in song, a choir of fork wielding angels singing its praises.

We'd decided to name ourselves the food snobs. In fact, one day in particular, rant after rant after rant, I remember all the criticism finally piqued while hovering around my mom's kitchen island, as we tore apart a meal we had all just shared in. Then, we felt bad about being so negative and instead reminisced about the most delicious meals we remembered (Deersteins' chocolate bread pudding, being one of them.) We decided, unofficially, that we should be a family food reviewer committee of some sort, and that we'd rate our meals not with stars, but with little upturned nose icons instead. Cute, no? (I really liked the idea of the nose icon.)

So, I've been thinking a lot lately about possibly trying my hand at becoming a local restaurant reviewer...except, the problem is, there are ZERO good restaurants in my town, which, um, is kind of tangential to being a restaurant reviewer. I mean, there are probably one or two that I can think of that are quite good and acceptable, respectively, but other than that...geez, I'd actually have to venture (gasp!) outside my town's borders to conduct a more expansive (and expensive) taste test. After each meal, I'd type up a short column and send a few clips at a time to the local newspaper. Considering both the editor and writers at our town paper don't even use correct grammar, nevermind interesting fodder, I figure I JUST may have a really, really good shot at getting published.

In the meantime, though, I've decided to start a food blog ("flog") slash cooking blog ("clog") that documents my online compilation of recipes and photos - both those that I've created (only the good ones!) and those that have been in my family for generations (the great ones!). The ultimate purpose of my flog-clog is to have something to share with my child when she or he arrives next year. I'll continuously add to it over the years, and by the time he/she is of mixer-and-or-oven-operating age, I'd like to turn my posts into a printed and bound book as a commemorative gift for him/her.

(I mean, obviously if I were 8, I'd want a homemade recipe book that my mom worked feverishly on for 9 years, and not a pony/bike/Wii.)

Anyway, if you too are a self-admitted food snob, or if you're odd and can't get enough of looking at bad, candid food photos that pe taken with my camera phone, I encourage you to check it out at:
http://littlecooksinthekitchen.blogspot.com/

I'm just now indulging in today's recipe post, and last night's dinner, Stuffed Wannabe Greek Peppers - 100% healthy and low fat, but honest to God, it tastes like someone put Heaven with a dash of North End's Pizzeria Regina pizza in the blender:

Sources of strength (stuffed grape leaves, life lists, Arnold Schwarzenegger, etc.)

2009-09-24T10:21:00.000-04:00

It's funny how we humans derive strength from such different sources. We're really resilient (and odd) creatures, actually. It always seems that when you think you've got nothing left, and are just about ready to throw in the towel and give up, that's when you're able to (miraculously) find strength from within. Whether your Ahnald S. and your source of strength is steroids and power naps with Maria Shriver (shudder), or, you're, well, the type of person who relies on wack-a-doo life lists to make yourself feel like you're a bit more in control of things (ahem, yours truly), we all have our quirky ways of "dealing", getting ahead and making each day feel a little less like a rainy fat-pants Tuesday and more like a sunny, breezy, fall Saturday morning.

Something I've been feeling a bit nervous (and not-so-strong) about is turning 30 next year and having a baby to boot, so I thought I'd make (yet another) life list.

Typically, the life lists you find out there on the blogosphere are binary numberish, for some reason or another: "1001 things to do in 101 days" (or maybe it's 101 things to do in 1001 days, which sounds a bit more realistic, even to us overachievers?)...but alas, I'm pregnant, employed and kind of cranky that I am both the former and the latter, so I'm going to give myself a break and try to accomplish 12 things -- 12 BIG things --in the 101 days before I turn the big 3-0.

101 days before I'm 30 is Wednesday, September 8, 2010. (Shudder.) On that day, I will have a 4 month, 13 day old child (JESUS, MARY AND JOSEPH ON A HORSE!), and two days later, I'll be walking the aisle in a more than likely too-tight-in-the-arse bridesmaid dress, as at this weekend's PRE-post-birth fitting, in my typical shining state of optimism, I'll probably wayyyyy overestimate my 4-months-post-baby weight (er, 135? 125 body, 10 pounds in the boobs - nice!), only to later regret that uber optimism as I'm waddling down the aisle, bags under my eyes, dried spit up somewhere near my armpit (unbeknownst to me), and generally just feeling like a really big, Greek stuffed grape leaf.

Which, come to think of it, a stuffed grape leaf sounds really, really good right now. So what if it's 8 in the morning? In fact, if I actually HAD a stuffed grape leaf in my hand, I'd probably be within reaching distance of a gyro as well, which, really, is a lovely thought. And, while I'm at it in this little mid-morning day dream of mine, I'd like to wash it all down with a FULLY CAFFEINATED (God, I'm awful!), FULL FAT pumpkin spiced latte from Starbucks - WITH extra extra whipped cream. Ah, sometimes I LOVE being pregnant, despite all the hideous (i.e. uncontrollable gas, not being able to shave my own legs), hilarious and awe-inducing moments that I have to look forward to in the not too distant future.

Anecdotal side note: all this grape leaf talk makes me miss the (albeit CRAZY, schizophrenic) Greek 65 year old woman who used to live next door to us in our two family house (when I still lived at home...sigh!) Sure, we'd often spot her mumbling to herself outside while pacing about the driveway in some sort of horrific straight-off-the-boat hybrid moo moo/apron outfit, but man oh man, did she make killer stuffed grape leaves and stuffed peppers, which she'd graciously bring "extras" of to our door, fresh out of the kitchen. My dad never did eat her "deliveries", always insisting that "Crazy" (as he liked to call her) was slowly poisoning us via her mouthwatering, door-to-door niceties. However, I ate it all constantly....and he missed out, big time!

Did I mention that pregnancy makes you a spaced out ditz? I'm sure you probably gathered that by now after reading the complete incoherency and general jumping-around-ness of today's post.

Anyways. I digress. Back to lists.

Taking a cue from Elysa over at GenPink, I've decided to use the categorical breakdown (see below) that she recommends to help give me a general sense of direction (much needed when in an airhead-like state) and compile my "12 big things" list.

Without further ado, these are the things I'd like to AIM to accomplish in the 101 day period before I turn 30 -- all done with a cute (hopefully), chunky baby bouncing on my hip (I like multitasking: a good challenge and an effective hip-blubber burning routine to boot!):

12 BIG Things:

1. Simplifying Life

I am going to STRIP my life of clutter and start organizing and keeping house, like a good mom should. For instance, there's a watermelon that's been sitting on the top of our "second" (aka extra fridge) in the back room of our house since the 4th of July. Just the other day, it exploded and there's mold under the entire thing, yellowy putrid sticky guts and whatnot dripping down the side of the fridge. I mean, who LETS this sort of thing go on in there house? I am, admittedly, gross.

2. Friends/Family
I am going to call one different family member or friend every week (mom doesn't count, since I already talk to her every week.) I tend to HATE the phone (I think I grew bored/annoyed with it post high school, when I used to spend 5-6 hours every night on it. Plus, don't you find that being on a cell phone for an excessive amount of time makes your ear feel like it's on fire?) But, I think it's important to make some sort of an effort, especially when people are geographically distant or just caught up in their own day-to-day lives. I've always been the receiver, so for once, I'm going to be the giver (er, dialer?)

3. Faith, Health & Wellbeing
Once that child lands in my arms, I'm sure I'll have questions about faith. Yes, I'm Christian, brought up Catholic, but gave that up a while back because a) I don't believe in transsubstantiation and b) I don't believe in confession (both the hallmarks of Catholicism!) I'd like to get back in touch with my spiritual side...hell, even if it's yoga, I'll give it a whirl.

4. Education/Personal Improvement
I'd like to learn, or attempt to learn, Italian. I guess it'll give me something to do when I'm up nursing the baby at 4am?

5. Work & Creativity
This mama's gonna need to get out of the house every once in a while! So, I'll be joining the Rhode Island Film Collaborative, and taking a screen writing class.

6. Travel & Environment Experiences
My husband and I love to take road trips throughout New England, and fall is the perfect time to do that. With a baby in tow, we can still take road trips...just minus the tequila sunrises at the bar at night, I guess. (Sigh.) And if I can make it possible, I'd love to go visit one of my friends in Ireland or Australia!

7. Finances
Okay, this one's two fold: PAY OFF THAT STUPID CREDIT CARD DEBT! Oh, J. Crew, how you screwed me in my college years. Start my 401(k) at work - contribute the maximum amount that I can.

8. Just for Me
I'd like to make sure I make time to focus on myself, and my relationship with my husband, post-baby. I don't want to become one of those couples that grows apart because mom is tired, achy, etc. I want to continue to care for myself (yes, spending $200 at the salon!) and look good/feel good for myself and for my husband. No schleppy sweatpants for me! (Yeah right. I say this now. I'll be curious how it really is next September! :)

9. Giving to Others
I really have always wanted to volunteer. Is it me, or is it hard to find local opportunities? I'm thinking the animal shelter down the street from me could use their help...even if it's becoming a professional "cat visitor slash petter".

10. Writing/Blogging
Another two pronged item: first, I'm going to continue writing my blog. Next fall, I'd like to increase my traffic by 25% and I'd like to be getting hit left and right with comments from my awesome, insightful readers! To all those who do post now - THANK YOU! Reading your comments really makes my day. I like knowing that people actually take the time to read what I have to say. And I love actually writing, blogging especially...it's cathartic and a good outlet for me, despite early onset carpal tunnel.

11. Trying New Things
My "new thing" doesn't have to do with Indian food. The thing I'd like to try is actually STARTING a novel. I love to TALK about starting a novel, I have plenty of amazing characters and plots floating around in my head. It's sheer laziness that gets the best of me, so I'm hoping with a baby I can redirect any stress etc. into novel-writing therapy!

12. Local
So far I've met all our neighbors, and they're GREAT. I'd like to plan a monthly board game night, rotating between houses, because I think having that sort of community right outside my door is invaluable.

Personally, I know knocking stuff off my list is going to take a heck of a lot of motivation and sanity, but I can do it. I've got gusto, I've got a zest for life...and I'm not about to give all that up, just because I have a baby clinging to my bozooms.

Speaking of which, I'm hungry!

Being like a mullet (business in the front, pleasure in the back)

2009-09-16T21:15:00.000-04:00

Okay, so I totally realize that the title of today's post may have come across as a little bit raunchy, so I wanted to pause and take a moment to say, no, that's NOT what I meant.

Read on.

The other night, while I was "on my perch" (aka, reclined in our dual Lazy Boy) watching Seinfeld and eating a hot fudge sundae to alleviate the pain from a recent Dorito hangover (ahem, pregnancy), I had an epiphany of sorts: "Why don't we approach our relationships like we do our jobs?"

Immediately, I thought THIS is something I could write a book on. Okay, maybe not a book, but maybe a "work/life" pamphlet of some sort that I could casually leave on the benches that are dotted throughout the greater Boston metropolitan area subway stations, where 9-5'ers are desperate to read almost ANYTHING if a) it saves them from having to make actual eye contact with fellow riders on the T during their morning commute into work (friendly Bostonians!) and b) it gives them something to "diddle" with so that they can pretend that they DON'T see the drunk homeless guy who is clamoring for attention and slowly meandering in their direction.

I mean, if you think about our generation especially, we're all super goal-oriented and pretty much self-obsessed (in a good way) - just take a look at the thousands of blogs you can throw into your Google reader on any given day. We all have something to say; we all choose self-satisfaction, self-expression, and independence over following the pack and signing on to be a coffee-wielding, penniless, faceless, lifeless robot-peon at a corporate conglomerate that takes punch after punch in the stomach. We have pride, we have drive. We have things to say, things to share. We bring this same attitude to the good jobs that we do have, because we've made wise confident choices (and not sacrifices) to get them. And once we're in, we're in like Flynn, and we work ourselves hard to the bones - and not because we have to. Because we want to.

From 6 to 10, Work Like It's 9 to 5
Working hard at your job is all fine and dandy, but sometimes, maybe if you've worked just a little TOO hard 9-5, you MAY come home and find yourself just a little too tired to:

1. Change into something other than ratty nasty pajama pants with a saggy butt
2. Dote on your husband/wife/girlfriend/boyfriend
3. Compose an on-the-spot haiku for them that lets them know how their eyes are like diamonds in a sea of sand (??)
4. Initiate foreplay...besides, "I have a headache", and/or "It's Tuesday"
5. Do the dishes
6. Exercise - so much easier to just lift the spoon up and down
7. Have an actual conversation
8. Stand upright and/or walk around for more than 5 minutes at a time outside of a 10 foot radius within your home
9. Care about your calcium intake (a screwdriver or a few glasses of wine can really relax you after a long day, milk...not so much)

My point is, we tend to work ourselves so hard during the day that by the time we're home and have the opportunity to spend quality time with our loves ones, we're drained. What I propose is that we attack our relationships with the same ferocity that we bring to our jobs. I mean, if you were getting PAID by the hour to start, grow and maintain your relationship, would you put a little more effort into making it "thrive"?

The other night, I was washing the dishes when my husband came into the kitchen after a long day at work, talking about work, his head spinning about work, work in his eyes, work all OVAH HIS FACE! You see, he owns his own fire safety business, which is a lucrative one because it's a law, but also a stressful one, when you actually own it. There's customers to keep happy and manual labor up the wazoo; there are late nights when he has to drive up into the armpit of Maine to install a fire safety system on an oil tanker or a ship, and then drive all the way home, wide-eyed and trying not to have a cigarette to save his sanity. It's a dirty hard job, but it brings home the bacon, and gives my husband LOVELY muscles, I might add. Anyway, the point of my story is that I just looked at him and said, "You know, you're just like a mullet...all business in the front, and pleasure in the back. Maybe you should think about changing your hairstyle." He just looked at me, quizzically, then cracked up, because he knows how true of a statement it was.

If you let work take precedence in your life, everything else that actually matters more might suffer. So if you're going to work hard, you've got to play hard, too, and bring everything you have to offer to the (kitchen) table. Yes, we're each comprised of many different things, little mini people and personas that we can become at any given time in any given situation, if you will. And, let's be honest...sometimes it's so much easier to check the project manager persona at the door when you get home and trade it in for the lazy, quiet legless bum. Which I suppose is a good thing, if your husband/wife/girlfriend/boyfriend has a weird thing for lazy, quiet legless bums.

I want to hear what you think! Would you put more effort into your relationship, Monday through Friday, 5 p.m. on, if you knew you were getting paid for it, or if all the gritty details of your efforts (or lack thereof) would be documented in cumulative annual review at the year's end, the findings presented by your partner? And if you feel that you already put the same effort into your relationship that you do your job, do you do it differently on the weekends versus the weekdays?

Google, morning sickness and C-sections

2009-09-03T12:48:00.000-04:00

The news on the street is that I'm officially pregnant. After calling the doctor's office a gazillion and four times to find out the results of my blood test, the nurse finally confirmed it with an enthusiastic, high-pitched, "Oh yes, your beta count is WELL over 15,000. Nice job! You are VERY MUCH pregnant!"

Not sure what exactly "very much pregnant" means, but I suppose it's kind of like saying, "You are DEAD! Very dead, actually," or, "You are VERY MUCH a girl" (although, I suppose in this day and age you can totally be "kind of sort of a girl" or half boy / half girl. I watch Dateline, I know what's up.)

Unfortunately, there's no in between in this new land. It would be really nice to have gotten a response similar to:

Nurse: Yes, you are pregnant, but you won't actually have to HAVE the baby.
Me: Meaning...??
Nurse: Well, it's this new thing. You can carry it and eat all the Haagen Daas you want to feel better about yourself and the ever-expanding spare tire that's growing around your hips, and waste money on things like elastic jeans, cocoa butter, designer crib wear and what not, but a really NICE, MIDDLE AGED, WHITE HAIRED STORK (in a bonnet) is going to bring your baby to you, wrapped in a blanket and smelling like Love's Baby Soft perfume, instead of having to endure an incredibly painful, life-changing (as in, Warning: Your vagina WILL NEVER BE THE SAME!) vaginal delivery, or a C-section that will leave you without stomach muscles for the REST of your life, as well as an abdomen that requires constant waxing and upkeep, post-surgery.
Me: Um, can I change my mind? I feel sick.

As you might've guessed, I am INCREDIBLY nervous about a) the pregnancy itself b) actually giving birth and c) raising a helpless little baby from infancy right up through childhood (and on!)

And luckily, because this is my blog, I have the right to write an entire post about anxieties and complaints and aches and pains and vagina issues. Besides, I think my husband is probably getting sick of me talking incessantly about how SICK I feel all the time and how sick I am of being sick and how I hate that all I talk about these days is how sick I am.

I mean, pity me, please: I've literally had morning sickness for literally the last 3weeks - more like all day sickness, actually. Morning, noon and night. *Sigh*.

So, what's it like? Well, for starters, every little feeling or issue I have leads me to jump on Google to self-diagnose. Is it normal to have a slight fever? Should I be having cramps? What in God's name can I eat BESIDES Saltines??

I either feel constantly nauseaous, or like I have a brick in my stomach. On top of it, my digestive track is all messed up because hormones "slow it down" (so says Google.) Google also tells me the things I can expect the morning of my C-section, which I already know I'm going to have to have, since I have a bad lower back problem (aka, no pushing). See below colorful snippits, taken from http://www.webmd.com/baby/guide/what-to-expect-cesarean-delivery. Be forewarned, it is slightly graphic and it MAY change your mind about having a baby. The "good" parts are in bold.

What a cesarean birth is like

You will be given medication to dry the secretions in your mouth and upper airway. You may also be given an antacid. (In the event that you vomit and then inhale some of the contents of your stomach, the damage that your lungs sustain will be reduced if you have taken an antacid.)

The lower part of your abdomen will be washed and possibly shaved as well.

A catheter will be placed in your bladder to keep it empty and to reduce the chances of injury.

An intravenous needle will be inserted into a vein in your hand or arm to allow for the administering of fluids and medications during your surgery.

You will be given an anesthetic (typically an epidural or spinal, but general anesthesia may be used in certain circumstances).

Your abdomen will be washed with antiseptic solution and covered with a sterile drape.

A screen will be placed in front of your face to keep the surgical field sterile, blocking your view of the delivery.

Once the anesthetic has had an opportunity to take effect, an incision will be made through the wall of your abdomen and then the wall of your uterus. You will probably feel slight pressure at the incision site, but not any pain. Although your caregiver will attempt to use a so-called bikini cut (a horizontal cut that is low on your abdomen), a vertical skin incision is sometimes made in an emergency.

Your uterus and abdomen will be stitched up. The stitches in your uterus will dissolve on their own. Depending on your doctor's preference, your abdominal incision will be closed with stainless-steel staples or nonabsorbent sutures, which can be removed anytime after three or four days, or absorbable sutures below the skin surface, which dissolve on their own.

G-ROSS. I think re-reading that again gave me another wave of morning sickness.

The good news that Google brought me? That I get out of cleaning the cat box and I can still bleach my hair. FINE, then. I guess I'll be okay. :)

The "life list" you can feel GOOD about

2009-08-27T11:12:00.000-04:00

It seems that these days, everyone has a whole entire page on their blog dedicated to things they *want* to accomplish in their lives, things they aspire to be or do in the *future* and whatnot. These are the things that define them - the things they WANT to do and have every intention of doing in order to make them feel good about who they REALLY are inside (because everyone dreams), but alas, sometimes these lists can become depressing reminders of how many things exactly still remain on "the list", year after year.

I admit, I'm 100% guilty of THINKING about the prospect of adding such a page to my blog. I'll also admit that I do have a life list of to-dos that I keep on guard in my back pocket. But then, this morning, as I was looking at my collage of photos that are stuck haphazardly here and there all over the front of my fridge, I changed my attitude, and thought, why create a list of "Life To Dos" when I could spend my time creating a list of things that I've ALREADY accomplished in my little (ahem, specifically, 28.5-year-long) blip of a life?

I figured that would be something Oprah would recommend.

And, if anything, it's a positive way to recap all the great things that I've been lucky enough to experience in my "journey" to date. Of course, I think it's great to keep a list of the things I have yet to do, the great things that I might have done already but want to do again, and the dreams I have that are so far-fetched (as in, 9trillion angels and God himself in a three piece suit would have to come down to earth, with bugles and confetti in their palms - to ironically hand deliver a geenie in a bottle, of course - in order to make THOSE kind of dreams happen.)

So, without further ado, here's my ever-growing perpetual life list of things that I HAVE accomplished/experienced/felt/lived:

1. Caught a 30 inch bass striper in the Atlantic ocean.
2. Got close enough to a Peacock, in a real English garden (yes, in England!) to snap a photo, and the photo came out AMAZING (or as Rachel Zoe would say, "BA-nanas".)
3. Been to Paris and stood right under the Eiffel Tower at night, all lit up. Majestic.
4. Made a darn good pitcher sangria, complete with pretty sliced up fruit. Drank it with friends in my "garden yard", felt a little bit like Giada de Laurentis (minus her huge fuschia drenched lips)...and loved it.
5. Got one dog. Then got another. Never thought I was a dog person, either. Who woulda thunk?
6. Lived abroad while studying in Oxford, England.
7. Developed an affinity for foreign films...especially those that take place in Paris (i.e. Amelie).
8. Become comfortable with the fact that no, I can't nor will I ever dine alone or go to the movies alone. Which is entirely fine, the world isn't going to disintegrate if I never feel comfortable enough to do so!
9. Stood at Stonehedge in the dreery rain.
10. Went all the way to Montmarte in Paris but never made it to Sacre Cor because I was far too busy drinking wine in a cafe...and probably smoking, when I don't even smoke!
11. Figured out how to make Tequila taste good.
12. Wrote 3/4 of a screenplay.
13. Have attempted to entire a magazine's writing contest. Fingers crossed still!
14. Learned to like at least ONE Kashi product.
15. Bought a house.
16. Committed to working out daily, for over a year now! Woohoo.
17. Reconnected with old friends and made truly wonderful new friends who will be in my life forever.
18. Have been dedicated to writing in my blog now for almost a year.
19. Keep a journal on me at all times to jot down inspirational things.
20. Learned how to speak a different language...and then forgot it all.
21. Decided to join with other people in our community to create a neighborhood/town dog park.
22. Read a LOT of books.
23. Have a great secure job and a good future ahead of me, doing what I love: marketing, creative services, and copywriting.
24. Gained 15 pounds.
25. Become a self-admittedly excellent baker, perfecting brownies, muffins and cakes.
26. Learned A LOT about politics and know why I am a Republican...and that I'm not just following along blindly.
27. Can hold my own in a good political debate.
28. Learned to like sour cream - how did I eat Mexican all those years without it?
29. Speaking of Mexican, I lived for 6 weeks in Mexico when I was 12. Climbed Chichen Itza, also caught a bad stomach bug and nearly died from it.
30. Like country music. A lot!
31. Seen Cirque de Soleil and Blueman Group. Learned that I hate plays but love interprative theater. Even got called up on stage to participate in Blueman Group!
32. Helped train a dog.
33. Learned how to mow the grass (stop laughing, I'd never done it before!)
34. Ate a space cake in Amsterdam.
35. Backpacked through Belgium in the middle of the night to find a hostel.
36. Saw the Mona Lisa at the Louvre (it's so tiny!)
37. Driven in a car with no breaks (no on purpose...)
38. Got plane sickness, after 28 years of NOT having it.
39. Got married.
40. Been a really good friend and family member.
41. Learned to talk on the phone more, even though I hate it and it burns my ear.
42. Sold something on Craigs List.
43. Admit to watching really bad reality TV, even though I am a smart person.
44. Applied to grad school (Emerson) and got in. Never went.
45. Swam in the ocean.
46. Kayaked in the Charles River...scary.
47. Gone parasailing.
48. Been a parent to someone a LOT older than me at times.
49. Won awards.
50. Met Tony Curtis, who signed my screenplay.
51. Conquered fears.
52. Made it a point to incorporate one interesting word of the day into my everyday conversations.
53. Like eggplant. Never thought I would.
54. Bonded with my mother in law.
55. Bike rode for 8 miles along the coast in Maine. Nothing as enjoyable as that.
56. Passed out on the subway (low blood pressure, not drunken debauchery)
57. Been in a wedding.
58. Interior designed my house.
59. Driven a standard (not successfully)
60. Learned how to garden...sort of.
61. Inspired someone.
62. Made presents from scratch, instead of buying them.
63. Given a presentation to a room full of people (ugh!)
64. Held a newborn baby.
65. Helped paint a house.
66. Lived down South, if only for a little while.
67. Wrote poetry.
68. Took an art class.
69. Painted a painting.
70. Saw a hummingbird.
71. Nurtured a koi pond.
72. Adopted animals.
73. Paid too much money for a really delicious meal.
74. Driven in the car for over 18 hours.
75.On my way to becoming someone's future mother.*

*Like how I slipped that announcement in there? Yes, it's true. Ironically, being funny and sarcastic can really bite you in the ass (or in my case, the uterus.) After my last blog post, Maybe Baby, where I announced that no, I was not ready to have a baby yet because I still had things to accomplish in my life, I found out that I was, ironically, pregnant. After watching the test turn positive, I went between yelling (at myself, I was the only one home), "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god," and "Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!" Then I cried for a good 15 minutes and finally, days later, after the surprise wore off, I felt happy. Honest to goodness, Mayberry kind of happiness. I mean really, what, once you're a mom you have no life? You can't live anymore? Your dreams go out the window? No, I think not. I think it actually gives you even more inspiration to keep spinning dreams in your head, and instead of adding them to the Life List of To Dos, you're much more motivated to get them on your "I've Already Done It" list.

I can just feel God laughing at me now! Funny God, reallyyyyyyy funny.

Maybe...baby?

2009-08-12T10:32:00.000-04:00

Let me preface this post by saying not a month goes by without me being 110% convinced that I am - sigh - pregnant.

Again.

Then, about one week later, I'm $16.99 poorer, and I've had at least four nail-biting "Oh my god, what if we really ARE this time?!" type of conversations with my husband. Soon after, that's when I always I learn (quite inconveniently, too) that no, I'm not pregnant. Rather, the mini flesh colored fanny pack of tummy fat I've been sporting the last few weeks is just puffy stomach bloat, either from early onset diverticulitis or a very-much-in-my-life-now bout of IBS.

Or, quite possibly, it's the unfortunate side effect of drinking far too much Limeria (sounds like a gross tick disease or a rare Mexican stomach virus, but really, it's just a concoction I made up, consisting of Patron silver tequila and Simply Lime Limeade on ice), accompanied by, oh, say an ENTIRE BLOCK OF CABOT EXTRA SHARP CHEESE.

And/or (ahem, lately, I've found that it's almost always an "and") sticking the spoon in the strawberry Haagen Daas just a LITTLE too often. But hey, let's be honest here: it's really hard to pay attention to that sort of thing when you're watching Tuesday night TV on Bravo. Am I wrong?

And yet other times, it's all because I chose to have an embarrassingly large root beer float (with Brigham's vanilla ice cream), after which I immediately always find myself coming to an epiphany that life is FAR too short to be concerned with how I fit into my shorts - I mean, I can always buy new ones at the Banana Republic outlet! - so why not indulge myself and have another! I mean, no one's looking, or judging me anyway. And besides, my loving husband is my go-to partner in crime, especially when it's of the junk food variety. Together, we can kill a pint of icecream in less than 600 seconds on average, so all's well that ends well. I don't think he's fat, he doesn't think I'm fat, life is grand.

Besides, there are other far more important things to worry about in life, such as government healthcare, being audited, and dear-god-what-if-I-were-to-REALLY-get-pregnant-one-of-these-months. You know?

Oh and also, lately we find ourselves adopting Neanderthal-ish (but nevertheless enjoyable) steak-eating habits, where we buy insane amounts of Porterhouse and T-Bones, and then have them for dinner twice - sometimes even three times - per week. So, yeah. That's pretty disgusting. However, I can rest assured that if I WERE to actually get pregnant one of these days, my iron count would be INTENSE, for lack of a better word. Which, I think, is a "good thing" when you're having a baby, right? On the other hand, my cholesterol levels would probably be even higher than my iron, which is NOT a good thing.

In short, I've come to realize that for the last year or so, what I've been truly experiencing is what Diablo Cody coined, quite eloquently, as a "food baby". And at this point in my life, I think an ugly food baby with attachment issues is about the only kind of baby I can handle. I know my parents and my husband's parents and my friends and probably even my co-workers and the guy at the hot dog stand down the street from my house are all waiting with baited breath for me to say, "Guys, I am PREGNANT!" They might even think that I'd be so creative as to announce it via my blog (to find out who is truly an in-depth, adjective-admiring, plot-following reader, and who is merely but a skimmer.)

Which, I should add, is not what THIS is.

But really, as I near 30 (1.4 years to go!), I'm starting to wonder. Do I really WANT to have kids? Or was it the old me, who used to tote around a bevy of American Girl dolls and play house like it was my job? Or, am I just not ready yet?

I like to think it's the latter, and that only time will really tell. I mean, I know that inside me, yes, I want to have kids - for reasons near and dear to my husband and me, and not for the sense of relief and happiness it will bring those around me. Because, in the end, that's important. I want kids to be in my life because we willed them to be there, because we're ready for them, because I'm ready to sacrifice the things that still to this day I am working toward (um, screenplay? novel? owner of a banana yellow mini cooper?) I do not want them to just magically appear, like dimpled, little rattle-wielding leprechaun babies you might find at the end of a rainbow.

I think in the end, actually waiting until you're 115% ready (110% isn't enough), can make or break you. For some, it's a walk in the park - they thank God, who willed it to happen. For others, they simply can't deal with the unexpected burden, they aren't ready to let go of themselves and their lives as they know it, and so they walk away from the situation, pretending it was never meant to be.

So really, I'm not trying to have a baby, nor am I trying NOT to have a baby. For now, I'm just being me, and living my life, and hoping that I can knock out a few more of my significant to-dos. For now, I think a food baby looks pretty darn good on me.

I just wish it came in a size 2, preferably in a just-back-from-the-Caribbean tannish color. :)

Good writer. Bad dancer. (Even worse eyebrow modeler.)

2009-07-31T11:08:00.000-04:00

My passion for writing started wayyyyyyyy back when I was nine.

First, let me paint for you a quick visual of me in my young age, 14 years before I became jaded and about 13 years before my love affair with J. Crew piqued:

When I was nine, I pretty much looked like a chunky midget with chipmunk cheeks, bushy eyebrows and a CROOKED muffin top (see dance recital photo to the right - and no, I could NOT dance a lick. But did that really matter? No.) I know what you're thinking. Something that's probably along the lines of "DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN, please don't let my child look (or dance) like that."

Irregardless of my looks at that age, my mom thought it would be a good idea (maybe she was BLIND, unbeknownst to her children? Not sure) to buy me one of those one piece bathing suits that had a hole cut out in the middle for the stomach (WHO in God's name came up with that for children anyway, I want to know?).

I'm not sure if she made this somewhat brave, heroic purchase to be nice (because they were actually in style back in the late 80's/early 90's - then again, so were seafoam green wingback chairs and whatnot), or if it was merely a kind gesture meant to help my body expand and redistribute itself whichever way it saw fit, ultimately allowing me to breathe a bit easier while flapping around in the pool like a one finned, semi-retarded dolphin. (Note: I could only doggy paddle, while all the other "cool girls" were doing the breast stroke in their even cooler bathing suits.)

As if the shape of the bathing suit wasn't bad enough, I might add that it was also neon green with black polka dots.

And SERIOUSLY, I thought I looked awesome.

I also had a whiny high pitched voice and my teeth were WAY too big for my head, and to boot, one of my eyes was three times bigger than the other eye due to a cyst on my eyelid that I later had to have removed. (Speaking of which, 20 years later, that eyelid cyst is now growing back. Is that supposed to be bad karma or something?)

But, alas, it was 1989 (THANK GOD), so luckily, no one knew what it REALLY meant to be cool yet, especially as it relates to how parents dressed their children, which, obviously, didn't happen until fairly recently, with the explosion of Jon & Kate Plus 8 and their ultra preppy and colorful complimentary Gymboree duds, and then of course J. Crew's Crew Cuts (otherwise known as my-mom-works-in-advertising-and-therefore-I-too-will-also-dress-like-a-mini-self-absorbed-account-supervisor.) Because seriously, doesn't every parent fork over $138 for a tweed blazer with brass buttons hand-hammered in Tibet in a size 12?

(Luckily, when I turned 14, my mom took me to get my curly eyebrows waxed and my mousy brown-but-used-to-be-blonde-when-I-was-little-and-cute hair highlighted. Luckily, both of those minor improvements made my acne not seem AS bad. Really.)

To be quite honest, I think kids today have far TOO much style. I mean, how can you grow up humble if you play tag in tweed blazers, popped collars, madras kilts, mini strands of chunky pearls and pseudo Kabala-ish bracelets to boot? I mean, honestly, you might as well toss your kid a gin and tonic at that point. Maybe even throw in a therapist.

I think it would be far better to grow up homely, so that you can TRULY appreciate your first good hair cut that's over $100, and a good bargain at Marshall's.

But, what I DID have going for me when I was nine was a true passion for writing. I started writing short stories, even novella or two. Thinking back on my early love affair with writing, I decided to dig up some of my old childhood "manuscripts" over the weekend, just for kicks. I'll leave you with one of the many short stories that I came across (in its original format, funny parts in bold), entitled A Present for Louie, which ironically, is a pretty mature and quite JADED view of the world. (Who "Louie" symbolizes, I have no clue. And no, my parents were not divorced. Maybe I was sneaking in episodes of All My Children when I was supposed to be watching the after school special?)

A Present For Louie

Gleena Parson lived with her family in Kentucky. They lived on a barn. They owned a lot of Kentucky. Gleena had her mom, her little baby sister Louie, and the dog Barny. Her mother and father got divorced when Gleena was not born. She was in her mommy's tummy.

Her father wanted to move to California. Her mom wanted to move to Kentucky so they had a fight. Mom won. So dad moved away to California. Now he got married again and has 10 children. They are all going to school now. Glen just graduated, Tina's going into first, Mikey's going into second, and I don't know what grade Lea, Beth, Jim, Sherile, Jean, Betty and Jony are going into. I'm going into 4th grade. I got Miss Mockaflamer. Louie is in preschool. We both enjoy school. Louie doesn't know what school is. But Louie hasn't met dad or remembered him. I only saw him when it was July 5, 1979 in the hospital. I can't remember him.

Today was September 21. It was time to harvest and get ready for Halloween and Thanksgiving. Time to kill the pigs and make crispy bacon, ham, sausage and some kind of meat that I forget. We have old Farmer Joe come down and milk the cows, kill the pigs and bring eggs in from the hens and the roosters. Bring hay stacks and grass to the horses. Put the cows out in the pasture and do all those other things.

Louie was dad's pet. He loves her the most. That's why dad sent her a present yesterday. For no reason at all, you know, the expression "teacher's pet". Well, wrong. The point is, Dad loves Louie more than me.

That night while Loius and me were tucked tight in bed we heard the phone ring. Ring-a-ling-ling, ring-a-ling-ling! "Hello" mom whispered. "Hi, this is Frank." "Frank, Frank, Oh my goodness!" I said to myself "It's dad!!!" I thought they were going to get back together. Peeking through the doorway from our room to the kitchen, I could see mom smiling. She blew a kiss through the phone...could it be true, mom and dad were getting back together! They were getting married again! At last, family again!

He said his wife went to Florida for a visit and didn't come back! She left her 10 kids with dad. 10 sisters and brothers! This is a miracle! I opened Louie's present. It was a card, Wedding Time, it said on the front. It was true! Wait til Louie hears about this! The end.

To quote the Princess Bride: "Mawwwiage" (Happy almost 4 year wedding anniversary to me)

2009-07-29T10:04:00.001-04:00

I'll have been married for 4 years on August 12th, but let me preface that by saying in actuality, it feels more like FIFTY NINE FREAKING YEARS.

Which, as you fellow "Smug Marrieds" know, can be both a good thing and a bad thing.

This post also applies to all you perpetual, permalancer boyfriend/girlfriend types who really, quite honestly, have the best of both worlds(HELLO Goldie Hawn!). And no, unfortunately Goldie Hawn is not a personal friend of mine, nor does she read my blog. But, to be quite honest, I can really see us being dear friends (even if there is a 40 year age difference between us), hanging out on her leather couch in our ripped and tattered jeans, indulging in margaritas and talking about things like lip gloss, Die Hard, Kurt, etc. And then of course Kate Hudson shows up, and I'm all, "O.M.G., did you know we have the same size boobs? Yep, we're the only two A cups left in America." And then the three of us high five.

It seems that I just went off on a tangent there (sorry!), but basically, my point is that yes, marriage works for some, and does not work for others. And yet some find beauty and harmony amidst the unreliable chaos that is not based on a label (MARRIED) or the idea of having the ultimate "safety net" (PAPERS, God as your witness, etc.), but rather a partnership that is built solely upon fierce loyalty, trust and giving one another "their word".

And I'm not going to pretend I know marriage inside and out, because four years, really, isn't all that long.

Yet sometimes, I wake up thinking, What in GOD'S NAME was I thinking getting married at 24, giving up my independence, complete control of my life's direction, and being JUST FINE with my morning breath, etc. etc.? For instance, what if I wanted to just buy a ticket to Italy today and go live there for two months, doing nothing but wearing black, sipping on cappucinos, and getting a fat ass from eating one too many canolis (and not having to care about it, since really, I have no man to impress with my body)?

Don't pretend you've never felt that way, because if that's the case, you're only lying to yourself. I've come to realize that the first step in realizing something (aka, RELATIONSHIP) has a problem is admitting that YOU, yes YOU, are part of the problem.

For example: For too long, I think I've blamed certain "feelings" on my fiercely loyal husband-with-good-hair. (Did I mention my husband is pretty much the hypothetical offspring of the Mother Theresa/Santa Claus/Matt Damon triumvirate?) I can't stand that we can't keep cookies, milk or Drake's apple pies in the house for more than a 24 hour period because HE EATS THEM ALL (he's hungry.) I hate that I have to "check in" when I'm out and about with friends to let him know that YES, I'M OKAY AND NO ONE KILLED ME ON THE SUBWAY RIDE IN (he cares deeply). I get annoyed when he talks incessantly about work when all I want him to do is listen closely and appreciate (and maybe comment on) my fine use of scholarly-and-well-placed-adjectives (he is proud of owning his own business.)

Everyone has a "honey-don't" list of things that their spouse or boyfriend or girlfriend does that they despise. In fact, the other morning when I was lying in bed concocting my own list of annoyances for reasons that I know not of (um, PMS?) (I think I was at number 7), my loving, doting husband knocked on the bedroom door and told me to come downstairs because he had just made pancakes and eggs for breakfast. (Worth noting that as I ate my eggs, he DID notice that I happened to casually incorporate the word "copious" into my morning pre-brain-working lingo.)

How's that for feeling like absolute CRAP? I know we think they can, but honestly, thank God husbands CAN'T read our minds.

Anyway, to sum up what now sounds like a really negative post about marriage (which I didn't mean it to be), I think I'm slowly learning that the key is I CAN do those things that I mentioned earlier (maybe not so much LIVING in Italy, but getting fat from canolis, yes). It's just that they need to be done in moderation and with constant consideration for the other person.

The truth is, it's all about working really, REALLY hard to maintain your sense of self and preserve your own identity (which will inevitably change a bit over time anyway), without letting the lines that make you YOU blur into the lines that define your spouse. Because once that happens, that's when you're sure to get tripped up and lost, not to mention confused and resentful that THEY took certain parts of you away...when really, it was YOU that let them go a long time ago.

A relationship is, ultimately, two people who, simply point, love each other no matter what. And I wouldn't trade that in for even a thousand Drake's apple pies.

Because I deserve it (and a follow up about my half-ass)

2009-07-27T13:14:00.000-04:00

So I'm not sure if you read my post last week about how I begrudgingly found out that my ass is assymetrical, but if you did, I have news. Good news, actually.

As it turns out, Target evidently WANTS people to leave their store with body dysmorphia, which is why they pretend that their fitting room mirrors really aren't fun house mirrors at all, but your normal, everyday, run-of-the-mill, full length Queen Anne style mirrors that you'd find in any given gal's bedroom. The cherry on top is that they also feel the need to hang a cluster of hideously huge flourscent lights low enough that the slant of light catches the mirror just right (er, wrong, actually), causing all sorts of oddities to surface, like blind spots and "pseudo cellulite" and such (admit it, you've been known to hone in on non-existent cellulite before), so you're left exiting the fitting room feeling like you are a beached whale with a completely warped and assymetrical ass and that you can never, ever wear a bathing suit in public again.

Which leads me to wonder why so many store fitting rooms even use flourescent lighting. I mean, if I tried on a bikini and the lighting made me look tan and flawless, and the mirror was positioned at a slight tilt that was just enough to make my derrier look lifted and pert like a 20 year old Brazilian, well then I'd probably own 347 bathing suits instead of 39.

So actually, it's probably a good thing that the lighting in fitting rooms all over the world is bad; otherwise, I'd probably find myself in debt up to my eyeballs at special-places-that-I-love. And God knows I've already been in that sort of place before.

On the upside, at least my body confidence would be through the roof.

I digress.

Let me preface my good news by saying that last weekend, I was lucky enough to take a brief hiatus from my marriage to spend a few days down the Cape with my close girlfriends. (Let me clarify that I do not mean a hiatus from the actual marriage itself; rather a 48 hour break from everything marriage-and-husband-ish, such as being forced to watch countless episodes of How It's Made in our side-by-side Lazyboy recliner, helping said husband find his keys and his inhaler for the oh, seventy ninth time that week, picking up endless amounts of dog poo from the yard, having to actually care about my morning breath, etc. etc.)

So instead of sleeping next to my hot-husband-who-might-I-add-has-really-great-hair in our king bed (which doesn't *actually* happen anymore anyways, due to the fact that we have two boxers who sleep between us every night), I slept, quite comfortably, in a puny, full size hotel bed with my good friend A. I actually had a lot more room than I usually do, since my dogs take over the bed every night and I'm forced to sleep as straight as a pin on the very, very right side of the bed, my right leg and half of my ass pretty much wedged in the crevice between the mattress and the wall. (No wonder my ass wound up assymetrical.)

However, as I recently found out (this is the good news), my ass is NOT assymetrical, it's actually pretty equally weighted on both sides. I know this because as my friends and I sat around the pool drinking Gin and Tonics at 10 in the morning taking pictures of each other and thanking GOD that none of us have kids yet, I put down my drink for a minute and commanded that someone snap a picture of my ass. Quickly.

Maybe I was drunk, maybe the granola I had for breakfast left me feeling zippy and confident and sort-of-kind-of-like-a-Sports-Illustrated-swimsuit-model (actually, that was probably the Gin and Tonic). But I wanted once and for all to see if in fact Target was right or if I really, and I mean REALLY, had B.D.

As it turns out, my bum is perfectly proportionate.

And *supposedly* (according to my friends, but we all know friends lie about this sort of thing to other friends) I "don't have any cellulite". I'm not quite sure what to think of all of this, and you're probably wondering why the HELL I am writing yet another way-too-involved post about my butt, but the thing is, I've been working really, really hard on firming up my backside for the last year because not only do I not have any boobs, but my butt was always flat as a pancake in my early twenties, so I really wanted the "Summer of '09" to be remembered as the "Summer that my ass looked smokin' hot". Besides, I'll probably have a baby next year or even the year after, and as we all know, hope is at a bare minimum (no pun intended) after that. I'll be lucky if I even have time to wash my hair.

Needless to say, after 365 mornings of sweating profusely on a stationary bike while watching really, really embarrassingly bad reality TV shows that I DVRed, I'm proud that I stuck with my regimen and that my bum has finally, FINALLY met my own self-imposed must-attempt-to-look-like-Miranda-Kerr-from-the-back standards. It's given me a boost of confidence that I was in dire need of. And the way I see it, I deserve it!

Aliens, bikinis and baboon asses (and oh yeah, I'm going on vacation tomorrow)

2009-07-15T15:07:00.001-04:00

I'm not sure if it's global warming, the insidious day to day fear of terrorism, the fact that my fellow Republicans (and I) may soon need to jump ship and move to a small island, preferably near St. Lucia, the ridiculous amounts of Facebooking and Tweeting you can do from your phone while going to the bathroom, or the fact that our bodies absorb copious amounts of self tanner these days, but it seems to me the whole world is going (or has gone) completely effing crazy. No?

As my nearest and dearest know, I'm probably the only person in the entire world, aside from Mother Teresa and mute people, who never ever says effing, so that in and of itself says a lot.

Anyways.

On my lunchbreak the other day, I found myself in need of inhaling something besides stale-office-air, and decided to take a drive to yet another controlled climate environment where I could breathe somewhat-stale-air-that-also-smells-a-bit-like-new-clothes-and-prefab-plastic-shelving (otherwise know as Target.)

I bet you didn't think I was talking about inhaling that kind of air, right? (Remember, I don't say effing.)

On my brief journey over to Target, I drove by a man with very tanned, toned chicken-like legs who was wayyyy too into his calesthenics routine. He was jogging on the main road, of course, and not on the sidewalk (WHICH, HELLO, ARE MADE FOR PEOPLE TO RUN/WALK/BIKE ON), but alas, I'm already quite used to swerving my ginormous SUV way-too-far over to the left side of the road (practically halfway in the other lane), in order to give said free range exercisers enough room to get by, which really, is fine, because I don't mind risking my own life and getting into a head on collision with oncoming traffic just to ensure that I don't hit the exerciser-en-road-at-hand. That would be manslaughter, which I REALLY don't have time to deal with right now in my life. (I am, after all, a marketing project manager, and my little world over here MIGHT just fall apart if that were to happen.)

So this jogging-chicken-legged-version-of-Lance-Armstrong isn't just jogging in the street; he's also throwing a tennis ball out in front of him, and then speeding up to catch it, which I'm sure really, really, really helps define and add to the overall chickeny-looking-ness of his calves. People keep braking because a) they think he's throwing the tennis ball at them because he's angry that after all these months of jogging-and-ball-throwing, his calves have turned out looking like tan chicken/stick legs, and therefore he's out to get the world, including all stay-at-home moms who are out and about in their cars at this very time, heading to the grocery store or b) they're going, "What the hell; is that guy SERIOUSLY bouncing a tennis ball while he jogs? I have to just look back in my rear view mirror a little longer to see if he actually nails anyone with it by accident."

Obviously, the man is mad, and willing to do whatever, and I mean WHATEVER, it takes to get buff.

So I get to Target, and I am doing my "routine" there (cosmetics; shampoo; clothes; wall art; lamps/rugs; a quick stop in bras where big surprise, they don't have my size AGAIN; maternity; bags; check out) when I notice right between bras and maternity, I'm hovering in the aisle with my cart, standing just a little *too* close to the maternity section, without my glasses on (so I'm squinting), looking for evidence that yes, this vast area to the left is the maternity section, and no, the Women's section did not magically move in here recently (because obviously, the last time I was here was practically yesterday.)

Obviously, I am just as mad as the chicken-has-a-baby-with-Lance-Armstrong jogger freak if I'm actually shopping for maternity clothes in Target (while pretending I am ever-so-slightly pregnant for the sake of passersby who are gawking at my size 2 flat ass.) Don't worry, I didn't buy anything (that would be weird.) Just a lot of heavy petting.

If you can believe it, this isn't even the point of my story. Before I hit up the maternity department, I was in bathing suits (a normal seasonal deviation from my typical fall through spring Target routine). And I can attest to the fact that I certainly do NOT need another bikini (I believe last count in my closet was 39 bikinis, but worth pointing out that figure includes suits dating back to '99).

Nor did I actually WANT to try on another bikini.

But alas, I was inevitably sucked into the effervescent stripey-and-stringy-ness of a few Rugby-ish looking bikinis, and at that point, I was a goner, like an alcoholic who is standing in the middle of the beer aisle, trying to rationalize with himself, thinking, "But I have 39 beers at home!!" I plucked a few bikinis from the rack, steered my cart through the cramped women's department and hightailed it to the fitting rooms.

Is it me, or is there never a line for the fitting rooms at Target?

Anyways. I rip off (I'm in a rush, on my lunchbreak!) all my layers of work clothes and pearls and my sunglasses, and find myself standing under the flourscent lights, partially naked, and I can't help checking out my own butt in the mirror. But, not for reasons you're probably thinking (i.e., "She rides her bike and has a great perky spinner's ass," or, "Jesus, Mary and Joseph on a horse, she's going to talk about her flat-buttness for the seventy fifth time this month? I am leaving this post, stat.")

No. It was because I noticed for the first time in my life that my left butt cheek is seriously EIGHT times larger and probably four times wider in dimension than my paltry, flat looking right butt cheek. It was like a pervy subset of aliens had come down to Earth the night before, sucked me up into their spaceship, gave me anethesia (because I imagine I'd have woken up by this point, due to change of air, gravity, loud noises, etc.), and then did a surgical maneuever similar to the one they did in that really bad 90's movie, Face/Off, except for putting my face on someone else's, they must've just came from an out of control rave somewhere in Miami, where they got high and/or drunk and/or sucked on one too many lollipops (raging sugar high) and decided it would be funny if they took only one of my butt cheeks off, threw it out into space, and sewed the other half of a baboon's bare ass in it's place.

Then, they dropped the poor half-butted baboon out of the spaceship (I mean, come on, their butts have it bad enough already!), along with my one round, somewhat perky right butt cheek that-I've-been-working-on-a-very-long-time-because-as-you-know-I-don't-just-bike-for-the-pure-sake-of-wind-in-my-hair.

Very Donnie Darko, I know.

So, as I mentioned, the world has gone mad. My friend A doesn't believe that this is true about my butt, so tonight, after a few rum and V8 juices in our hotel, I'm going to unveil my weirdo alien butt to her, so that I don't shock my friends too much at the beach tomorrow.

And if you find a good lookin' butt cheek lying somewhere on the street, please send it my way.

On questions of bloating and whatnot.

2009-07-14T11:52:00.000-04:00

This past weekend, I had the pleasure of spending a few days in a 2 axel, 6 wheel box truck with my husband, chugging along for about 300 miles up to northeast Maine (Searsport, to be exact), not going any faster than 60mph, subsisting solely on Burger King and coffee and diet coke, and therefore making about thirty nine thousand pit stops (aka, "Pee and Stretch".)

Needless to say, it's really quite impossible to look cool driving along in a big ass box truck, even if your hair is blowing in the wind and you have really cool, big sunglasses on. By default, passers-by-in-their-cars look over, and then look again (because at this point, I'm hanging halfway out the window like a dog lapping air because my ass hurts so bad), and they're all, "Oh, that poor girl, it must be hard to be both blonde and blue collared," or, "Have you been kidnapped, SOS, do you need help? Just hold up two fingers and we'll notify the authorities at the next toll plaza."

Anyway.

So the drive was just the start to my tittilating weekend in Maine, but as is par for the course, sometimes the drive IS the most fun part of a road trip, because you *really* (and I mean REALLY) get to know someone. Even if that someone is your husband that you thought you already knew really well (because you married him), but maybe you didn't know him quite THAT well. Also, because you get to play games like Would You Rather when you realize there are only two radio stations that come in sporadically, and, as a matter of fact, you'd rather rub salt in your eyes while staring up at the sun than listen to an amateur audio version of Oh Brother, Where Art Thou.

Mind you, playing Would You Rather was my idea, and let me just say that it only lasted one round. Why did such a FUN game only last one round, you might ask? I'll tell you why. Because my husband at this stage of the drive (4.5 hours north) was as much fun as a wet blanket/deflated boob/decapitated chicken carcass.

Maybe it was the two Burger King lunches, merely one hour apart (the first of which was deemed "breakfast"; possibly the Whopper is sort of kind of like the 280 pound male equivalent to a 125 pound dieting female's oatmeal and toast, not sure), then the stop at a local gas station for brake fluid and oh, say, 9 "homemade" (UM?) fried donuts, and/or the fact that underneath his cool calm demeanor he was genuinely concerned that the brakes may or may not be working properly and that we may or may not break down and get our limbs cut off and thrown at us by a stumbling, mutant Stephen King character while walking at dusk to the nearest telephone booth to call for help (no cell phone reception either.)

This is how the first (and only) round of Would You Rather went:

Me: Would you rather lick a butt, or chew on a mouth full of dirty pennies for five minutes?
Husband: [Silence.]
Me: So.....?
[A good 30 seconds goes by.]
Husband: Which part of the butt?
Me: Ah, right. And you probably want to know whose butt, too. Top part; your own.
Husband: [Eye roll.] OK, let's do something else.

See? Wet blanket/deflated boob/decapitated chicken carcass. I mean, it's an obvious answer, right?

So, when an hour later at the umpteenth stop light within a 22 mile stretch of backroads my husband started eying his chin in the rear view mirrow and asked me (seriously) if he looked "fat", I gave him an honest answer: "No, you don't look fat, just, well...bloated. But maybe it's just all the Burger King and donuts you ate?"

I mean, he rained on my Would You Rather game. What did he expect me to say?

Anyway.

While we were in Maine, worth noting that we did have an all around excellent time (and I kid about my husband here only because I love him.) We rode our bikes (albeit helmetless -sorry mom!) for about 8 miles along the shore (burnin' off the BK!), thought it quite odd and remarkable that so many of the "oceanview" homes in this part of town were either modular or trailer style, lit a fire in the middle of July in our cabin that night, got way too drunk on cheap wine, laughed at the 1987 Zenith box TV in our cabin, tried *not* turning it on, three hours later succumbed to turning on the 1987 Zenith box TV, zoned out to a movie, went to bed, the next morning noticed that the water smelled like gas (didn't shower), and then tried not to wake everyone up at 8:30am on a Sunday morning when it was time to leave and we had to throw the box truck in reverse, and the thing starting beeping and wailing ("reverse mode") like crazy.

I'm sure everyone was REALLY glad to see us go, the weird they-look-like-smug-bike-peddling-J-Crew-wearing-yuppies-but-arrived-in-a-box-truck?-people. Needless to say, I kissed the leather seats of my SUV when I got home that day. And, I'm really looking forward to my next road trip with my girlfriends this weekend.

Something tells me playing Would You Rather with them would be a HECK of a lot more fun.

****

An extra dose of marital humor for you:

RULES OF MARRIAGE - as described by kids

1. HOW DO YOU DECIDE WHO TO MARRY?

-You got to find somebody who likes the same stuff.. Like, if you like
sports, she should like it that you like sports, and she should keep the
chips and dip coming.

-- Alan, age 10

-No person really decides before they grow up who they're going to
marry. God decides it all way before, and you get to find out later who
you're stuck with.

-- Kristen, age 10

2. WHAT IS THE RIGHT AGE TO GET MARRIED?

Twenty-three is the best age because you know the person FOREVER by
then.
-- Camille, age 10

3. HOW CAN A STRANGER TELL IF 2 PEOPLE ARE MARRIED?
You might have to guess, based on whether they seem to be yelling at the
same kids.
-- Derrick, age 8

4. WHAT DO YOU THINK YOUR MOM AND DAD HAVE IN COMMON?

Both don't want any more kids.
-- Lori, age 8

5. WHAT DO MOST PEOPLE DO ON A DATE?

-Dates are for having fun, and people should use them to get to know
each other. Even boys have something to say if you listen long enough.
-- Lynnette, age 8 (isn't she a treasure)

-On the first date, they just tell each other lies and that usually gets
them interested enough to go for a second date.
-- Martin, age 10

6. WHEN IS IT OKAY TO KISS SOMEONE?

-When they're rich.
-- Pam, age 7

-The law says you have to be eighteen, so I wouldn't want to mess with
that.
- - Curt, age 7

-The rule goes like this: If you kiss someone, then you should marry
them and have kids with them. It's the right thing to do.
- - Howard, age 8

7. IS IT BETTER TO BE SINGLE OR MARRIED?

It's better for girls to be single but not for boys. Boys need someone
to clean up after them. -- Anita, age 9 (bless you child )

8. HOW WOULD THE WORLD BE DIFFERENT IF PEOPLE DIDN'T GET MARRIED?

There sure would be a lot of kids to explain, wouldn't there?
-- Kelvin, age 8

And the #1 Favorite is ...........

9. HOW WOULD YOU MAKE A MARRIAGE WORK?

Tell your wife that she looks pretty, even if she looks like a dump
truck. -- Ricky , age 10

Never eat a twinkie if you have dry mouth.

2009-07-09T12:20:00.000-04:00

So the last half of my June was spent with a bunch of slightly neurotic, pseudo blonde-ish out-of-towners (aka, my family - and I mean that in the fondest way possible, guys.) Heck, I'm as neurotic (and blonde) as they come; I mean, have you seen my fingernails lately? Gross. Anyway.

Did I mention it rained for 85% of their visit? Sorry, just another crabby New Englander who is gosh-darn sick of this non-summmer-weather-ridiculousness.

Anyway.

It was a really great trip. My family, being from Massachusetts originally and all, relocated to North Carolina about 6 years ago for bigger houses at cheaper prices on nicer cul de sacs. Problem is, every house looks the same (thank God for house numbers!) and no matter how long you've been there, infiltrating the social circles of the South is no small feat (except for my mother, who can make friends with berber carpet, Alzeihmer's patients, annoying-people-that-everyone-else-tries-to-avoid, and small, feeble yard animals.) She's already the Queen Bee of her cul de sac, having wine and cheese and tupperware and Lia Sophia parties at her house every other week, with slightly drunkish soccer mom and retired grandmother types all gathered round the island in her kitchen-which-is-practically-the-same-size-as-my-whole-downstairs-in-Massachusetts, dishing the local dirt and really having more fun than me and my 28-year old girlfriends do during a slightly buzzed night out on the town. How is that possible? I'm not jealous. Really, I'm not.

I digress.

Of course, being back in their home state, they wanted to do all things that are quintessentially Massachusetts-ish:

1. North End - pit stops for Canolis at Mikes and Modern for the yearly taste test and comparison ranking; pizza at Pizzeria Regina and seeing how many we can rip through and how many pizzas we can get to fit on one table

2. Cape Cod - seafood for lunch, seafood for dinner, Dunkin Donuts, beach, tour de lighthouses

3. Newport RI - OK, so this isn't Massachusetts, but having such a cool historical city slightly nearby my town in Mass makes me feel like my town isn't so East Bumblebutt-ish

4. Chinatown - where I ate a delish bowl of Korean noodles and beef with my own interpretation of successful chopsticking

5. Plymouth - the "rock", the "mayflower" (the quotes here are for the things that you later learn are really not nearly as impressive as you might have been expecting, nevermind even real)

5. Blueman Group

I'd like to elaborate on #5 a bit because it was really a defining moment in the history of my life as it made me "loosen up" a bit, which I've been in dire need of lately. And it also taught me to never, ever get force fed a twinkie if you have dry mouth. If you have no teeth, however, I suppose it would be fine if you have a very strong, nimble tongue.

We decide to take our pack of 10 people to go see Blueman Group, and buy tickets the day of. As luck would have it (and we're not a very lucky family, that's for sure), we got 10 seats, 5 seats in 2 rows, right in front of each other. $400 and 5 hours later, we're sitting in a packed theater, electric colored tubes hanging every which way from the Charles Playhouse ceiling, bass thumping through the speakers and hilarious nonsensical text scrolling across each of the LED displays hung on either side of the stage.

About an hour later, stuff gets really good - the Bluemen and their creepy beady eyes and wet blue faces start peering out into the crowds - and before you know it, they're climbing every which way through the rows of seats, starting at people like they were prey.

Then, they turn into my row.

I notice one of the Bluemen is actually Asian, which is weird to me, but I suppose every organization has diversity quotas, but it's just odd because he looked that much less like an outer space blue creature. And I don't mean that in a bad way, I'm just sayin'. Anyway, the reason I notice he's Asian is because he's so close to me, he's staring at me as he gets all limber and cirque-de-soleil-ish, climbing over the seats with his eyes locked on mine. At that moment, I just knew. I knew he was coming for me. As if I was really going to be taken away into outerspace via a DNA swirl portal, I panicked, dry mouth set in as he pulled me up out of my seat by my hand (which was shaking.) I'd seen this show before and I knew it was just about time for the "twinkie puke" act. (Great.)

So they pull me up on stage and make me face the audience (glad I wore a bra! Not that I typically don't or anything, but just saying.) I do my Miss America wave while trying to be sort-of-cool-and-not-looking-as-nervous-as-I-really-am. Which really only made me look that much more nervous, I'm sure.

Let me preface this by saying that I am NOT good at improv. I can't even tell a good joke, never mind interact on a whim with a bunch of silent, beady eyed blue freaks up on a stage in front of what felt like gazillions of people (well, hundreds. But still.)

Halfway through the act, it all hit me like a ton of bricks in the chest, anxiety set in and I starting feeling wayyyyyyy overly self-conscious, with 100% of my hyper self-awareness set in. Everytime I stared out into the crowd, I saw faces, faces, faces, their reactions dependent solely on my ability (or lack thereof) to interact successfully with the Bluemen and go along with their routine. I tried to mix it up a bit; when they indicated that they wanted me to pick up my fork and cut into my twinkie, I immediately thought, oh my god, I have gum in my mouth, do I swallow it? So I took it out of my mouth and tried handing it to the Blue folks next to me. One looked at me quizzically, took it and stuck it on the table and stretched it across the table length. Nice.

Then I had to cut up my twinkie and eat a piece whenever they ate a piece, and so on. So I did, except I had trouble swallowing my twinkie, because I had such dry mouth. One of my biggest fears is eating/chewing in front of other people (mainly strangers) because of my ridiculous hyper self-awareness. But alas, I chewed, and swallowed, chewed and swallowed, bobbing my head to the beat of the music that was blaring (and I have no rhythym, also hate dancing in front of other people, again mainly strangers.) The crowd laughed, and I felt invigorated.

I had just conquered a few of my biggest fears, dead on (I couldn't have said no anyway.) And, I hadn't had a twinkie in like 17 years, so that was cool too (and no, they're not the same.)

Anyway, I guess sometimes that's what it takes - being pulled into a situation where you have to be yourself in the limelight - flaws, fears and all exposed. To me, it was a really weird, ethereal, kinda creepy metaphor for my life. I needed something that was like a bat over the head to get me to loosen up, because I'd been so wound up in my self-awareness for so long. I guess what I needed was an attractive, Asian Blueman to stick a twinkie in my mouth and help me call it a day.

Moot point, but worth mentioning I'm really glad I didn't decide to wear a dress that night because I think that would've been another whole issue entirely, and not quite sure I would've recovered from the sheer anxiety of "oh my god, can the front row see up my dress?!" God, what a show that would've been. BTW, sort of appropriate here: my stripper name is Lynn Front, in case you were wondering. ;)

****

A fun aside - how to play the stripper name game:

First name: is your middle name
Last name: is your street name

I haven't lived on Front St. for years, but the name was just too darn good to move on from.

I could really use a S'more right about now.

2009-06-26T14:02:00.000-04:00

Every once in a while, I get these weird feelings that well up inside my chest.

Maybe it's gas, maybe it's angina, maybe it's anxiety, maybe it's just plain nostalgia and the overwhelming flutter of feelings of fondess and heart-tugging memories that always seem to come with it. Who knows what it is, but lately it's been giving me the urge to build bird houses and whatnot out of popsicles sticks and glue.

Seriously.

Immediately following would then be an intense session of round singing, voices harmonizing repetitive, out-of-tune refrains. Koombaya, my Lord. Koombaya.

I should probably mention this mental slip all happens around a campfire while eating intentionally burnt S'mores and not caring about how many carbs are in my marshmallows. And that it takes place with about with 30 or so other girls my age who also don't care about their marshmallows, how their Aqua Net bangs are holding up in front of the fire, or if their jeans will be too tight to hike up in the morning.

[Sigh.] The simplicity that came with the idle days of summer camp. Gets you missing it, doesn't it?

This little day dream of mine got me thinking.

Why as adults do we *stop* going to summer camp? I mean, what, we turn 18 and suddenly it's all about all inclusive cruises, brazilian bikini waxes, Eurostar passes, and your new tag-along BFF for life (welcome to your early twenties!): Finding Myself.

When did growing up get so darn boring? It's like for 18 years you ache to pop out of your little pre- and post-adolescent bubbles, counting the hours until you can get the heck off the cul-de-sac and go get that first tatoo or drive across country in a broken down, beat up convertible with your girlfriends, without a care in the world. No more mom and dad, no more rules, no more boredom.

Yeah, right. Fastforward at the speed of light and there go your college years, a big fast furious blur. Then it's all, "Hello, 9 to 5" and trying really hard to make your cubicle look like it's a place you just really, really care about and want to be in.

Maybe come to think of it, all the structure and rules and a paid-for-roof-over-your-head are kinda nice.

Maybe summer camp was your last real vacation because you're too broke to ever take a real one now that you spend all your money on beer and takeout and at Forever 21.

Anyways.

I've been married for almost four years now (yes, four!), and my husband and I have yet to take a honeymoon, which, for lack of a better word, is sad. Someone (a sarcastic someone) once said to me, "If you don't take one now, you never will! You'll wake up one day and realize you have 85 kids, stretchmarks, wrinkles, cellulite, bunions, poor posture, resentment and never another chance to just slip away from it all." OK, so that last part was maybe just a wee bit dramatic, but you understand the immediacy of the notion, I think. It's dead on, too, and we don't even have kids yet; we just keep putting our honeymoon plans off: Oops, I used up all my vacation time again to go visit my out-of-state family; or, Ugh, I'm just too busy to go anywhere for an entire week; or, Gee, maybe we should save money and take a staycation instead? Besides, I've been meaning to watch grass grow and dust the crown molding for at least a year now.

Well, I'm determined. This year is going to be our year! The year of the honeymooners; the year of eating S'mores (probably followed by some sort of low-cal tequila drink) with my love, without a care in the world, plenty of fresh air at our disposal(no office ventilation, nice!), wrinkly, hotel-smelling sheets and all. I want the adult version of summer camp, but with air conditioned cabins/private bathrooms/preferably no round-singing with strangers-who-act-like-they're-professional-mountain-men-slash-campers-for-life-and-yes-I-know-how-to-use-flint-thank-you-very-much. I want us to go back, together, to that period in my life where the anticipation that builds and builds the week before is palpable, that fluttery release you get to ride when you're driving by the tree-nailed sign and down the bumpy dirt road that leads to a camp site, chock full of mini Hansel and Gretal-like cabins, the smell of dewy, morning-after-fire smoke permeating the air, the feeling of rubber flip flops squeeking and squelching and squooing as you tip toe across the wet bathroom to get to the other side without stepping on a big gross alien moth that's the size of your thumb. I miss those days.

So, I got thinking. Maybe instead of going somewhere for grown ups this winter (i.e. Aruba), we should revert to our childhoods and go to one of those "adult" camps out there
http://www.clubgetaway.com/main/sample_schedule.asp. No one ever seems to really talk about them; could be because for most folks, "getting away" doesn't exactly bring to mind pine trees and kayaks, crafts and square dances, bug spray and firewood. Or, yes, quite honestly, maybe the whole "adult camp" experience completely sucks (oh, we meant to tell you, the air conditioner broke! But here's a voucher for a free buffet. Gross, I hate buffets, too.)

The way I look at it is this is the stuff that life should be made of, at least, it's what I want my life to be made of. What matters most is how many simple moments you can collect in your life, the ones that bring back years of memories and stories and smells and staying up late to talk about nothing.

My husband never got to experience the joy of going away to summer camp, but when I reminisce about my time there, I see this little twinkle in his eyes, and it's like a little boy suddenly took the place of my 33 year old husband. It reminds me that everything in life really comes full circle and points back to simplicity. When your time comes, the first things you think of aren't how many shoes you have, how much money is in your bank account, how your hair looks or who you know - it's the love that your last Sunday dinner was made with, the sun on your face, the wind in your hair, the company on your front porch, the colors on a butterfly's wings, the way your husband's hair is all askew and adorable in the morning, the way his eyes laugh when he smiles, the voice of a family member you haven't seen in ages, baking pancakes from scratch, the way a certain smell can bring you back 25 years.

I want my life story to be a bit like camp. Simple, laid-back, breezy and full of anticipation every step of the way. Memorable. The smell of fire. Oh, and a S'more here and there wouldn't hurt either.

A curious case of the Benjamin Buttons

2009-06-18T12:55:00.000-04:00

Today on my way into work, I shared a good hearty belly laugh with my geographically-far-but-emotionally-right-next-door mother.

As per usual, my early morning banter happened to be on my cell, while driving - one of those moments where you realize by the time you've got to work, you're not quite sure how exactly you got there (did I remember to stop at that red light? Hmm.)

All us 9-5'ers know it can be pretty darn hard to muster up a good [genuine] laugh before 9 a.m. on a Thursday (though I'd imagine it would be quite harder to muster one up at 8 a.m. on a Monday.) I guess it's kind of similar to the slap happy kookiness we've all felt at one time or another in the wee hours of the morning...whether it's induced by a raucous game of truth or dare at 1 a.m. at a sleepover (age 13), or inebriated, sitting around a fire at 3 a.m. and screaming "I don't have any underwear on!" to everyone else [aka strangers] sitting around the fire with you (age 20. Okay, fine. Age 27.)

Anyway, I was telling my mom how it seems that a majority of the folks who read my blog are, dare I say it, *baby boomers*. Yes, baby boomers. As in, over-the-age-of-50-type-people. Not quite sure how that got to be (could have something to do with the fact that my mom is older than me, and that she just might also be a baby boomer, who just might also happen to have baby boomer friends who she possibly shares my "intuitive", "colorful", "inspiring", "typo-free" (gotta love mom...!) blog posts with. But that's pure speculation.) Another possible subset of readers could be internet savvy older folks who are attempting to conduct a search on google for "geriatrics", but who have mistakenly typed "generalist" in the search box instead (because they can't see the keyboard without their glasses, which they've undoubted lost again for the seventh time that day). Entirely possible, right?

So my mom and I got talking about how it might be that some baby boomers, like her, are actually pretty darn young at heart - but didn't start out that way. My mom had a hard life by today's standards: married by 17, first child a few years later. These days, that sort of predicament sounds more like a life sentence, an MTV show even (16 and Pregnant!). That's a whole lot of growing up she had to do pretty quickly; in other words, no underwearless fires for her in her twenties (however, I should not speak for her.)

My mom said maybe it's the way I write; maybe it's a bit more mature than what the norm is for my age. (Um.) I mean, by no means am I a "spring chicken" anymore (I'm 28 1/2 people! And yes, the half most definitely counts), but I'm not exactly Myrtle-Girdle-gets-a-blog either. However, I know what she's getting at. We're the kind of people who maybe started off living our lives a bit too seriously, a bit too planned out, and now that we've got everything figured out (ahem!), we can let loose a bit, be a bit younger at heart. As my mom put it, "We're kind of like a couple of Benajamin Buttons, except we age mentally in reverse." So in other words, you start out thinking you know it all as an adolescent (very rare, right?:), and as you get older, you just say screw it all, and give me a shot of tequila! OK, so maybe that's not what she meant (the tequila part.) But, I get where she was going with it. Some people start off life as people pleasers (ahem), afraid to disappoint, and with an old soul that's full of way too much wisdom, fortitude, dedication and drive. It's like being an 85-year-old woman who can anticipate what's down the road already, but being stuck in a 12 year old's body. You know you should probably be prepared and leave peanut butter crackers and a gallon of water in the trunk in case you ever find yourself stuck in the middle of nowhere. You know if you don't do your homework you're never going to reach that bar you've set for yourself and you're never going to become who you want to be, professionally. You know if you aren't smart about your choices, you're going to have regrets later on in life. You know what you want, but as you age, you realize gee, maybe it *is* worth it to take your shoes off and dance in the rain once in a while, to have that second ice cream cone because it's all going to fall south eventually, etc. etc. You get where I'm going with it. (At least I hope.)

I admit that I found the 8 year old Benjamin Button kind of endearing - wrinkles, short statured, old man voice, cane hobble and all. Maybe it's because it was Brad Pitt under all that garb, but there was something so quizzical and curious about his character, born with a zest for a life and a drive to get out there and discover the world beyond the "nursing home". Sometimes I feel like I'm the backwards version of Benjamin Button: I've already accomplished so much (by my own standards) at such a young age, that I'm looking back already on moments of my life that I wish I could get back, those that I wish I had savored a bit more instead of trading it in for hours of studying and a college transcript that an employer would never even ask for anyway.

I guess either way you age, really, it's about being completely in the present moment, whether you're learning or looking ahead, and realizing wholeheartedly that you'll never get it all back. Young, old, good, bad, ugly...it's all the same. It's just about your perspective, how you choose to see it and if you decide to take the bull by the horns.

Never ride your bike to work if you work off of Route 1.

2009-06-16T14:28:00.000-04:00

In an "effort" to go green (if everyone else is, why shouldn't I?), I *thought* about riding my new vintage-style mountain bike (a dichotomy on wheels, I know) to work the other morning.

However, as I soon found out during what I like to call my "1/18 of the way to work test ride", riding one's bike down a multi-laned pseudo highway is not safe. You might be thinking it's the skinny, line drawn "sidewalk paths" (if you want to even call them that), or lack thereof in some parts, but no. It's the Dairy Queen.

OK, so I was kidding. I didn't go to Dairy Queen, because really, what sort of athletic go-green wannabe (aka, loser!) pulls into the Dairy Queen drivethru on a bike. I mean, really. Besides, I had just drank about two quarts of water and a serious dose of a Chip bar, so I was already feeling pretty full and bloated.

All of this fodder about attempting to mountain bike to work down a highway that's known for senior citizens and truckdrivers swerving at innocent bystanders, walkers, and bikers is not all for naught. Riding my bike that day, as completely unproductive as it might have been, was also my very small but kind-to-the-earth attempt at leaving my gas guzzling SUV at home (oh, the leather seats. Sigh...) in exchange for a day (or rather, a zippy moment) of sacrifice and getting myself somewhere else the old fashioned way, just as Jesus of Nazareth would've done back in the day. Alas, although it might not be obvious to you, I am not really like Jesus in that way, or in various other ways either, aside from my Catholic upbringing, my adolescent-long obsession with sprinkling holy water on my bed and wearing a scapula around my neck every night, and my wicked awesome gladiator sandals. Anyways. I digress.

Where was I? Oh yeah, I'm not like Jesus, I have trouble riding a bike and admittedly a personal struggle with "going green". Sure it's the good thing to do, and I definitely try my best to color a bit of green here and there throughout my pretty much red life, but I am probably the one person on this earth (er, aside from my husband) who intentionally does not recycle. (Apologies! But we did try.)

You see, we live in a crazy town that supposedly "makes it easy" for its residents to recycle everything from beef stew to Barbies in one easy-to-dump-into receptacle. Of course, you have to place it 1/8 of an inch from the street precisely, or else your recycling won't get picked up that week. That I can understand; it's the mechanics of the dump truck (or whatever you want to call that loud, obnoxious green and yellow waste-management thing). The lift goes down and has to be able to grab your bucket. I get it. What I do not get, however, is my town's we-don't-recycle-QUITE-everything-actually policy. For instance, pizza boxes. Last time I heard, cardboard was not biodegradable food-for-the-earth. And my husband and I sure do go through a lot of pizza boxes these days:

[Scene: 5:12pm. Dusk, kitchen, tapping fingers on counter. Opening fridge, freezer, fridge, freezer, cabinet, freezer.]
Me: Ugh! Such a headache.
Husband: So, what's for dinner hun?
Me: Hmm. Pizza?

Well, I have a solution for our town's petty little recycling hiccup: turn all existing Kashi products from one end of town to the other into pizza boxes. I mean, people don't actually eat that stuff, do they?

Problem solved. Recycling? Check. Dairy Queen? On my way.

There's something sexy about filleting a fish.

2009-06-08T13:35:00.001-04:00

OK. I'll be the first, actually the second, to admit it.

There's something weirdly sexy (stress on the 'weirdly') about watching a fishing boat captain, who looks like a sea-faring version of the Marlboro man, cigarette hanging from his mouth, fillet a fish.

Dripping in blood, and twirling the knife around (which actually looked more like a pocket machete) like he was starring in some sort of weird, oceanic version of Ringling Brothers circus, I for one would've been the first to admit this, had it not been for the 55 year old married man who casually remarked on it first while on our fishing trip this past weekend.

Married man: (Joking, half-heartedly) Say, that's pretty sexy Kerri, isn't?
Me: Um, I suppose so.
(Staring. Wondering why I can't stop looking. Hungry for fish...hungry for love!)
Me: Actually...hmm. You know, it really is!

While I do not advocate that couples abandon their gourmet-cooking-lessons-to-bring-us-closer-together for down-and-dirty fish wrestling, I do recommend that men out there take a cue from whom I shall refer to henceforth lovingly as "Captain Jack".

For instance, Captain Jack:

1. doesn't care about how his hair looks. Sea salt and wind do it wonders.

2. smokes his cigarettes like he could care less if he was told he was going to die tomorrow from emphysema. I mean, he's got two lungs, right? Right.

3. resurrected the "lost" era of Champion sweatshirts, wears one in a terrible jewel green color, and every hole in the arm marks the beginning of story about a shark that he wrestled, a bass that he coddled, or the time he had to go overboard to "save the boat" from sinking and "got stuck" on the side on his way back up/in.

I think, really, what sets Captain Jack apart from the rest of the crowd is that absence of fear. He doesn't care what people think about him. Sure, he hasn't showered since yesterday, smells like sweat and sea, and there's a piece of fish stuck in his shoe laces. But, he's got a passion for what he does everyday, he's living his dream, even if there is a whole list of reasons why he shouldn't be doing what he's doing. He's a manly man who can separate his emotions from his actions, and knows the consequences. He can look a fish square in the eyes and cut its head off while it's still alive and smiling at the crew as a last attempt at brown-nosing its way off the boat. He can captivate an entire deck full of people, with his back turned to them, and not expect three cheers in return (after all, he's just doing his job. So what if he cuts his thumb off or falls overboard?). And he can make puffing on a cigarette look so darn good that I want one too.

Keep window shopping your dreams (there's a 50% off sale!)

2009-05-29T15:02:00.000-04:00

In response to a recent blog post by Jamie Varon [http://www.intersectedblog.com/finally-the-secret-to-patience-has-been-cracked/], I quickly determined that Jamie and I were either friends in a past life, meant to be friends in this life, or, quite possibly, the same person. Not to sound like a stalker (OK, does sound stalker-ish, scary and possibly a bit 6th grade-ish), but rest assured, I'm not a scary person, nor am I 12 (thank God for that.)

But, reading here list of life dreams and want-to-dos, honest to God I thought I was inside my own brain, circa 2005! All the same aspirations (i.e. make your own greeting cards - except, my plan was to write them, not design; travel the world and write a book about it; live in Portland; and no joke, work out of a coffee shop...okay, not in NYC, though). Same hobby-jumping, same relentless searching-my-soul, fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants pipe dreams (if you want to call them that.)

Then I started thinking: it's almost like by realizing just how attainable each aspiration and dream is, no matter how far-fetched or commonplace it may seem (becoming a Starbucks barista in Manhattan), the sheer possibility of it all is actually a bit daunting, and a bit intimidating, so it almost becomes easier to window shop your curious urges and brainstorms and what ifs. I think that the backbone of a dreamer mentality is the opposite of what we all think; it's not all puffy clouds and candy coated wishes and unicorns and Cirque de Soleil-ish...it's all actually real stuff, and quite attainable at that, if you just have the ability to focus on getting there and knocking out each dream, one by one.

Yes, it's fun to window shop and oogle and ah at the snakeskin shoes and the saucy red stilettos, and to try them on, but is it that much more appealing than picking one smart, sensible shoe (i.e. loafer, Nike sneaker), trying it on, realizing it fits and wearing it around for a while? Answer is yes, shoe shopping and window shopping will always be more fun than loafer-wearing predictability because it's never as much fun to committ to only one safe thing in life. Focus is not fun. Loafers are not fun. Wearing red stilettos with your Starbucks barista apron, and gossiping with your regulars about your upcoming move to Portland? Now that's fun!

Courtney-style Love

2009-05-27T09:48:00.000-04:00

"Love" always manages to show itself in funny ways - all you have to do is take the time to notice it. Why do I put the word "love" in quotes? Well, because it's interpretative, subjective. It's anything from a nickname to a funny memory. It stands for a lot of things. It's the label on your cherished, dusty memory box under your bed, for instance.

Speaking of love...

Today, I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I'm thinking it has something to do with the first thing my loving, doting husband said to me when I woke up:

Husband: "Wow. You look just like Courtney Love!"
Me: "Um...seriously?" [Sigh.]
Husband: "Yeah, you really do! Really. Go look at yourself in the mirror! You're just all, I dunno, what's the word?" [Does animated hand action around hair area and walks kind of like a hunched over, strung out ape.]
Me: [Evil eye. Yawn.]

And believe me, it's not indifference that keeps passion alive in marriage amidst early morning, jovial prodding like this...it's actually quite the opposite (you might call it an appreciation of the art form, even!). It's being able to call one another Courtney Love, "Sloth love Chunk", and Drunky McNasty that seals the deal, because if you can't joke around with each other, what else is there, really?

When I'm 92 and barely able to rock myself in my rocking chair, what I want is to hear a really good joke that makes me laugh so hard my [insertive operative adjective here: i.e., arthritic, cracking, one-too-few] ribs hurt. Not flowers, not chocolate, not even poetry. Just a good story that makes me laugh and makes me remember.

That's love.

Thank God for plumber connections, second bathrooms and long weekends.

2009-05-22T12:00:00.000-04:00

What a lovely way to start a Friday.

Already running late, I pop into our second bathroom to grab my moisturizer (not bothering to turn the lights on), and step into a pool of water. Not clean water, mind you, but tepid, brown, stagnant smelling water. Awesome. Oh, did I mention I was barefoot, too?

After a quick foot rinse in my clawfoot tub (second bathroom), I went back to look at the flooded first bathroom to make sure it was for real. Yup, it was. And, my husband is out of town on a business trip (I completely realize that was a 1940s thing to say, as if I couldn't fix a clogged toilet! I could, I think. Couldn't I?). Ironically, before he left the other day, I joked to him, "Isn't it so funny that this toilet has never clogged? It's like a Volvo 240. It just won't quit." To which he replied, "Hun, it's a Crane. Crane's don't clog."

Well.

Luckily, there's a plumbing business in the building where my husband has his shop, which conveniently is right around the corner from our house. And luckily, my husband is one of the most charming, gregarious people I know (his eyes even twinkle!), so everyone wants to do good for him, as he's pretty much the hypothetical offspring of the Mother Theresa/Santa Claus/Matt Damon triumvirate. And even though my husband's in Alabama for a training course, he made a few phone calls in between leaving a Waffle House and hitailing it to the airport in a hatchback, and was able to get his plumber cohorts over to the house, snakes and wet vacs in tow, all before 9am.

Dare I say that I was actually early to work today because of the need I felt to vacate the premises asap, as I was a bit embarrassed about the way my bathroom "looked"? Reminds me of when my mom used to madly tidy up the house before the monthly Merry Maid arrived, or the way she used to make our beds at the hotel every morning we were on vacation ("It's just a matter of pride," she used to say.) Although, something tells me used toilet water is a bit different than wrinkled sheets and crumbs on the carpet.

But still. I get it now. I get it Mom, I get it!

Chocolate frappes make the world a better place, and make 4 o'clock on a Wednesday not seem so bad.

2009-05-20T16:33:00.001-04:00

Em...not much else to say about that.

It is what it is, right? 4 p.m. on yet another idle, overly drawn out Hump-Day(a.k.a., not Friday at 4 p.m. - that's when the snarkiness and the punchy, perky, ready-for-the-weekend-whoomp-whoomp! cheerleader personality makes an appearance), but alas, I have a chocolate frappe, so all is good in the world (well, the world that is behind my pine veneer desk).

Thank God for people who are willing to take time out at work and sacrifice their precious T-minus 60 minutes of desk time to drive down the street in 82 degree weather with the sunroof open to the local icecream shanty and purchase frappes for the whole office. Such sacrifice! Such nobility!

Slurp.