When your kindergartner's teacher asks you to "wash a few toys," be sure to have an excuse on deck so you can decline faster than she can say "criss-cross apple sauce."
This handy tip courtesy of a Friday night spent washing four buckets of legos (the small kind), in which I had to MacGyver an assembly line of child labor, a bathtub, two strainers, twenty-seven towels, one bottle of whiskey, and a salad spinner.
Four hours down the drain (ay-oh!), and we're all a little wiser. Learn it, live it own, it. Carry on.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Flaming Pants
Confession: I started this blog because of a boy.
An overgrown boy who refuses to marry, keep a job, wear clean socks, or move into any residence requiring a lawnmower. He is the scoundrel who infiltrated the mommy bubble. One foggy morning last year, he woke up, uninvited and unfulfilled, in my bed. (Well, not my bed. A bed. Where he did not begin the night. And where he did not get any action.) And pop!--a midlife crisis was born.
The clock began ticking. The writing was on the wall. The cliches began flowing. I suddenly realized that if I am to have sex with another man before I die, I have only three to five good years left to do so. (Because after five years, who knows where the lady humps will have migrated?)
But these are the sort of thoughts most ladies keep to themselves. I didn't know a single married woman who had cheated on her spouse (although I couldn't say the same for the men I know). So I started this blog as a dumping ground for all the thoughts I couldn't share with my non-imaginary friends.
Then I deleted those months of posts.
And started fresh.
With this abomination.
But something happened the other night. I went out with a few friends. And the Good Girl--the one who's been married the longest to a swell guy, who makes cupcakes that look like butterflies, who scrapbooks for fuck's sakes--did something bad. She hooked up with the Clean Greek.
We know Telemachus is clean because he told her so: "I wash my hands 1,000 times a day."
To which she replied, "You had me at wash."
He murmured, "I think you're clean, too."
And then she took him to her hotel, where they cuddled and shared sweet pillow talk about hand sanitizers.
Now she can't stop thinking about him. She almost friended him on facebook, akin to giving him her digits. She is distracteddistracteddistracted. She is on the verge of writing to Dear Abby.
So if the Good One could pull a shenanigan like this, then where does this leave me? Who is certainly not Good. And where does this say about other married women? Are they all having affairs but keeping quiet? Are we a nation of liars, liars, pants on fire?
(And why am I ending posts with questions as if I am Carrie Bradshaw? Next thing you'll know, I'll be smugly abusing puns and wearing a tutu to catch the bus.)
An overgrown boy who refuses to marry, keep a job, wear clean socks, or move into any residence requiring a lawnmower. He is the scoundrel who infiltrated the mommy bubble. One foggy morning last year, he woke up, uninvited and unfulfilled, in my bed. (Well, not my bed. A bed. Where he did not begin the night. And where he did not get any action.) And pop!--a midlife crisis was born.
The clock began ticking. The writing was on the wall. The cliches began flowing. I suddenly realized that if I am to have sex with another man before I die, I have only three to five good years left to do so. (Because after five years, who knows where the lady humps will have migrated?)
But these are the sort of thoughts most ladies keep to themselves. I didn't know a single married woman who had cheated on her spouse (although I couldn't say the same for the men I know). So I started this blog as a dumping ground for all the thoughts I couldn't share with my non-imaginary friends.
Then I deleted those months of posts.
And started fresh.
With this abomination.
But something happened the other night. I went out with a few friends. And the Good Girl--the one who's been married the longest to a swell guy, who makes cupcakes that look like butterflies, who scrapbooks for fuck's sakes--did something bad. She hooked up with the Clean Greek.
We know Telemachus is clean because he told her so: "I wash my hands 1,000 times a day."
To which she replied, "You had me at wash."
He murmured, "I think you're clean, too."
And then she took him to her hotel, where they cuddled and shared sweet pillow talk about hand sanitizers.
Now she can't stop thinking about him. She almost friended him on facebook, akin to giving him her digits. She is distracteddistracteddistracted. She is on the verge of writing to Dear Abby.
So if the Good One could pull a shenanigan like this, then where does this leave me? Who is certainly not Good. And where does this say about other married women? Are they all having affairs but keeping quiet? Are we a nation of liars, liars, pants on fire?
(And why am I ending posts with questions as if I am Carrie Bradshaw? Next thing you'll know, I'll be smugly abusing puns and wearing a tutu to catch the bus.)
Monday, February 15, 2010
Everything Is Annoying
Here's a little nugget for ya: The hardest part in life is not accomplishing something, but figuring out the something you want to accomplish.
I want too much. It stymies me. So I drink a glass of wine until I calm the fuck down.
Around about now, I'm attempting to both convert to vegetarianism and become an expert on the work of Jonathan Safran Foer (young genius, and more importantly, author of only three books.) Cake.
I presumed vegetarianism would be the most difficult of the two challenges. (Have you seen The Best Thing I've Ever Eaten: with Bacon" on the Food Network?! Two words: bacon marmalade. And yet, I'll see you your bacon marmalade and raise you a bacon-maple doughnut. When WHAM!--all are trumped by a cured pig meat snow cone.)
Fact: I am a weak woman.
I decided to book a plane ticket to fly across the country and taste a bacon-chocolate dream bar, when my A.D.D. took flight and I began reading Jonathan Safran Foer's EATING ANIMALS. While reading about how "free-range" eggs are bullshit and how every animal product we eat is the byproduct of the devil, a stomach bug kicked in.
If "kicked in" makes you think "caused me to projectile hurl across my room and onto my unsuspecting, shrieking husband," you win, chicken butt.
Just one look at the EATING ANIMALS green book jacket provoked a Pavlovian puking reflex so intense that I was back to my pre-pregnancy weight within hours. (And for this, Mr. Foer, I thank you from the bottom of my blocked heart.)
Long story longer, I am now a vegetarian who will never be able to read Jonathan Safran Foer again.
In other news, my kooky hairdresser just called to tell me that she is now working out of her house.
I want too much. It stymies me. So I drink a glass of wine until I calm the fuck down.
Around about now, I'm attempting to both convert to vegetarianism and become an expert on the work of Jonathan Safran Foer (young genius, and more importantly, author of only three books.) Cake.
I presumed vegetarianism would be the most difficult of the two challenges. (Have you seen The Best Thing I've Ever Eaten: with Bacon" on the Food Network?! Two words: bacon marmalade. And yet, I'll see you your bacon marmalade and raise you a bacon-maple doughnut. When WHAM!--all are trumped by a cured pig meat snow cone.)
Fact: I am a weak woman.
I decided to book a plane ticket to fly across the country and taste a bacon-chocolate dream bar, when my A.D.D. took flight and I began reading Jonathan Safran Foer's EATING ANIMALS. While reading about how "free-range" eggs are bullshit and how every animal product we eat is the byproduct of the devil, a stomach bug kicked in.
If "kicked in" makes you think "caused me to projectile hurl across my room and onto my unsuspecting, shrieking husband," you win, chicken butt.
Just one look at the EATING ANIMALS green book jacket provoked a Pavlovian puking reflex so intense that I was back to my pre-pregnancy weight within hours. (And for this, Mr. Foer, I thank you from the bottom of my blocked heart.)
Long story longer, I am now a vegetarian who will never be able to read Jonathan Safran Foer again.
In other news, my kooky hairdresser just called to tell me that she is now working out of her house.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Lick 37
Another girls' outing last weekend. This one decidedly lame. Five thirty-something-year-old women at my friend's parents' cottage. At practically any hour, you'd find us wearing pjs, drinking Bubble Gum vodka, watching the Food Network, and playing Pitch.
Heaven.
Fast forward thirty years, wrap us in sweater coats, throw in a cheesecake, and we're Golden.
Have you tried Bubble Gum vodka? It is every bit as tasty as it sounds, especially mixed with soda water and chased with nacho Combos.
One unfortunate side effect of Bubble Gum vodka: Drinking an excessive amount of this stuff will turn you into John Mayer. It should come with a warning label. I morphed into a rambling narcissist with a predilection for pot, the uninvited TMI confession, and soppy ballads.(The latter of which were croaked during the only time we ventured outside. To sing karaoke at a dive bar that provided $2 beers, but no bathroom doors.)
Digression #1: I really have to start carrying a microphone in my purse for impromptu sing-alongs. Reunited? It's understood. Love Will Keep Us Together? One step ahead of you, Captain. Benny and the Jets? B-b-b-betcha sweet ass I have a microphone on me.
Digression #2: If you don't like 30 Rock, we can't be friends.
That's all I got. It's the weekend, suckas. Make it count.
Heaven.
Fast forward thirty years, wrap us in sweater coats, throw in a cheesecake, and we're Golden.
Have you tried Bubble Gum vodka? It is every bit as tasty as it sounds, especially mixed with soda water and chased with nacho Combos.
One unfortunate side effect of Bubble Gum vodka: Drinking an excessive amount of this stuff will turn you into John Mayer. It should come with a warning label. I morphed into a rambling narcissist with a predilection for pot, the uninvited TMI confession, and soppy ballads.(The latter of which were croaked during the only time we ventured outside. To sing karaoke at a dive bar that provided $2 beers, but no bathroom doors.)
Digression #1: I really have to start carrying a microphone in my purse for impromptu sing-alongs. Reunited? It's understood. Love Will Keep Us Together? One step ahead of you, Captain. Benny and the Jets? B-b-b-betcha sweet ass I have a microphone on me.
Digression #2: If you don't like 30 Rock, we can't be friends.
That's all I got. It's the weekend, suckas. Make it count.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Tra la LA
Dearest Party People,
I firmly believe that a successful marriage relies on two key ingredients: bjs and separate vacations.
Do you think the old you has died? You're wrong. The old you is buried under piles of laundry, production reports, and dirty diapers. Every once in a while, you must flee. Run, run, as fast as you can.
Do not feel guilty. Because rooted people (and that's nearly everyone) will try to make you feel guilty.
Like your father, who will say, "What are you doing? WHY? [annoyed pause] I just don't get it."
Listen, Pops. I know you and your new wife are jocking the whole Linda-and-Paul McCartney-never-sleep-apart-until-one-of-you-dies scam, but get this: Paul hooked up with a one-legged woman before you could say "Dancing With the Stars." Now go forth, put that in your pipe, and smoke it.
My old me was found, alive and babbling, in LA.
1. LA Prep:
I am a prime candidate for "What Not to Wear" and haven't bought real makeup since the 90s. So prepping for LA necessitated a stack of US Weeklys and consultations with friends who venture beyond Target and TJ Maxx. I tried out for the part of a girly girl. I starved, Whitestripped, microdermibrasioned, waxed, makeuped, moisturized, manied, pedied, and airbrush-tannied.
The night before my flight, I went to bed looking fly. And then I woke up . . .
looking like this:
From rockin' it to Rocky post-Apollo Creed
Do you see? At being treated nicely, my face--finally realizing that it belonged to a female and not a frat boy--WENT INTO SHOCK.
2. Plane
With deflated eyelids and my skin a warm shade of cantaloupe, I stood in line to board Virgin Airlines. The enthusiastic boys behind me--all 20 years and change--briefed me on what to expect.
Boy #1: "Have you ever flown Virgin Airlines?"
Me (trying to beat him to the punch of a bad joke to avoid the fake laugh): "No, I'm a virgin to Virgin."
Boy #1 (uncomfortably fake laughing): "Heh-um-heh."
Me (uncomfortably registering that I delivered a bad joke unnecessarily): "Heh. Um . . ."
Boy #2: "It's so cool. You have like a TV that you can use to like chat with people in different seats. Like if you see someone you think is hot . . . it's like, AWESOME."
And, yes, this would have been awesome had I figured out how to get my keypad out of my armrest. But I couldn't get past the screens showing wine and Pringles. (PRINGLES!!!)
3. On board
The only thirty-somethings in a cabin of twenty-something hipsters, my girlfriend and I admired our TVs' hip and trendy music, movie, and premium cable selection. The colored strobe lights everywhere? Yes, we agreed, so hip. You can order endless wine and Pringles (PRINGLES!!!) right from your seat. It is AWESOME!!! We fiercely debated music, religion, and the Kardashians over four glasses of white wine.
4. Still on board
My friend passes out. I suddenly can't breathe. The air is too warm and stale. These super-hip strobe lights are now giving me the cold sweats. I reach for the designer red puke bag. Get up and stumble through the sea of ambivalent cool kids and into the bathroom, where I find . . .
more fucking strobe lights.
Red, green, blue, red, green, blue. And more electronica, but louder--THUMP-A, THUMP-A, THUMP-A! Virgin America has become a flying disco from which THERE IS NO ESCAPE. I am in a ring of Dante's Inferno--hurling in the bathroom of the Hipster Airplane--the tiniest, most annoying bathroom in the world.
5. LA
LA was dope-tas-tic. It was all one could hope for--celebrities, beaches, pretty drinks, pretty boys, a VIP table, and Brazilian wax tips from one of my fellow travelers:
"It should take no more than six minutes. Down and dirty. And never get it done by an American. You don't want chitchat, you don't want a friend; you want to feel clean and enjoy how the water runs down your body in the shower."
When I called to tell the hubs that I might get a Brazilian in LA, he said, "Wait until you get home. The bartender I see after basketball games can totally hook you up." (And this is why you need Brazilian wax tips lest the details of your snatch be discussed during the YMCA men's basketball league huddle.)
Oh, and there was also legal weed in LA. Venice Beach pushed the kush like perfume samples at the mall.
And now, after a weekend in stilettos and micro-minis, In-and-Out Burgers, and too much of too much, and too much of nothing, it's back to the sweats, school lunches, basketball practice, and goodnight kisses. There's Mad Men and laundry a-waiting.
Good is in the simple. It's a lovely life, and LA reminded me that I chose it.
xxoo S.M.
p.s. Heck no, I still did not get the Brazilian.
I firmly believe that a successful marriage relies on two key ingredients: bjs and separate vacations.
Do you think the old you has died? You're wrong. The old you is buried under piles of laundry, production reports, and dirty diapers. Every once in a while, you must flee. Run, run, as fast as you can.
Do not feel guilty. Because rooted people (and that's nearly everyone) will try to make you feel guilty.
Like your father, who will say, "What are you doing? WHY? [annoyed pause] I just don't get it."
Listen, Pops. I know you and your new wife are jocking the whole Linda-and-Paul McCartney-never-sleep-apart-until-one-of-you-dies scam, but get this: Paul hooked up with a one-legged woman before you could say "Dancing With the Stars." Now go forth, put that in your pipe, and smoke it.
My old me was found, alive and babbling, in LA.
1. LA Prep:
I am a prime candidate for "What Not to Wear" and haven't bought real makeup since the 90s. So prepping for LA necessitated a stack of US Weeklys and consultations with friends who venture beyond Target and TJ Maxx. I tried out for the part of a girly girl. I starved, Whitestripped, microdermibrasioned, waxed, makeuped, moisturized, manied, pedied, and airbrush-tannied.
The night before my flight, I went to bed looking fly. And then I woke up . . .
looking like this:
From rockin' it to Rocky post-Apollo Creed
Do you see? At being treated nicely, my face--finally realizing that it belonged to a female and not a frat boy--WENT INTO SHOCK.
2. Plane
With deflated eyelids and my skin a warm shade of cantaloupe, I stood in line to board Virgin Airlines. The enthusiastic boys behind me--all 20 years and change--briefed me on what to expect.
Boy #1: "Have you ever flown Virgin Airlines?"
Me (trying to beat him to the punch of a bad joke to avoid the fake laugh): "No, I'm a virgin to Virgin."
Boy #1 (uncomfortably fake laughing): "Heh-um-heh."
Me (uncomfortably registering that I delivered a bad joke unnecessarily): "Heh. Um . . ."
Boy #2: "It's so cool. You have like a TV that you can use to like chat with people in different seats. Like if you see someone you think is hot . . . it's like, AWESOME."
And, yes, this would have been awesome had I figured out how to get my keypad out of my armrest. But I couldn't get past the screens showing wine and Pringles. (PRINGLES!!!)
3. On board
The only thirty-somethings in a cabin of twenty-something hipsters, my girlfriend and I admired our TVs' hip and trendy music, movie, and premium cable selection. The colored strobe lights everywhere? Yes, we agreed, so hip. You can order endless wine and Pringles (PRINGLES!!!) right from your seat. It is AWESOME!!! We fiercely debated music, religion, and the Kardashians over four glasses of white wine.
4. Still on board
My friend passes out. I suddenly can't breathe. The air is too warm and stale. These super-hip strobe lights are now giving me the cold sweats. I reach for the designer red puke bag. Get up and stumble through the sea of ambivalent cool kids and into the bathroom, where I find . . .
more fucking strobe lights.
Red, green, blue, red, green, blue. And more electronica, but louder--THUMP-A, THUMP-A, THUMP-A! Virgin America has become a flying disco from which THERE IS NO ESCAPE. I am in a ring of Dante's Inferno--hurling in the bathroom of the Hipster Airplane--the tiniest, most annoying bathroom in the world.
5. LA
LA was dope-tas-tic. It was all one could hope for--celebrities, beaches, pretty drinks, pretty boys, a VIP table, and Brazilian wax tips from one of my fellow travelers:
"It should take no more than six minutes. Down and dirty. And never get it done by an American. You don't want chitchat, you don't want a friend; you want to feel clean and enjoy how the water runs down your body in the shower."
When I called to tell the hubs that I might get a Brazilian in LA, he said, "Wait until you get home. The bartender I see after basketball games can totally hook you up." (And this is why you need Brazilian wax tips lest the details of your snatch be discussed during the YMCA men's basketball league huddle.)
Oh, and there was also legal weed in LA. Venice Beach pushed the kush like perfume samples at the mall.
And now, after a weekend in stilettos and micro-minis, In-and-Out Burgers, and too much of too much, and too much of nothing, it's back to the sweats, school lunches, basketball practice, and goodnight kisses. There's Mad Men and laundry a-waiting.
Good is in the simple. It's a lovely life, and LA reminded me that I chose it.
xxoo S.M.
p.s. Heck no, I still did not get the Brazilian.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
It's Laminated
Like most sane people in a healthy, monogamous, no-way-out-until-the-kids-go-off-to-college marriage, I have a list of famous people I am permitted to shag should the opportunity present itself.
Much like the one Ross Geller has when he tries to bang Isabella Rosselini.(Not that I would know this because I'm too cool to watch "Friends." You should know that I've never once said "How YOU doin?" to strange men. Or ever had--still have--the Rachel do because I'm too cheap to get a real hairdresser with working bowels and a decent magazine selection.)
Since I'm going to LA this weekend, the hubs kindly reminded me of the List.
"EUREKA!" I thought. "The List! But of course. This whole time, I thought I'd be having sex with the same man for the rest of my days, but I had forgotten about the List! The one shining loophole! The golden ticket! The light at the end of the tunnel in which I dance and dance and . . ."
Ahem.
In no particular order, I present you with . . . The List:
Matt Damon (a bit of a wild card considering his company)
Jimmy Kimmel is a sex god.
The older, paunchier Alec Baldwin (mucho sexier than his younger, paunch-less self).
Doug Heffernan = Sex on Wheels.
I fantasize about a night with the King of Queens spent in the following order: sex, spooning, together raiding the portable fridge that he keeps next to his bed.(Mostly about that last part.)
There.
I said it.
I yearn to eat food in bed with Doug Heffernan.
Huey Lewis. Because the thirteen-year-old me would think this was totally awesome.
Which brings us to Bruce Willis. Hardest celebrity crush ever.(As attested to by the fact that I purchased and played this CD.) Is David Addison on the List? Heck yeah. Do bears bare? Do pickets fence?
That's as far as I got.
You can keep your manscaped, jewelry-wearing, fake-and-baked Brody Jenners and assorted waxed douchebags. You can have your fit, muscular, bedroom-eyed Rods and Jeters, Crawfords and McConahays.
As for me? I'll stick with the fat guys. The beer-guzzling, hairy-chested, eating-cold-pizza-in-bed whilst spooning Everyman.
The kind of man, when I think about it, I have right here at home.
Who's on your list, suckas?
Much like the one Ross Geller has when he tries to bang Isabella Rosselini.(Not that I would know this because I'm too cool to watch "Friends." You should know that I've never once said "How YOU doin?" to strange men. Or ever had--still have--the Rachel do because I'm too cheap to get a real hairdresser with working bowels and a decent magazine selection.)
Since I'm going to LA this weekend, the hubs kindly reminded me of the List.
"EUREKA!" I thought. "The List! But of course. This whole time, I thought I'd be having sex with the same man for the rest of my days, but I had forgotten about the List! The one shining loophole! The golden ticket! The light at the end of the tunnel in which I dance and dance and . . ."
Ahem.
In no particular order, I present you with . . . The List:
Matt Damon (a bit of a wild card considering his company)
Jimmy Kimmel is a sex god.
The older, paunchier Alec Baldwin (mucho sexier than his younger, paunch-less self).
Doug Heffernan = Sex on Wheels.
I fantasize about a night with the King of Queens spent in the following order: sex, spooning, together raiding the portable fridge that he keeps next to his bed.(Mostly about that last part.)
There.
I said it.
I yearn to eat food in bed with Doug Heffernan.
Huey Lewis. Because the thirteen-year-old me would think this was totally awesome.
Which brings us to Bruce Willis. Hardest celebrity crush ever.(As attested to by the fact that I purchased and played this CD.) Is David Addison on the List? Heck yeah. Do bears bare? Do pickets fence?
That's as far as I got.
You can keep your manscaped, jewelry-wearing, fake-and-baked Brody Jenners and assorted waxed douchebags. You can have your fit, muscular, bedroom-eyed Rods and Jeters, Crawfords and McConahays.
As for me? I'll stick with the fat guys. The beer-guzzling, hairy-chested, eating-cold-pizza-in-bed whilst spooning Everyman.
The kind of man, when I think about it, I have right here at home.
Who's on your list, suckas?
Thursday, January 7, 2010
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