Jessica Simpson and Tony Romo...At the Olive Garden? Are you kidding? Jessica. He can afford to take you...well, anywhere else. (And you can afford to get your roots done.)
Saturday, September 20, 2008
You Can Take the Celebs Out of the Country...
Jessica Simpson and Tony Romo...At the Olive Garden? Are you kidding? Jessica. He can afford to take you...well, anywhere else. (And you can afford to get your roots done.)
We're Doin' It Up Tonight, WooHoo
Yesterday afternoon I was chatting online with my bestest friend Allison while she wasn’t working at the office and I wasn’t paying attention to my kids. Evie was particularly precocious after school and Abbie didn’t take her usually long nap so she was pissy all day and I was waiting for Todd to get home so that I could hand the baby to him and say, “Here. She’s yours for the next hour.” And then like Noah’s first glimpse of dry land that led him to know instantly that things were right with the world, I got an email from Allison saying that she was going to come babysit my kids tonight so that Todd and I can go on a date.
There’s nothing anyone could do for me right now that could make me happier. My usual Saturday night consists of Todd falling asleep to a Mets game on the couch in the living room and me falling asleep with a book in my hand in bed. SOMETIMES we get wild and drink some wine and watch a movie. SOMETIMES we get extra crazy and order a movie on pay-per-view. I think that the last time Todd and I went on a date was for his birthday. In June.
The other morning, on my way to drop Evie off at school, I was feeling sort of old and unexciting and pretty dull. And I realized that I haven’t done my hair, like really styled it, since my wedding. I haven’t blown it out, used a hot-iron, or even come close to my tresses with a curling iron or other styling tool in a VERY. LONG. TIME. I also noticed that same day that I am getting wrinkles. Yup. They’re starting to appear underneath my eyes. It’s undeniable. Despite the hundreds and hundreds of dollars of age-defying eye cream that everyone says I don’t need, my eyes have undeniably defied the claims and are starting to age.
So I was obviously feeling a little off this week and this night out couldn’t come at a better time. We’re getting a night away from the kids and some time to eat a quiet meal together without cheerios getting thrown at my head and having to refill a sippy cup with apple juice for the seventeenth time. There’s a new Japanese restaurant right in our neighborhood that we’ve been dying to try. There’s a bottle of warm Sake there with my name on it.
It’s really weird to still feel like a kid and then everywhere you turn be reminded of the fact that you’re not SO young anymore. My hips are wider than I think they are and my face looks older than I remember it. I. CUT. COUPONS. And sweep my front porch everyday. I always have a packet of tissues in my purse and I only see the sun come up these days because I’m awake before it rises, not because I haven’t even thought about going to bed yet. I discuss the benefits of all natural and organic cleaning products with anyone who’ll listen and actually have very clear and defined opinions about which toilet bowl cleanser is the best. I can’t stand MTV anymore and Todd and I can complain together for hours about “kids today”. My XM radio is preset to the 90s station who’s motto is “If you lived it, you get it.” I do get it. And it pisses me off.
So let us all raise a glass to Allison for making it a little easier to accept that I’m an old fart.
There’s nothing anyone could do for me right now that could make me happier. My usual Saturday night consists of Todd falling asleep to a Mets game on the couch in the living room and me falling asleep with a book in my hand in bed. SOMETIMES we get wild and drink some wine and watch a movie. SOMETIMES we get extra crazy and order a movie on pay-per-view. I think that the last time Todd and I went on a date was for his birthday. In June.
The other morning, on my way to drop Evie off at school, I was feeling sort of old and unexciting and pretty dull. And I realized that I haven’t done my hair, like really styled it, since my wedding. I haven’t blown it out, used a hot-iron, or even come close to my tresses with a curling iron or other styling tool in a VERY. LONG. TIME. I also noticed that same day that I am getting wrinkles. Yup. They’re starting to appear underneath my eyes. It’s undeniable. Despite the hundreds and hundreds of dollars of age-defying eye cream that everyone says I don’t need, my eyes have undeniably defied the claims and are starting to age.
So I was obviously feeling a little off this week and this night out couldn’t come at a better time. We’re getting a night away from the kids and some time to eat a quiet meal together without cheerios getting thrown at my head and having to refill a sippy cup with apple juice for the seventeenth time. There’s a new Japanese restaurant right in our neighborhood that we’ve been dying to try. There’s a bottle of warm Sake there with my name on it.
It’s really weird to still feel like a kid and then everywhere you turn be reminded of the fact that you’re not SO young anymore. My hips are wider than I think they are and my face looks older than I remember it. I. CUT. COUPONS. And sweep my front porch everyday. I always have a packet of tissues in my purse and I only see the sun come up these days because I’m awake before it rises, not because I haven’t even thought about going to bed yet. I discuss the benefits of all natural and organic cleaning products with anyone who’ll listen and actually have very clear and defined opinions about which toilet bowl cleanser is the best. I can’t stand MTV anymore and Todd and I can complain together for hours about “kids today”. My XM radio is preset to the 90s station who’s motto is “If you lived it, you get it.” I do get it. And it pisses me off.
So let us all raise a glass to Allison for making it a little easier to accept that I’m an old fart.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Excuse Me While I Barf
What the hell is this phenomenon known as the Jonas Brothers? I’ve been hearing about them and I know that they’re beyond huge, but I really never paid much attention. I saw them this past week on the MTV Video Music Awards which, apparently, I’m too old to be hip to dat game. Like, for reals, yo. Because like, word, you gotta have the dance moves to be a star. It’s not about the singing or the music or even about the performance. To be a star on MTV you either have to be a slut, talk about hating sluts, or talk about how bad you want to get with a fine looking slut. That said, I guess it is somewhat of a respite from all the sluts and the never-ending flow of slut talk to revel in that which is the Jonas Brothers. But come on! Just look at these nerds:
They’re little accountants with guitars. There’s nothing cool about their choreographed charm or their sappy sweetness. They wear promise rings showing to their commitment to remaining virgins until they’re married. Oh please! Like I’m supposed to believe that crap. They have thousands of girls chasing after them and screaming to touch them. And why?! They’re not attractive. They’re doofy. They sing like the boy version of Brittney Spears, nasally and scratchy. And we all know where her talent got her. Besides, I seem to recall a press conference a few years back with Brittney announcing her chastity to all her adoring fans.
Please. I can’t take it. The stars with the real talent don’t even waste their time with the MTV awards anymore. It used to mean something to get an MTV award. And the performances showcased talent and real music that was easily appreciated. 10 years ago we were entertained by bands like these COOL badasses:
The Eurythmics
Don Henley
Bruce Springsteen
This year we saw this and I just don’t get it. What do you think?
Abra Cadabra
Evelyn said “Please” last night. I almost fell over and died in mid-step. I literally stopped in my tracks and looked at her like she just told me she won the lottery. Getting Evie to say “please” and “thank-you” is like trying to get Hillary Clinton to accept defeat. Time-outs and tears haven’t been enough to get Evie to say those magic words. She just flat out refused. She preferred to just sort of belch what she wanted into the ethos. “Apple Juice!” “Blankie!” “Snack!” Early in the morning while Todd and I are still in bed she’ll watch TV in the living room. At some point she startles us awake with an “I’m hungry!” at the top of her lungs. She never asks. She DEMANDS. And when given the choice between saying please or spending the rest of eternity in her bedroom she’ll opt for a lifetime of solitary confinement.
So last night when Evie sweetly sang, “Mommy can I have some apple juice please,” I ran through a spectrum of emotion and feeling. First, utter shock. Second, VICTORY. Third, pride. And fourth, love. “Yes!” I barked. Then I ran over to her and kissed her all over and told her how proud I was of her and that “yes, of course, you can have apple juice because if you says please you can get whatever you want. Well, not whatever you want. It’s important for Mommy and Daddy to say ‘no’ sometimes because we know what’s good for you. But, oh, I’m so proud of you. You are the greatest.” I went on and on and on about how amazing she was for saying “please” until she interrupted me with the frustrated look I know so well.
“Mommy. My. Juice. Now.”
I really don’t know why I press my luck. But oh she did such a good job.
So last night when Evie sweetly sang, “Mommy can I have some apple juice please,” I ran through a spectrum of emotion and feeling. First, utter shock. Second, VICTORY. Third, pride. And fourth, love. “Yes!” I barked. Then I ran over to her and kissed her all over and told her how proud I was of her and that “yes, of course, you can have apple juice because if you says please you can get whatever you want. Well, not whatever you want. It’s important for Mommy and Daddy to say ‘no’ sometimes because we know what’s good for you. But, oh, I’m so proud of you. You are the greatest.” I went on and on and on about how amazing she was for saying “please” until she interrupted me with the frustrated look I know so well.
“Mommy. My. Juice. Now.”
I really don’t know why I press my luck. But oh she did such a good job.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Surgeon General's Warning - May Rip Your Face Off And Eat It. You Are At Your Own Risk.
It occurred to me, because my sister let me know repeatedly, that I tend to depict Evie as some kind of monster. Well. If it walks like a duck…
So anyway, I decided that I needed to more accurately portray Abbie as the psycho terror that she too can be. Her cute little cherub cheeks draw even the most anti-baby person in. Her squishy, jiggly thighs attract anyone with a thumb and a forefinger. And those toes!
WARNING! CUIDADO! ACHTUNG!
Abbie is a siren with beauty and charm that disguises all intent. She’ll draw you to her; she’ll suck you in. And then she will attack – without warning. Without any indication of the malice in her mind she will hurt you. Abbie is beguiling and cunning, utilizing her assets to exert total control over all who fall under her spell.
Her tiny tushy and her sweet smile intoxicate her prey. We start acting like flaming idiots. Ooohing and going and coochie cooing. We move in to participate in her cute little charade. And then she lashes out! This precious innocent creature will try to scratch your face off. She’ll look away. And as soon as she loses eye contact BAM! Her tiny fingers reach for your face and rip at your nose and lips. And then when you react negatively to her attack she gets pissed. Not just “boo hoo I’m a baby” pissed. Pissed like “you just called my wife a whore” pissed.
Abbie is freaking cute. So cute. And beautiful and playful and generally happy. But BEWARE. She’s a blood seeking predator who has an innate desire for your blood.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
What's the Difference Between a Pitbull and a 4 year-old?: Hannah Montana Chapstick
There’s not much more that I’d rather do less at 10 o’clock on a Sunday morning than pack up the kids and head off to a 4-year old’s birthday party. But, unfortunately, it’s how Todd and I spend many a weekend morning. Evie’s school has the politically correct rule that if you invite one, you invite them all. So we’re invited to every single, mind-numbing party. My kid’s been in every germ infested ball-pit in Northern New Jersey, licked every ringworm flavored blue gym mat in the county, and picked the cheese off of pizza from every pizzeria in the state.
I’ll paint you a picture of pretty much every party we’ve taken Evie to. It’s 10:30AM. The sound of children screaming and the pitter-patter of their sweaty little feet echo off the walls. Abbie looks from my face to Todd’s face and back again. “Where the hell am I?” her little eyes shout. “What the fuck is this hell you’ve taken me to?” There’s a cluster of parents not watching their children. And then there’s Todd and I, now accompanied by Abbie in her stroller, off in the corner talking about how much cooler we are than all the other parents. Seriously. We’re total nerds. We admit that. And we’re so much cooler than every parent there. Naturally, this is also an indication of how much cooler Evie is than any of the other kids at the party. But, obviously, this goes without saying. Anyway, the kids run around like crazy for an hour and then we herd them into a party room that’s half the occupancy limit for the number of people at the party. And we feed them pizza and M&Ms and cheese puffs and sugary juice. And then we shove cake in their face and let them suck that down until they’re drooling at the mouth and their eyes are glazed over. They’re inches away from a sugar coma and that’s when the tension rises. Parents start yelling and kids start crying. One boy will hit another boy. Some cry-baby girl, the same cry-baby girl each party, will whine that she didn’t get the color flower she wanted from the cake. My kid always tattles.
Because that’s who she is.
So last Sunday, Todd and I are in our corner analyzing how much more we rock than everyone else in the room and Evie comes up to us. She’s excited. Very excited. Her brain was definitely at work. Uh-oh.
With her hands fisted onto her hips and her feet spread in a powerful stance, “I’m Cash Register Girl! Give me monies!” Todd and I just looked at each other. I prayed that no one heard her. Because OBVIOUSLY I did something wrong that my child would even come up with such an idea. What must the very uncool parents think of me now?!? (Oh who am I kidding? I couldn’t give a shit what those losers think of my parenting. You should see their kids in action. Real gems.)
Quickly, I reached into my pocket and pulled out pretend monies and slapped it into her open palm.
“No. Give me real monies!” At least she’s no dummy.
I’ll paint you a picture of pretty much every party we’ve taken Evie to. It’s 10:30AM. The sound of children screaming and the pitter-patter of their sweaty little feet echo off the walls. Abbie looks from my face to Todd’s face and back again. “Where the hell am I?” her little eyes shout. “What the fuck is this hell you’ve taken me to?” There’s a cluster of parents not watching their children. And then there’s Todd and I, now accompanied by Abbie in her stroller, off in the corner talking about how much cooler we are than all the other parents. Seriously. We’re total nerds. We admit that. And we’re so much cooler than every parent there. Naturally, this is also an indication of how much cooler Evie is than any of the other kids at the party. But, obviously, this goes without saying. Anyway, the kids run around like crazy for an hour and then we herd them into a party room that’s half the occupancy limit for the number of people at the party. And we feed them pizza and M&Ms and cheese puffs and sugary juice. And then we shove cake in their face and let them suck that down until they’re drooling at the mouth and their eyes are glazed over. They’re inches away from a sugar coma and that’s when the tension rises. Parents start yelling and kids start crying. One boy will hit another boy. Some cry-baby girl, the same cry-baby girl each party, will whine that she didn’t get the color flower she wanted from the cake. My kid always tattles.
Because that’s who she is.
So last Sunday, Todd and I are in our corner analyzing how much more we rock than everyone else in the room and Evie comes up to us. She’s excited. Very excited. Her brain was definitely at work. Uh-oh.
With her hands fisted onto her hips and her feet spread in a powerful stance, “I’m Cash Register Girl! Give me monies!” Todd and I just looked at each other. I prayed that no one heard her. Because OBVIOUSLY I did something wrong that my child would even come up with such an idea. What must the very uncool parents think of me now?!? (Oh who am I kidding? I couldn’t give a shit what those losers think of my parenting. You should see their kids in action. Real gems.)
Quickly, I reached into my pocket and pulled out pretend monies and slapped it into her open palm.
“No. Give me real monies!” At least she’s no dummy.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
What's a Girl to Do?
I'm having a MAJOR DILEMMA. Abby is the girl who waxes my eyebrows. She is great. I actually feel a sense of love for her. Maybe it’s the way she lowers the heat of the wax before my appointment so that it doesn’t scald my sensitive skin. Maybe it’s the way she gets bitchy when I dare pluck my eyebrows myself (which, incidentally, I have not done in over 2 years since she yelled at me last). Maybe I love Abby because since our first meeting she has nurtured and trained my eyebrows into the shape that they are today. Abby also happens to give phenomenal facials. So on the rare times that I treat myself to a facial I am pampered and soothed by her tiny little Zen hands.
Last month Abbie went on maternity leave. She gave me her cell phone number and told me that she will not be coming back to the spa after she has her baby, but that she will be doing waxing and facials out of her home. I was thrilled and excited that I would still be able to go to her for her services and that it’ll cost me less money.
In the meantime, I had to have my eyebrows done while she was off having her baby. So I made an appointment with any random girl at the spa. And that’s when I met Joy. Her name should give away how I felt after she did my eyebrows. She waxed and tweezed and snipped my eyebrows into the most beautiful arches. I went directly to my mother’s house to show her the stellar work and recommend that she go to Joy immediately. Instantly, I also knew that I was in trouble. A looming sense of guilt overpowered me as I wrestled with my feelings inside. I’ve been seeing Abby for so many years now and I feel a sense of loyalty towards her and I feel ashamed.
Slap a scarlet “A” across my chest! I saw Joy again last night.
Abby had a C-section so I figure I should give her about 6 weeks to recuperate before it’s appropriate to call her. Thankfully, I have about another 2 weeks before that time comes and I can squeeze another appointment in with Joy. But to be honest, I’m torn. I don’t know what to do. I love my eyebrows when I’m with Joy. But my loyalties lie with Abby. Should I break the bond and seek the services of Joy because she’s new and exciting? Or should I stay with the Abby because of all that we’ve been through and how consistently good she’s been to my brows? Oh, the agony of indecision!
Last month Abbie went on maternity leave. She gave me her cell phone number and told me that she will not be coming back to the spa after she has her baby, but that she will be doing waxing and facials out of her home. I was thrilled and excited that I would still be able to go to her for her services and that it’ll cost me less money.
In the meantime, I had to have my eyebrows done while she was off having her baby. So I made an appointment with any random girl at the spa. And that’s when I met Joy. Her name should give away how I felt after she did my eyebrows. She waxed and tweezed and snipped my eyebrows into the most beautiful arches. I went directly to my mother’s house to show her the stellar work and recommend that she go to Joy immediately. Instantly, I also knew that I was in trouble. A looming sense of guilt overpowered me as I wrestled with my feelings inside. I’ve been seeing Abby for so many years now and I feel a sense of loyalty towards her and I feel ashamed.
Slap a scarlet “A” across my chest! I saw Joy again last night.
Abby had a C-section so I figure I should give her about 6 weeks to recuperate before it’s appropriate to call her. Thankfully, I have about another 2 weeks before that time comes and I can squeeze another appointment in with Joy. But to be honest, I’m torn. I don’t know what to do. I love my eyebrows when I’m with Joy. But my loyalties lie with Abby. Should I break the bond and seek the services of Joy because she’s new and exciting? Or should I stay with the Abby because of all that we’ve been through and how consistently good she’s been to my brows? Oh, the agony of indecision!
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