Working Through It

June 8, 2011

I took a little online break after the events of the last week.  I backed off of Facebook and email, except to exchange details about wakes and tributes and memories with folks.  I stepped away from Twitter for a bit and re-learned to communicate in more than 140 characters.  I hugged my kids a little tighter and watched them play a little longer.  And I remain shell-shocked by all that transpired.  Add in a significant health scare that my mom had a few days ago (she is much better now) — and I think I could use a nap, or a reset on the karma button, or a time machine.  Or something.

My head hurts.  My heart hurts.  Even my body hurts.  But three things tend to make me feel better when awful things happen:  Keeping busy, connecting with people and writing. 

So here I am.

I can’t promise to bring the funny just yet, but I’ll try — maybe in some small doses.  So bear with me.  It’s a little like trying to stand up after getting the wind knocked out of you.

Since I’m on the topic of pain, I thought I’d share with you some of the physical torture I’ve been inflicting upon myself in the last few weeks.  Its name is Pure Barre, and it is the face of evil.

You see, sometime during the long, long winter we had, I guess I subconsciously started to believe that I’d never have to wear a bathing suit again.  That I’d been unknowingly relocated to the Polar Ice Cap, followed by a springtime transfer to the Rain Forest.  It appeared that I now lived in lands where shorts and tank tops and bathing suits had no place, where open pools and beaches could not possibly beckon.  Until they did.

And so I had this moment a few weeks ago:  “Holy Crap.  Summer may in fact actually come.” And this led to my quest to step up my fitness regimen. 

{By step up, I sort of mean begin.}

I hate running.  It just makes me feel bad about myself and turns me into shades of purple that make strangers want to seek out medical attention on my behalf.  I wanted to try to enjoy working out, instead of feeling bad about it, and I also needed to be held accountable.  And so I decided that a group class dynamic was the way to go this time.  But not Zumba — it has a certain Charo-meets-Dancing With the Stars quality that scares me.

I started doing Pilates.  I figured that my 12 years of pretty serious ballet training would serve as a good foundation.  Never mind that those 12 years ended over two decades ago {details, details}.  So I have been loyally showing up to Pilates and getting my ass kicked.  At least I thought so.

Until.

Recently, Pure Barre came to town.  The way an evil traveling circus shows up one day — all enticing and full of promises, luring everyone in, but sort of strange and twisted in the end.  Again, I thought the “barre” part, plus my ballet background — and fledgling grasp at Pilates — would make it all fine.  I had high hopes that this would be my fitness calling.

And it is. In Hell.

I jumped in feet first and showed up to a 5:45am class.  This, alone, should have provided some reward, I felt.  I figured since it was their first week open and it was an ungodly hour, I may even be alone in this class.  Because who else besides the desperate, fitness-deprived would be there?

Triathletes, apparently.  About 25 of them.  Decked out in lululemon.  Whereas I rocked a Target fitness ensemble. 

I looked at these girls and I started to get nervous.  They didn’t look desperate like me — they looked toned as hell.  And perhaps a little hungry.  Maybe I was in over my head.  But, no, I figured — everyone has to be a beginner at some point.  And that ballet barre, it was an old familiar friend. 

Bwahahaha.

A woman with a headset told us to grab weights, a ball and a piece of red tubing that resembled a torture device.  From there, I don’t know how else to explain the events of the next 55 minutes to you, except for these highlights:

  1. The first ten minutes were so intense, so beyond my fitness level {which we can all agree leaves something to be desired}, that I was terrified.  Terrified to stay.  Just when I considered leaving, the instructor says cheerily:  “OK, that completes the warm up.”  Holy shit.
  2. The fact that they invoke the word “barre” in their name is false advertising, as far as I’m concerned.  Because the barre is inconsequential.  You don’t use it, as I’d hoped, for ballet-like exercises.  You use it to grasp on for dear life while you try to complete some sadistic set of ab, thigh and seat work.  It doesn’t have to be a barre.  They could call the class Pure Live Electrical Wire or Pure Waterboarding.  It wouldn’t make a difference.
  3. I feel that certain elements may have been taken from Cirque de Soleil.  

When it was finished, at 6:40 that morning, I could barely accelerate my car to drive home.  I was useless for most of the day.  And the next day.  Which works really well with a one and four year-old. 

Two days later, when I could walk, I went back.  It was not any easier — but, at a humane, less triathlete-like hour of the day, I was not the only one who looked like they had 911 on speed dial next to their water bottles.  They also rocked the Target workout gear.  There were others like me — they were out there.  The circus had lured them in.

So I went back a few more times.  And I hated the woman with the headset a little less each time, even if she does play Ke$ha before 6am. 

Now I sort of like it.  They way you can like something painful. 

There’s some pain you can control and some, as I learned over the last week, that you just can’t.  So I’ll concentrate on grabbing  that live wire barre for a while and see if it makes me feel better in some way.

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Filed Under: Friends, That Which Drives Me Crazy 17 Comments

The Final Countdown

May 18, 2011

In case you haven’t heard, the end is nigh.

Not just the End of Days — which is allegedly this Saturday, by the way (fine, but can it all shake out after my fabulous dinner reservation?). 

But worse.

The end of Oprah.

I don’t often tackle controversy around here, unless you count things like the best movies ever, or whether or not I should have been detained for accidentally attempting car theft.

But there’s something I have to put out there, and I think many of you aren’t going to like it. 

I don’t like The Oprah Winfrey Show.  And I can’t wait until it’s finally over.

Should I seek a spot in the witness protection program?  Probably.  It’s a terribly un-American attitude to have towards one of our country’s sweethearts.

So let me clarify a few things.

I think she’s a brilliant businesswoman.  I admire her philanthropy and generosity.  She brings important issues to light.  She does far more good than harm. 

So what’s my problem, you ask?

It’s the whole Oprah Empire.  Or what has been labeled in the media as The Oprah Effect.  I feel like she has her hands in everything.

A TV show!  A magazine!  A book club!  Oprah Radio! A TV network dedicated to all things Oprah! {Because if the episodes themselves weren’t enough, you must have a behind-the-scenes look at them.}

I guess I like my TV hosts, well, just hosting their TV shows.  And making an occasional, Oscar-worthy turn in a movie, maybe. 

Before you hang me in public, let me be fair.  I haven’t been home to watch her show for 98% of the time it’s been aired, so I’ve had limited exposure.  

And yet, I still feel her Oprahness in everything around us.

I just think we, as a country, have Oprahdosed.  And it’s time to come down.

It’s the book club in particular that I think I have a problem with.   By pure coincidence, I happened to catch one of her most infamous episodes while home sick a few years ago.  It was the day she raked James Frey over the coals for the is-it-or-is-it-not-fiction smackdown of “A Million Little Pieces.”

And I do mean smackdown.  Whoa.

That scared me.  Not because she is personally scary, but because it was clear that she felt some sort of personal stake in what people read.  Some moral authority over a writer who is not on her payroll.  And this confused me to no end.  I thought perhaps my fever had spiked to the point of hallucination.

Yeah, I know.  She got people reading, based solely on her recommendations, who would not have otherwise picked up a book.  Golf claps all around. 

But she forgot somewhere along the way that she doesn’t run the publishing industry. 

So, for the first time ever, I purposely tuned in this week.  I had to see the Smackdown 2.0 with Frey, both days of it.  I was dying to know what she meant by “bringing this full circle.”  I thought this might be code for Murder 1.

What I saw was, perhaps, the most riveting daytime television since the wedding of Luke and Laura on General Hospital. {The first one.  With the giant 1981 veil.}

During Smackdown 2.0, Oprah basically got Frey to say that her 2006 public lashing of him was “a gift” because it ultimately made him a better person.  I think he even thanked her.  I was too shellshocked to hear it clearly.  But I did hear her apologize, with a few caveats.  And they hugged it out.  This time I had no fever, but I considered double-checking.

But I guess we should acknowledge some of the key legacies of her empire.  Dr. Oz.  Nate Berkus.  Dr. Phil. 

Thanks, Oprah, for giving us someone legit to host the “Teen Mom” series recaps.

And, if you still aren’t with me — which I suspect most of you are not — let me offer you this final incentive to come over to the dark side.  Do you know which celebrity has made the most appearances on the show? 

Celine Dion.  27. Times. 

That alone should have you signing up to be my witness protection roommate.

On the upside, Oprah pretty much introduced Spanx to the world.  This truly may be her most valuable contribution as far as I’m concerned — one for which I am truly grateful.

I know.  The free cars, the trip to Australia, Oprah’s Favorite Things.  Yes — that’s all amazing. 

If you’re in the audience. 

But not for us mere at-home mortals.  I’m left with Spanx and an amplified hatred of Celine Dion.

Whether you love Oprah or not, May 25 is drawing near.  On this day, she will air that final show (with advertisers allegedly paying $1 million for 30 seconds).  And I just want to take a moment to be happy that one hour of Oprahness each day will be relinquished.  That’s all.

In the meantime, there are plenty of commercials, teasers, recaps and celebrity endorsements to show us how Oprah changed the world.  Lest we forget.

Don’t worry.  She’ll never be far away.  You can still read what she tells you or get your O Magazine fix — or tune into the Oprah Winfrey Network (don’t even get me started).  Baby steps.

And Tom Cruise will pop up on another couch somewhere, someday.  He has plenty more crazy left in him — you can be sure.

I have to go now.  My new ID just arrived and I have to take up residency in an undisclosed location.  Just don’t let Rachael Ray and her EVOO get any more air time while I’m gone.

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Filed Under: Entertainment, That Which Drives Me Crazy 23 Comments

Songs in My Head

April 28, 2011

{Photo courtesy: Apple}

Since I left my job to stay at home full-time, I have found that music is becoming a bigger part of my day.  And it’s so nice to be able to hear it at times other than during the rush-hour commute.

For the most part, that is.  There are a few distinct problems.

First:  What’s Old is New Again.  But Not in a Good Way.

Can we talk about this phenomenon of adult music being re-purposed for kids?  You know — at the kid gym places, the birthday party domes, etc.  In such places, I’m increasingly finding that they take songs from my past and bubble gum them up into kid-friendly versions that make my spine contract in pain.

Maybe it’s a problem of associative memory, because here’s what happens.  I’ll be at the kiddie gym class with my one year-old, and one of these songs will start playing.  And in my head, I am taken back to its original version and related flashbacks, which inevitably involve a college party, a late night at a bar or other bad behavior of my youth.  It’s like an out of body experience.   This is what I see.

{Song playing}

Present:  My child playfully climbing up a mat.  Or maybe jumping on a trampoline.

Past:  Kegs.  Questionable choices in men.

Present:  Yoga pants, hair in ponytail.  Clapping along to chipper little song with the class.

Past:  Tight jeans, hair firmly intact.  Fumbling for Marlboro Lights with the hand not holding a dollar beer in a plastic cup.

{My kid falls off of trampoline}

These two worlds colliding really screws me up and I’m not sure how I can be expected to parent effectively in this moment.  If I have a mullet or a can of PBR on my mind, how can I keep my kid from taking a header in her gym class?  This is downright unsafe.  So let’s just stick with the Disney soundtrack or any bad Top 40 songs written after I became a responsible adult.  OK?

Second:  The Car Radio — A Place for Life Lessons?

These days, I find myself in the car a lot more to fulfill my domestic goddess responsibilities (note:  I have no affiliation with Charlie Sheen’s goddesses).  This means unprecedented exposure to the car radio.  And some bad music.  Not to sound all AARP with “How do these kids listen to this shit?” — but really — I don’t know how else to ask the question.

So I feel some obligation to expose my kids to better music, since it’s such a big part of what P and I enjoy.  I’m not talking about extremes.  I didn’t play classical music for them in utero, and I’m not looking to begin a formal musical education here but — all things considered — I think I’d rather have them hear some Led Zeppelin over Miley Cyrus or Katy Perry.

This presents some obvious ethical concerns, since I’m not ready to tell them the meaning of Black Dog just yet.

Here’s a brief sampling of songs that, in the past week, I’ve found myself singing along with — loudly — while my 1 and 4 year-old sat in the back:

  • Helter Skelter
  • Personal Jesus
  • Bizarre Love Triangle
  • Whole Lotta Love
  • Son of a Preacher Man
  • Welcome to the Jungle
  • Captain Jack

It’s not really a wholesome collection to build good moral fiber in a child.  Thankfully, nobody in the back seat is asking me what any of them mean — yet.  But, to be honest, it wouldn’t be any easier to explain Miley.  I’m still confused by the whole dual persona Hannah Montana thing and feel she should seek therapy.  But her inevitable descent into hallucinogenic drugs — now there’s a lesson for you kids.  And Katy Perry, you lost me a long time ago.  I just don’t understand you, your boobs, your husband or your paycheck.

 

Third:  The Grocery Store Needs a DJ.  Now.

It’s not that I didn’t go to the grocery store when I was still working.  We did have food in the house.  Somehow, I now notice the grocery store music more, and here is my assessment. 

It’s unfuckingbelievably bad. 

Marketers of America, I implore you to unite and fix this — because I can’t make an informed purchase with this root canal soundtrack in my ears.  Note to Shop Rite:  People under 89 are in your market.  And their ears are melting off of their skulls. 

To illustrate my point, I jotted down every song I heard in the grocery store today along the side of my shopping list.  I swear, this is 100% what I heard:

  • Never Be The Same (Christopher Cross)
  • Time in a Bottle (Jim Croce)
  • Just the Two of Us (Bill Withers)
  • So Far Away (Carole King)
  • For Your Eyes Only (Sheena Easton)
  • Everybody’s Talkin’ (Harry Nilsson — you know, that song from Midnight Cowboy)
  • I Can See Clearly Now (Jimmy Cliff)
  • On My Own (Patti LaBelle & Michael McDonald)

Are we shopping or are we dialed into a suicide hotline?  I could barely choose a yogurt over LaBelle and McDonald moaning at each other about being split apart.  I almost developed lactose intolerance on the spot in aisle nine. 

And, just when I could take no more…Just when I started robotically purchasing random items as a side effect of auditory abuse — like pimiento loaves, Jello molds, Hostess Snoballs and the religious candles in the Goya section…

Lost in Love (Air Supply).

That was it.  With the vision of those Aussie perms firmly in my head, as well as an unprecedented and melodramatic remorse for cheating on my ninth grade boyfriend, I grabbed my final item of necessity (which may or may not have been the new issue of Us Weekly) with urgency and checked out of the Den of Music Hell Shop Rite.

Look.  I’m not saying you need to be all things to all people with the grocery store music.  We don’t need Bieber Pasta Night.  Or Hip Hop Produce Day.  But, for the love of all that is holy, can’t we find something less nail-in-the-coffin?  It’s not soothing.  Do I seem soothed?  I’m all out of sorts at home now and staring at my wonky groceries.

But my husband will probably like the Snoballs.  He eats like a frat boy.

So.  It seems that the kids’ gym/activity place, the car and the grocery store are the Bermuda Triangle of good music.  Where is my safe place?  

And, more importantly, how can I make sure my kids like good music?  Because if they don’t, we can’t hang out at family weddings together.  We can’t take enjoyable road trips.  This is my parental responsibility.  My mother and father did this for me, and I am eternally grateful.  If I do my job right, one fine day, my kids will ask me to play The White Album for them.

That day will come.  And when it does, my husband will be so happy to page me at my Shop Rite DJ gig to report the good news.

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Filed Under: Entertainment, That Which Drives Me Crazy 4 Comments

A Year in Suburbia

March 31, 2011

{Photo: www.ohdeedoh.com}

This week marks a full year since we packed up our city life and moved to the suburbs. And not only did we live to tell, but you know what?  I love it.  It’s true.

Most of the time. 

However, after 365 days in this new world, I’m here to report there are still a few things that I could do without:

  • The reliance on a car:  I miss walking all over the place.  Of course, I can walk in the suburbs — it’s permitted — but the truth is that the car is usually the more realistic option.  And along with that comes the endless in-and-out-of-the-car seats nonsense that makes me just a little more insane every day.
  • Lack of anonymity:  In the city, there wasn’t any small talk or chit-chat with strangers.  And that was fine by me.  I’m terrible with small talk.  It was perfectly acceptable to stand in your building’s lobby and stare straight ahead while waiting for the elevator.  I did have some very sweet, older widows who lived on my floor, and it was nice that they stopped to check in on me when I was very pregnant (though there was a certain “Rosemary’s Baby” vibe that I tried not to overblow) — but they stayed largely out of my business.  I’ve since had to re-learn social graces like inviting someone in when they knock on my door.  The week we moved into our house, several families stopped by with trays of  cookies and cakes to welcome us.  I have to be honest — it freaked me out a bit.  And as I reluctantly opened my door to them, all I could wonder was if I now have to bake every time someone moves into the neighborhood.
  • No quick errands:  At times, I miss the corner bodega more than I can express.  Like when I just need a can of beans to finish a recipe.  No problem — I’ll just walk to the corner and…nevermind.  Now it’s back in the car, finding parking, going through the whole big grocery store.  It  just takes longer than it’s worth.  {That’s right, I don’t have much patience.  I’m not really working on it but I will own it.}
  • New Jersey Transit and the PATH Train:  They are the 8th and 9th circles of Hell, respectively.  I never thought I could miss the NYC MTA so damn much.  It’s a well-oiled machine by comparison.
  • Suburban Starbucks:  Yes, I have a Starbucks problem.  You know it and I know it.  Now, if we’re all done judging me for my overpriced coffee habit, can we just weep in solidarity over the hoops I must jump through to secure this beverage?  Before, I walked to the corner.  Now, I drive (just a mile, but a drive nonetheless).  I circle for parking.  I pay for parking.  And I have to make small talk while waiting for my coffee.  I really think there’s a viable business model in a Starbucks Addict Premium Delivery Service.  I know I’m not alone here, or the green coffee goddess wouldn’t still be in business.
  • BYOB:  I know that, in many respects, it’s better that you have to bring your own booze to restaurants. It’s cheaper.  You get what you want.  There are many upsides.  Except when you are me (or my husband) and you never, ever remember that this is part of going out to dinner in our town.  And then what — a dry meal?  Uh, no, sir.  It’s instead this: “You run, as fast as you fucking can, to the wine store, before they close — quick!! — and I’ll find an appetizer on the menu to order for you” (translation: an appetizer of my choosing so that I can enjoy half of it).

OK, OK — I sound horrible, I know.  So let’s be nice to Suburbia — she has quite a lot to offer.  Though my love affair with her started slowly, I am now pretty enamored.  And even though New York City will always be my first geographic love — I lived in four of the five boroughs over my 16 years there, so I’m not just talking Manhattan — let’s fight fair and point out some annoyances of urban living that I really don’t miss.

  • Lack of living space:  Do me a favor.  Take your hand and open it up as far as you can.  That was about the size of my bathroom in my last apartment.  For a family of four.  And did I mention I pathologically hate clutter?  It was a battle I could not win. 
  • Circling for parking:  You could pretty much bet cash that, any Sunday night when we returned from a weekend trip with the kids, the dog and all of our stuff, it would be raining, sleeting or snowing.  So this insane dance would ensue of double parking while unloading our kids and our stuff curbside while someone ensured the car wasn’t ticketed. 
  • Being accosted by crazies:  Don’t get me wrong.  There are plenty of nutters in suburbia — but they keep more to themselves.  The New York crazies really get up in your face.  It’s been awhile since an amateur preacher screamed in my face about the end of days or my sinning ways.  Or a one-armed ukulele player spit at my feet for not giving him my half-eaten soup.  I don’t miss that so much.  If I want crazy, I know plenty of people I can call.
  • Planning for higher education of a child in utero:  Pre-school lotteries and interviews — with college-sized tuition bills to match.  No thanks.  If I told you what I paid in day care costs for two children in the city…I can’t even think about it.  In fact, I had to tell the day care place that I was pregnant with my second child before most of my relatives knew — so that she could have a spot in a year.  For day care.  Not Harvard.  Not even private kindergarten.  Day care.  Anyway, I felt like I won the lottery when I was reminded that my property taxes in the suburbs cover the cost of a very good public school system.  Now I can keep up my Starbucks habit.
  • Escaped Egyptian Cobras from The Bronx Zoo:  OK, so it was just this once.  But, still — it gave me the creeps.  Who can live in fear like that?

In full disclosure, I’m still in Manhattan every day for work, so I probably haven’t had a proper chance to really mourn the death of my city life yet.  But I do get wistful about it now and then.  Central Park.  The West Village.  Delicious food at all hours.  The energy and the diversity.

And then I think about that tiny, tiny bathroom.  The windows that didn’t really close all the way.  That occasional but nasty rat running out in front of you on the street.  The navigation of the double stroller through the endless winter.  The day care tuition bill. 

So I guess what I figured out, after this year of change, is that my heart belongs to both the city and to suburbia.  But a girl can have more than one great love, right?

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Filed Under: Borderline Neuroses, Food & Drink, New to Town, Places Near and Far, That Which Drives Me Crazy 18 Comments

The Surest Sign of Spring

March 28, 2011

{Photo: www.greenindustrypros.com}

I totally missed the memo in my town, but they have collectively decided that Spring is here. 

No matter that it’s 39 degrees outside.  The weather is not the deciding factor.  Nor is the calendar.

Here’s what drives the edict:  The mass release of the landscaping trucks.  It’s like a well-choreographed invasion.

This week actually marks a year since we took up life in the suburbs.  And I remember last year at this time, sitting in our new home, unpacking box #48,876.  I remember, one morning, the distinct sound of lawn machinery coming from four different directions at once.  In total precision.  I looked outside and what quickly followed was my realization that *everyone* on the block has a landscaping guy army. 

Over the next few days, as I unpacked more boxes, I saw the pattern.  The armies pulled up to the homes at 9:00 sharp, every day.  They pruned.  They plucked.  They manicured.  They planted.  They mulched.  Then they disappeared into the quiet suburban wind.  Sort of like Keyser Soze with a leaf blower.

I peered from my undressed windows — more than a little freaked out.  In the city, we had a few house plants.  Some lasted longer than others by virtue of sheer sun position and luck, but we clearly weren’t ready for prime-time suburban landscaping.

So, suffice it to say we had not secured a beautification crew for our yard.  We saw and bought the house in the dead of winter, under a foot or two of snow.  And we probably should have wondered what, exactly, would emerge as the landscaping vision upon first thaw. 

Let me tell you, it wasn’t pretty.  There was a certain overgrown, tumbleweed, Wild, Wild West quality that didn’t seem to quite fit in.

Realizing our precarious footing, we scrambled to right the wrong of our yard before we were driven out of the neighborhood by a unanimous vote of the Town Council.

Then the landscaping solicitation began, as if on cue.  It was like the Town gave them a copy of our closing documents and a photo of the lawn.  They smelled blood in the water and knew it was only a matter of time before we caved in to abject peer pressure in the form of weed wackers and wood chips. 

And they were right.  Soon, we found our guy.  He was just waiting for our call — I picture him leaning up against his truck, smoking a cigar and buffing his nails while thinking of ways to set our money on fire.  

Our guy made good and quick progress.  This was rewarded with third-party endorsements in the form of a not-so-occasional comment from a neighbor about what an improvement we’d made to the property. 

{Translation:  “We were waiting for you to fix this shit up.  If you hadn’t, we’d consider reporting you to the Town for the public beating that occurs on the second Tuesday of the month, or — worse — excluding you from our block’s Christmas Eve Luminary Spectacular.”}

Alrighty then.  Bullet dodged.  We were allowed to stay.  Just in time for winter.

I’ll tell you, it was nice to have the winter off from the Landscaping Olympics.  Sure, there were epic snow blower competitions and plenty of occasions to mock our lack of de-icing salts, but that seemed like small potatoes. 

But now it’s abundantly clear to me that I made a classic rookie mistake.  I was stupid to assume, under the heavy cloak of winter, that nobody was planning their 2011 landscape design concepts over Christmas Dinner and envisioning their thematic topiaries during the fireside chats of multiple housebound snow days.

As for us, we had used our time poorly.  We were asleep at the wheel, fat and happy in our naive view that it was still winter. 

Of course, I missed the note that Opening Day was today. It must be optimal crocus primping time.  Or mulch preparation week.  Without warning, the trucks and lawn equipment besieged the neighborhood at 9:00 this morning — as I leisurely went off to pre-school drop-off.  It was like being caught with my pants down.

And there was our guy — cigar in hand, leaning against his truck with a menacing “Come to Papa” grin at the end of our driveway, basically asking for direct access to our checking account or a vein.

Spring has sprung.  Let the invasion begin.

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Filed Under: New to Town, Project Colonial, That Which Drives Me Crazy 9 Comments

Not So Simple

March 18, 2011

I have a love/hate relationship with Real Simple magazine.

The love comes from my Type A-ness and the imaginary affair I often have with a well-organized life.  In those moments, I pick up a copy of Real Simple a few times a year and gush over some of their home solutions and great ideas.  If I’m getting a pedicure or commuting (the only times I can read a magazine in peace), I fold the pages I like.  I marvel at the brilliance.  I vow to implement.  I consider a mail subscription so that I can read more great organizing tips that will surely change my life for the better.

And then our relationship begins to deteriorate.

I’ll be at home, in the grind of daily life, and I’ll spot the pile of Real Simple issues I’ve saved.  A pile that is adding to the clutter with which I wage a daily battle.  All with folded pages.  All ready for brilliant idea implementation that I never started.  Which adds to my already huge to-do list.  Which stresses me out.

And that’s when I go all Sybil and cross the fine line to resentment of Real Simple, followed by mockery and hatred. 

Who reads this nonsense, anyway?  In my now least favorite column, “New Uses for Old Things,” let’s just take a brief look.

  • New use for a shower cap:  A shoe bag.
  • New use for an oven mitt:  A curling/straightening iron heat guard.
  • New use for a mitten:  A carrying case for sunglasses.
  • And — wait for it — New use for popcorn:  Packing material for fragile shipments.

{Photo: Real Simple}

OK, people of Real Simple, let me tell you something.  If there is a batch of popcorn, a fragile shipment requiring packing materials and me in the same room, it’s going to go down like this:  I’m going to inhale every last kernel of the fucking popcorn and then drive my fat ass to the UPS store to pack up the shipment.  And, because my disdain for you at this point has now crossed into irrational territory, I might make that drive wearing the shower cap on my head, with the oven mitt and single mitten on each of my hands.  How’s that for simplifying?

You can see how our relationship is complicated. 

I’ll then purge the pile of magazines, ideas unimplemented (maybe with a few gems mentally filed away) and feel human again.  Until I spot the next issue on the shelves, when the cycle begins again. 

Real Simple, I wish I could quit you.

Perhaps I should refer to their column entitled “Relax in an Instant,” and then go back to reading People, while finishing the popcorn.  That might be for the best.

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Filed Under: That Which Drives Me Crazy, To-Do Lists Extraordinaire 26 Comments

My Formerly Glamorous Life

February 9, 2011

Since we left the city for the suburbs last April, people seem to be shocked that I don’t miss it more.

It goes like this:

“You must miss the city so much!”  (head craned in sympathy)

“Nah.  I mean, there are days.  But, surprisingly, I’m really happy with the move.”

“Oh.  So, you like, uh, New Jersey?  How’s that…going?”

The truth is that I haven’t missed it as much as I thought I would.  But, now and then, I do get wistful about my old life in Manhattan. 

But not always.  And not today.  Not when it’s bone cold outside.  Because it reminds me of a very stressful period in my life last winter when the morning ritual of getting two small kids to daycare in this weather pushed me to the brink of insanity. 

At that time, my husband had a new job that required him to leave before the kids woke up and to come home too late to pick them up at daycare.  And I also have a full-time job — one that expects me to be generally on time and pretty much mentally together.  So these were character-building days, folks.  If you had flashed back a year ago, this would have been my morning in Manhattan.

  • 6:15 — Tiptoe out of bed into the shower so the kids don’t wake up.  Promise God a new soup kitchen for the needy if the  baby would just sleep through the night.  Check Blackberry for work-related fires/crises that transpired overnight.
  • 6:20 — Attempt to have five minutes of peace in shower before the chaos begins.
  • 6:22:30 — Have shower interrupted by 1) two year-old announcing his arrival in the bathroom and opening shower curtain for morning conversation about Elmo, 2) six month-old crying in crib and 3) ringing Blackberry.
  • 6:30 — Retrieve Blackberry voice mail.  Check email again.  Respond to three colleagues in Japan before they go to sleep for the night.
  • 6:35 — Feed kids.  Dress them, perhaps more than once if someone spills/vomits/spits up.
  • 6:55 — Dress self, forgetting belt, jewelry or other random accessory.  Attempt to dry hair and look presentable.  Conclude this look is overrated.  Fantasize about breakfast that will surely not materialize.
  • 7:15 — Ignore red flashing light on Blackberry out of corner of eye.
  • 7:17 — Assemble the following items to cart to day care:  Bottles, diapers, jars of baby food, extra clothes (baby); lunch (toddler); various permission slips, medical forms that are long overdue.
  • 7:30 — Pack breast pump and all related accessories for work.
  • 7:35 — Wrestle toothbrush into mouth of two year-old.  Oh and self also — must brush own teeth.
  • 7:40 — Begin excruciating process of convincing two year-old to put on jacket, hat and gloves.  Bargain.  Plead. 
  • 7:50 — Ignore Blackberry. 
  • 7:55 — Strap toddler into double stroller in front of TV while wrestling baby into full bunting.
  • 8:00 — Place writhing baby into double stroller, strap everyone in.  Ensure that all day care items are stowed in bottom of stroller, breast pump on one shoulder and briefcase on the other.  Put on coat, hat and gloves even though apartment is sweltering because 1) heat is not controlled by tenants and 2) body temperature is at 101 degrees from wrestling children into stroller.
  • 8:05 — Dog!  Feed dog!  Sorry!  Keep kids in stroller, wedged against open apartment door.
  • 8:07 — Pine for coffee.  Fear looking at clock.
  • 8:10 — Negotiate double wide stroller into packed apartment building elevator, eliciting eye rolling and audible sighs from fellow tenants.
  • 8:15 — Stop on every floor on the way down (13 in total).  Sweat through winter coat.  Beg two year-old to stop crying about being strapped in stroller.
  • 8:17 — Arrive in lobby to find it is sleeting outside.  Again.  Find rain/snow cover thingy for the stroller buried under daycare supplies and attach it around entire perimeter of stroller while both children cry.  Consider selling soul to Satan for coffee.
  • 8:25 — Navigate snow/ice piles pushing 40 lbs of child weight in stroller.  Resent feeling of numbing ice pellets hitting face.  Panic briefly over possibility of a 9:00 conference call that may or may not have been confirmed.  Will never make it.
  • 8:30 — Realize, when strong wind comes along, that stroller cover is not properly secured and is now flapping about in the wind like a tarp.  Stop on sidewalk.  Drop all bags from shoulder and resecure stroller cover.  Answer questions about trucks, buses and police cars from two year-old.
  • 8:35 — Begin to display signs of pathological need for coffee.  Food would be nice, too.
  • 8:35:30 — Realize [any item — insert here] was left at home and decide that there is no going back. 
  • 8:35:37 — Curse out husband’s new job.  Repeat.
  • 8:40 — Manipulate double stroller through day care entryway and begin the unloading process.  First, the baby and her supplies.  Then, the toddler and his stuff.  They are in separate rooms, of course.  Chat with caregivers about necessary instructions for the day and kiss kids goodbye. 
  • 8:52 — Catch glimpse of clock.  Feel early warning signs of stroke.

  • 8:53 — Trade cursory niceties with other parents, who don’t seem to be experiencing the same type of morning.  Ponder why this is the case.
  • 8:55 — Break into sprint, carefully (watch the ice!), for the subway station.  Check Blackberry with one hand while running.  Assess just how late work arrival will be.  Pray for expeditious subway experience.
  • 9:00 — Curse out the MTA for delayed and overcrowded subway.  Repeatedly.  Question if Mayor Bloomberg *really* rides the subway every day or if his PR people are, in fact, that good.
  • 9:35 — Arrive at desk in full sweat and without coffee. 
  • 9:37 — Begin the day.  Repeat at 5pm for day care pick up.

Isn’t city life glamorous?  My life in the burbs isn’t so bad on days like today.

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Filed Under: Borderline Neuroses, Family, New to Town, That Which Drives Me Crazy, Work Stuff 26 Comments

Ensconced in Crazy

February 4, 2011

{photo courtesy: http://petelaburn.files.wordpress.com}

When you have things on your mind, do you sometimes choose to focus, or even fixate, on much smaller, less important issues?  I’m sure there’s some sort of official term for it — redirecting, maybe? 

Do you do this?  I think I do.  Here’s why.

I have some things on my mind.  Don’t worry — nothing disastrous or horrible, but enough to keep my brain more than occupied.  Regular life stuff.  But you know what I have decided to focus on instead? 

These.

My hideous entryway sconces.

So, in the category of “highly frivolous but slowly driving me insane,” can we just talk about these for a minute?  That would make me feel better. 

Thanks.  I knew you guys would be there for me.

OK, not to be dramatic, but these sconces haunt me.  I have been trying to replace them for the better part of a year, with no luck. 

Maybe you don’t think they are hideous (in which case, I will ship them to you, or I’ll pay for your eye exam — your choice).  Let’s have a closer look.

Are you with me yet?  Can you see your own reflection in their shiny awfulness?  Do you see how they cast a gold glow that reaches far and wide?

And, no, they are not tucked away.  They are in our front entryway, where I had immediately noticed them the first time we walked into our house as prospective buyers.  I think the morning sunlight bounced off of them and nearly cost me a retina.  But I  dismissed them and figured they could be easily replaced — because I’m not one of those dipshits on House Hunters, who walks away from a home purchase over the wall color or light fixtures.  A quick fix, I thought.

Ah, not so.  Because it turns out that the “easy to replace” approach didn’t factor in some very specific and restrictive measurements — meaning, I can’t install any sconces that are more than exactly six inches deep in this space, or we can’t open the basement door.  And we can’t have that. 

Trust me, I have combed through lighting websites and searched every variable of sconces online until my head throbbed. 

And here’s the conclusion that my research has produced.  Anything under six inches in depth either:

  • looks exactly like what I already have
  • costs a fortune or
  • is even more hideous 

By “even more hideous,” I mean something  like this.

My eyes.  They burn.

It seems we’re at a crossroads, me and my sconces.  So, maybe a more pragmatic approach would  help — like applying the Five Stages of Grief to my dilemma:

  • Denial:  This can’t be hard.  They are just sconces.  Surely I’ll find an easy and quick replacement.
  • Anger/Resentment:  How can this be so hard?  I’m an intelligent person, looking for a damn light on a wall.  And where is the address of the former-former-former owner who shopped at a 1970s Light-o-Rama showroom?  What the hell was she thinking, and why has she done this to me?   I think I hate her.
  • Bargaining:  If I find the right sconces for the right price, I swear I’ll never complain about another fixture in the house.  Or maybe if we spend less on the basement renovation and sacrifice the wet bar, we could spring for the proper sconce solution. 
  • Depression:  I just don’t think there’s a viable answer except to live with the sconces under their far-reaching golden glow.  The members of Fordeville are destined to look jaundiced forever.  Or we could find a new house.  Maybe we should just move.  I hate moving.
  • Acceptance:  I can begin to move on — gradually — to other home projects and overlook the eye sores that greet me in plated faux gold every damn day.  I will start small.  I will frame a print for the kitchen.  Mantra:  My happiness does not come from lighting fixtures.

[Just FYI, I’m still firmly in the Bargaining phase and not ready to move on to Depression or Acceptance yet.]

Alrighty, I think you just got a very generous peek into my crazy Type A mind.  It’s a fun (and well-lit) place to live — there’s really never a dull moment.   

I do realize that my fixation is not really about the sconces themselves (I’m quick like that).  Like I said, sometimes it’s easier to focus on the unimportant.  Not the three year-old with the croup, or the 18 month-old with the ear infection.  Or the distinct possibility that our temporary fill-in nanny stole beer from us last week — and drank it — while caring for our kids.  More on that another time.  Or the pile of other pretty important things I really should be doing right now. 

Nah, I’ll stick with the sconces.  Because crazy lives on a sliding scale.

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Filed Under: Project Colonial, That Which Drives Me Crazy, To-Do Lists Extraordinaire 18 Comments

On the 8th Day of Christmas

December 21, 2010

I’m not a horrible procrastinator but I do cut things pretty close (yes, there’s a difference) — there just isn’t much room for error or regrouping.  I have lists upon lists, divided into sub-lists, and that keep me on track.  If something unexpected goes awry, though, the wheels can quickly fall off the wagon.

And so comes the tale of  how a certain home furnishings company almost pushed me over the edge of holiday sanity yesterday.

We’re hosting 20 people for Christmas dinner.  I’ve never done this before — we always lived in an apartment in Manhattan and simply didn’t have the space.  So while I was excited to have my hostessing debut this year, I hadn’t planned on a massive work deadline basically killing any and all Christmas productivity last week.  I’m behind, let’s say.  But that’s OK — I keep adjusting my lists to put us back on track.

So it was yesterday morning when I said to P that our new area rug for the dining room should be arriving any day/minute.  After months of back-order waiting, it was to have shipped on December 13.  P raised a suspicious eyebrow and thought maybe it was a good idea to check on the shipping status of said rug.   I was sure it was just on the slower end of arrivals due to holiday shipping volumes.  We still had four business days to receive it.  That’s an eternity in Fordeville Productivity Time (as the race to purge the basement continues, almost approaching reality show levels of entertainment).

You can see where this is going.

Let me back up a minute.  You know when you find the *perfect* item for your home and you’re just dying to get it in place?  That’s how I felt about this rug.  I loved it.  I knew it was going to look fabulous.  Silly but true.  And we needed it, not only for acoustic purposes (hardwood floors + 2 toddlers = hearing loss) but also to finish off the dining room where 20 people will be sitting on Saturday for Christmas Dinner. 

Again, you can see where this is going.

I called the company around lunch time yesterday, order number in hand.  A very nice, if not overly mellow, woman named Marilyn typed it in.  Awkward pause.  Then, a far too casual and sort of disbelieving:  “Oh, wow, look at this.  Nobody called you?”

Blood pressure rising.

I assured Marilyn, whom I was quickly starting to dislike, that nobody had called me.  It was at that point that she said this:  “Looks like that rug won’t be shipping until May 30.”

Excuse me? 

I was pretty good, I must say — maybe because I was experiencing denial, as I saw no room in my sub-lists for “purchase new area rug for dining room that you will like just as much and have it arrive by Christmas.”  No dice.  Surely Marilyn was wrong.

Nope.  May 2011 it is.  She felt a little bad, but not at all approaching the level of “let me do something to make this up to you” that I needed in that moment.  Marilyn, you sort of suck.  And I think you are on too many meds because you have a dulled sense of compassion and urgency.  You are also oblivious and  numb to my impending freak out session — which I will try very hard not to take out on you.  But I think I hate you because I have nowhere else to direct my anger right now.

Now I am thinking irrationally.  I know nothing about rug-making but, let me assure you, this was not some custom-loomed Persian magnificence that I ordered.  It was a nice area rug from a large American home furnishings company that sends a catalog to each of you on a regular basis.  I also know nothing of the production chain process in retail.  But somehow my line of questioning toward Marilyn took this turn:

“Well, I’m confused.  Why May?  How can it take that long?” (Mentally,  I added: “Is someone flying to the Far East and hand weaving these — a person who won’t start doing so until, say, mid-March?”) 

Crickets.  Sorry, Marilyn, I know you can’t answer these questions.  It’s not your job to trace my almost-rug’s origins and production path.

I try begging.  Maybe there is just one rug left somewhere they could send to me?  Just because I can’t find time to buy another.  Come on.

Uh, no.  May 2011.

Fine.  At this point I muttered something about  her company ruining Christmas.  She said, distantly, “Oh.  I’m sorry.”

Look, I know I’m being dramatic.  I don’t *need* the rug.  This is not what Christmas is about.  I get it.  Before you tell me to have some perspective and think about, say, Rwanda, I assure you, I am well-aware of how stupid my disappointment is.  I’m pretty sure that my 20 guests won’t walk in and demand to know why I don’t have a dining room rug.  But I’m Type A and I like things how I like them.  And I don’t like adding to my well-crafted lists unexpectedly — especially on December 21.

And clearly Marilyn’s place of employment became the cathartic outlet for my holiday stress.  We all have one.

I gently suggest the following to my nemesis Marilyn:  “How about this?  How about if I find another rug of yours that I like, in stock, you send it to me overnight with no shipping charge.”

Marilyn thought that was a fine idea.  How novel.  Maybe she can use that sometime in the future, being in customer service and all.

In the end, it wasn’t about the rug.  I get that.  We all have our holiday breaking points and anything can set them off.  And I know if left myself just a little more breathing room, a little more leeway for things to not go smoothly all the time, this stuff wouldn’t get to me.

Anyway, I resolved not to spend too much time fixing the whole situation.  It just wasn’t an option if I wanted to have food on the table Saturday and stocking stuffers for my kids.  I took 30 minutes, scoured the Internet and found an almost-identical rug — in stock at a location near our house (read: no crazy overnight shipping).  And, at half price (thanks, Santa — or karma)! 

P is picking it up today, and I will think of Marilyn not-so-fondly as I walk over it and inevitably spill all kinds of things on it this Christmas.

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Filed Under: Holidays, Project Colonial, That Which Drives Me Crazy 4 Comments

In Search of a Signal

December 2, 2010

Dear AT&T,

As a long-time customer, I thought I would take this opportunity to point out there is an island in your alleged service area that you might want to look into.  It’s not that big — about 13×2  miles — so I guess I can see how it has been seemingly ignored all this time with virtually no signal for service. 

But there are a lot of people crammed onto this small-ish island.  1.6 million residents, in fact.  Add in commuters and tourists and you’ve got over 2.5 million people on the island during most work days.  Yep, there’s commerce here too — with lots of big shiny buildings.  It’s pretty busy, I’d say.

And you know what?  Many of these people want to use their cell phones, their email and gaming devices of choice.  Every day.  Reliably.

Back when I first became your customer in 1996, with my first cell phone (antenna and all), I didn’t expect much in terms of coverage.  In fact, we only used our cell phones sporadically then.  We weren’t texting and certainly I didn’t have email on my phone.  But that’s when I got my cell phone number that I have retained to this day.

I moved on to a Blackberry when my then-employer told me to do so, circa 2001 or 2002.  How cool was that?  I could talk *and* have my work email on the go (which quickly went from novelty to life-changing curse).  And there was a big wheel on the side of this device to scroll up and down — very cutting-edge at the time.  I had plenty of emails that didn’t go through, attachments I couldn’t open and a ton of dropped calls.  I was used to it, though it became increasingly puzzling, as everyone on the island seemingly had a similar device in their hand.  Hm.

Now I have an iPhone.  I debated this long and hard — I really did — and, in the end, I signed your mandatory two-year service contract in exchange for this device.  Funny, though, when I think about a contract, it implies a two-way agreement to me.  So I’m curious — what’s your obligation under the terms of this alleged contract?  Because my iPhone does all kinds of cool things — as long as I don’t try to talk on it or receive incoming data on a timely basis.   And I’m starting to get a headache from looking at that spinning orb all the time that indicates my wait for data to load.  But it sure is neat otherwise.

I was looking at your coverage map online and it’s odd because this island is color-coded under “Best Coverage.”  And yet this morning I nearly threw my iPhone across the room because I couldn’t get a simple web page to load (again).  But I did hear a crazy rumor recently — or perhaps it was just urban legend — that some people have witnessed a full five bars on their signal icon!  I had no idea it went beyond three.  Is this new?  I guess that’s encouraging progress, for a small island like this.

My frustration is my own fault, really.  I let my loyalty to my cell phone number drive my purchasing decisions over the last 14 or so years.  I held out hope that you’d improve your service because, well, I figured you’d just have to by sheer open marketplace competitive principles.  Apparently, that’s not so.  (Well played on that iPhone monopoly, by the way — at least for the time being.  Verizon — can you hear me now?)

Anyway, you may want to send one of your people over to look into this.  There are plenty of bridges, tunnels, ferries and even heli-pads that allow easy access to our island for a service call.  Just give us a four-hour window and one of us locals will be here to meet you — as long as we can receive your call, text or email.

Signed,

Ready to Hang Up for Good

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Filed Under: Entertainment, Places Near and Far, Tech Bits, That Which Drives Me Crazy 6 Comments
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